At first I thought that the book was some kind of fiction, that it was created by some artist, or more probably artists, trying to create a history out of the tragedy of slavery. But there was no questioning that the book was at least over a hundred years old. And there was no reason to doubt that it went all the way back to the eighteenth century as it claimed.
But what was it doing in a boardinghouse library in black L.A.?
It couldn’t belong to Miss Moore. She wouldn’t have left such a treasure in a public room. Maybe the house belonged to someone else, or maybe the previous owner had inherited the book from a long line that stretched all the way back to the ancient African kingdoms.
As the hours passed I put together what I felt was the probable history of the book. It was definitely an artifact from the days of slavery, though possibly not as old as it seemed. It had been passed down with subsequent volumes to some man or woman who came into possession of Miss Moore’s house earlier in the century. This man or woman had hidden the book and then grew old and senile. So the book sat there in its hiding place behind the ever-changing row of popular novels until I came upon it.
So if it wasn’t Miss Moore’s book then it was fair game for me.
It was nearly five in the morning when I closed the covers and still I hadn’t worked out ten solid pages of text. I imagined spending the next year in my little shop deciphering the entries of those long-ago slaves.
I forgot all about Fearless and Milo, about the murderous Mr. Timmerman and the dead Wexler siblings. I forgot about the Watermelon Man and the strange Fine sisters who lived in luxury and in squalor. That’s what a good book will do for me. It doesn’t make me into a brave man exactly but just erases all vestiges of fear.
24
I FELL ASLEEP WITH THE SUNRISE, amid the sounds of the tenants getting ready to go off to work. The smell of coffee wafted up into my room, but I was too tired to climb down the stairs. And even if I hadn’t been so weary I wouldn’t have left my book. It was the most precious thing I had ever seen or touched.
I slept until after nine o’clock. When I had to go to the bathroom I took the book with me, wrapped in a pillowcase. I didn’t go out of the room except for that one time.
Thieves are the people most afraid of being robbed.
I put the book under the bed and sat at the window, waiting and planning. I figured out how I was going to smuggle my treasure out of Miss Moore’s rooming house, and where I could hide it until Fearless’s problems had been solved.
After that I started to think about Bartholomew Perry. If I could find him what should I do? Milo would want me to report to him. Winifred L. Fine would also expect an accounting. Of course, there was Leora Hartman, Kit Mitchell, and, most of all, the Los Angeles Police Department that I had to be concerned with.
I needed BB to talk to me, and that meant I needed Fearless. Fearless to keep BB from running away and Fearless to help me understand. That was because even though I knew the majority of words in the English dictionary, it was Fearless who understood the twists and turns of the human heart.
But before any of that came to pass I needed Charlotta.
She came to my door at three. I gave her a weak kiss. That’s because my passions weren’t under the covers but under the bed with my book at that particular moment.
“Did you find out where he is?” I asked her.
“Don’t you wanna kiss me some more, baby?” she replied.
“After I get my fifty dollars I’ll kiss you from your toes to your ears and everywhere in between,” I said. “But let me get this pistol from out my back first.”
“You promise?” she asked.
“You got skin like honey,” I said, “only it taste better’n that. I just need to make sure I live long enough to enjoy it.”
She gave me a small piece of paper that had an address and phone number on it.
“I had to lie to a man to get that,” she said.
“To whom?” I asked, falling a little bit out of character with my language.
“Well, you know Kit told me that BB loves Sister Sue’s Chicken and Ribs. An’ they deliver. I went over there an’ told Rooney, the delivery man, that BB had made me pregnant and I had to get to him to help me fix it before it was too late.”
“And he believed that?”
“You got his numbers in your hand.”
“Well, it’s gonna be worth it,” I replied. “But can you do me one more favor?”
“What?”
“You got a suitcase in your room? Just a small one, or maybe a hatbox?”
“Yeah. How come?”
“I’ll make your cut twenty dollars if you let me borrow it.”
I once read a book that claimed mathematics is the universal language of mankind—but I never believed it. Money is the talk of the world. Charlotta ran down to her room and got back with a small powder blue suitcase that had red heart decals along the side.
I kissed her and hurried her off. Then I packed my bound booty under one of Miss Moore’s spare
