sheets.
MY EFFORTS WERE NOT WASTED. The landlady was waiting at the front door when I got there.
“Are you just getting out of bed, Mr. Hendricks?” She used a sweet voice to ask her question, but I could tell from the way she spaced her words that it was a test of my moral fiber.
“I spent the whole day writing wedding invitations on paper I borrowed from that nice Charlotta Netters,” I said, “one hundred and nineteen. She let me use her suitcase to take ’em down to the post office.”
“She already started her mess on you, huh?” Miss Moore asked and answered.
I knew that bringing up Charlotta would keep the landlady from questioning my suitcase. No older woman would ever like Charlotta. She was like an overripe peach on your favorite tablecloth—bound to leave a stain.
I CALLED AMBROSIA’S HOUSE from a phone booth a few blocks away and got Fearless after only a few curses. I told him where to pick me up. He was there in less than ten minutes.
“Open up the trunk, Fearless.”
“What for?”
“I need to keep this suitcase back there while we runnin’ the streets.”
“What you got in there?” Fearless asked.
“A book I picked up for my antiquarian collection.”
“Your what?”
“The collection I just started. This is the first book.”
IF CHARLOTTA’S INFORMATION WAS RIGHT, then Bartholomew was staying in a room above a drugstore on Jefferson. Fearless and I went to the address and sat out front in Ambrosia’s Chrysler. We didn’t have much to talk about on the ride over. Fearless had spent all his time in bed with Ambrosia and I had spent the night worried about somebody stealing the book I had stolen.
“What now, Paris?” Fearless asked.
“I guess we should go up there.”
“Okay.”
“You got a gun, Fearless?”
“Yeah. In the glove compartment.”
“Maybe you better pull it out, then.”
“You scared’a Bartholomew Perry?”
“Somebody’s been killin’ people, man,” I said. “The Wexlers got killed and Timmerman almost wasted us. It would just make me more comfortable to know that we had some firepower on our side.”
“Why don’t you take it then?”
That was Fearless’s way of teasing. He knew that I was useless with guns. I couldn’t shoot straight and just holding a gun made me nervous. I had been disarmed more than once by men I had drawn down on.
Fearless laughed and pocketed the pistol.
We crossed the street and went through a side entrance, climbed three flights of stairs, and came to a door with the number eight stenciled on it.
“Friendly?” Fearless asked.
“Neutral, I think,” was my response.
I knocked on the door. We could hear a heavy man’s footsteps. He approached the door and then remained silent for a full five seconds.
“Who is it?” Bartholomew called out.
“Plumber,” I said in a loud voice I rarely use.
“I ain’t called no plumber,” came the reply.
“There’s a leak in the walls,” I said reasonably. “Landlord wants me to check every floor until we find it.”
“I don’t see no water.”
“It’s in the walls,” I said again. “If it goes on, he’s gonna have to spend a whole lotta money tearing out the side of the building.”
The lock clicked and the door came open four inches, held fast by the security chain. That was my cue to stand back.
“Let me see you,” Bartholomew said.
Fearless rammed his shoulder against the door. BB shrieked and the chain broke. The door flew inward, throwing the bulbous occupant to the floor. Fearless rushed in and grabbed Bartholomew by the neck as I hurried the door shut.
“Don’t say a word,” Fearless warned BB, and then he let go of the young man’s throat.
“What you want with me, Fearless Jones? I ain’t done nuthin’ to you.”
“Where’s Kit Mitchell?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
