“What are you talking about?”
“Can we go out in your garden, Miss Fine?” I asked. “I mean, I like your room here, but I want to make sure that there aren’t any ears to catch me in my report.”
She cut her eyes at the far door and then toward the book- case.
“Yes,” she said. “That might be a good idea.”
THE AIR IN HER GARDEN smelled richer than your everyday atmosphere. Big monarch butterflies and half a dozen other varieties wafted above our heads. There were two stone benches at the far side of the fountain. Miss Fine sat down and Fearless and I parked ourselves on either side of her.
“What do you have to say, Mr. Minton?”
“Do you know a man named Maestro Wexler?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said. At first her expression was neutral, almost bland. But then a stitch of anxiety showed through.
“Do you have any business dealings with Wexler?”
“No. I mean . . . I don’t have any dealings with him but . . .”
“But what?”
“Five years ago I began buying up corner lots in Compton, through a company owned by my cosmetics corporation. That way the people I bought from thought that I was the same color as the lawyer who brokered the purchases.”
“And now Wexler wants those lots?”
“He wants to put in gas stations. He has a big contract for stations in Compton.”
“You can’t own all the corners of the whole town.”
“I own enough to compete with him. I could put in forty or fifty stations myself.”
Forty or fifty. I could see why Milo salivated whenever he spoke her name.
“You refused to sell?”
“I offered to go into business with him but he was too greedy. I decided to hold on to my property. Why not? I don’t need him.”
“Have you heard from him lately?”
“No. What is this about?”
“Two of his children have been murdered.”
“Oh my God. That’s terrible.”
She seemed actually horrified. And I didn’t believe that a woman of her caliber would put on an act for people like Fearless and me.
“Didn’t you hear about it on the news?” I asked.
“I don’t listen to the radio. Nor do I watch television.”
“What about the papers?”
“I have Oscar read to me those stories that are salient to our concerns.”
She was like a child. Completely cut off from the world, so that all that was important was her needs and her desires. In her world me and mine had never drawn a breath. The drama and tragedy of everyday people was invisible to her. In a way she was like Maestro Wexler sitting on his throne. I could see where money affected both of them more than race. It was the first time I had ever actually witnessed the power of money and class in forming character.
“I think his children’s deaths have to do with something they were hatching up with BB,” I said. “Him and Kit Mitchell.”
Winifred had a poker face that could have broken the confidence of the most seasoned dealer. She might have been isolated but she knew how to play the game.
“I don’t see what you mean, Mr. Minton.”
“BB offered us ten thousand dollars to find Kit. He put a thousand down on that offer. Maestro offered me ten thousand to find BB. He also plunked down a grand. You already gave me near a thousand in five-dollar bills. That’s three thousand that two poor black men have collected, and we haven’t done a thing but ask questions and survive the answers.”
“You want more money,” Winifred Fine said.
“A white man says his name is Theodore Timmerman open fire on me and Fearless two mornings ago. All we did was call his name. He was willing to kill us and all he wanted to know was your identity.”
“Me?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said.
“And he was shooting at you?”
“Like it was the Fourth of July,” Fearless said.
I glanced at my friend then. It was an unspoken rule we had that he would stay quiet when I was asking questions. He never understood the verbal nuances of complex discussions. I wondered why he wanted to be a part of our talk.
