“You don’t wanna lie to us, son,” I said. “This is serious business and a man could die takin’ the wrong stand.”
“I don’t know where he is. I ain’t seen him in almost a week.”
“What about that girlfriend’a yours?” I asked.
“What girlfriend?”
“That white girl, that Minna Wexler.”
It was the only way it all made sense to me. BB had a few dollars and he liked white girls. A white girl and her brother had been killed and now BB was on the run.
“I don’t know anybody by that name,” BB said. Then he let out a loud belch.
“It’d be easy enough for us to find out if anybody saw you with her,” I said.
He belched again, frowning as if this one hurt him on the inside. He let himself down into a wooden chair that sat at a small maple table.
It was a room of single items. He had a couch that was folded out into a bed, the chair he sat in, and the table it sat at. There was also a chest of drawers upon which perched a butt-ugly pink ceramic lamp made into the shape of a melting rooster.
“Why you men messin’ wit’ me?” BB asked us. “I ain’t done nuthin’ to you.”
“Yes you have,” I said. “You just don’t know it. Because of you the cops ran down Fearless. Because of you a man shot at us for no reason. Because of you I can’t go to my own home because men are lookin’ for me to do me harm.”
“I didn’t do none’a that.”
“Where’s Kit?” I asked again. “And why does your auntie want me and Fearless to bring you to her house?”
Bartholomew’s eyes widened and his left arm began to quiver. “Aunt Winnie?” he said in a trembling voice. Then he stood straight up and took a swing at Fearless!
I was amazed. BB knew that throwing down on Fearless Jones was tantamount to suicide. Why would he do such a thing?
Fearless moved his head, easily avoiding the blow. But BB swung again, catching him in the ribs.
“Slow down, Barty,” Fearless said. “You know I don’t wanna hurt you.”
Instead of listening the crazed fat man threw a wild uppercut. Fearless sidestepped the haymaker and caught his attacker with a straight right hand. Bartholomew Perry was unconscious before he hit the floor.
25
FEARLESS LIFTED BB onto the sofa bed and I searched the room. He was on the run but managed to bring five shirts, six pairs of socks, three pairs of trousers, two suits, and twelve changes of underwear. He even had an extra pair of shoes. He was like a young prince in flight. All that was missing was his retinue of guardian Beefeaters.
He had no weapons, one hundred and nineteen dollars in a wallet on the bureau, and a tiny phone book— mostly containing the phone numbers of women. No books or papers in Bartholomew’s room. No TV or radio. He didn’t even have a newspaper. There certainly wasn’t any information about Kit Mitchell.
Going through his pockets was my last hope. In the secretary wallet of his dark green suit I found a wrinkled slip of paper that had an address on Olympic Boulevard. The single word
“Let’s wake him up,” I said.
Fearless went into the bathroom and came back with a glass of water, which he poured on the young prince’s face.
BB didn’t sputter or jump up like they do in the movies. He put his hand to his head and moaned. When he opened his eyes I could see the string of thoughts run across his buff-colored face. At first he didn’t recognize us, then he remembered who we were from running into us around town, then he remembered our breaking in, and finally the fear of his auntie came into his eyes.
“Throw down again and we gonna tie you up like a Christmas goose and leave you on your auntie’s doorstep,” I said.
“No, man. Don’t call Aunt Winnie. Don’t. I’ll pay you.”
“Where’s Kit?” I asked.
“I ain’t seen him,” BB said. “I got money, man. Money enough for all three of us.”
“How much?”
“A thousand dollars.”
Fearless grunted. “That’s a whole lotta change,” he said.
“If you guys could find Kit we could make it fifty.”
“Thousand?”
“Yeah, brother. Fifty thousand dollars American.” BB was shivering, burping, and trying to smile. It was a sickening display.
