Greed will make even a meek man into a fool.
I CALLED A NUMBER and a man I knew answered, “Fine residence.”
“Tell me about Brown.”
“Excuse me? Who is this speaking?”
“You know who I am, Oscar, and you know what I’m talkin’ about too. So let’s not be stupid this late in the game.”
“Are you crazy, man?” the once-rich butler asked.
“I got this number from a man that got it from Brown. You’re the only one in the house he’d be callin’, and that’s because you brought him out here to find that book before Winifred found out it was gone.”
Silence is almost always an admission, usually of guilt. When you run out of retorts, replies, rejoinders, and responses there must be truth on the table with you out of money and cards.
“What do you want?” Oscar asked.
“Why did you send Brown after those white people?”
“I did no such thing. If he went after them that was his decision. I only told him about that Kit Mitchell. I told him that Kit stole the book, that if he found it he could keep Winifred from ever threatening to take his son again.”
“And what you supposed to get out of all that?”
“That book means more than the life of any member of this family. We must have it.”
“You could give Maestro what he wants,” I suggested.
“He doesn’t have the book. I’ve already spoken to his agent. What is it that you want, Mr. Minton?”
It was a good question, a very good question.
“I don’t know, Oscar. I really don’t. Did Leora know that you had gotten in touch with Brown?”
“No. I called him because I knew that he would do anything to protect his family. She wanted him to stay away for the same reason.”
“Why did you give Leora Kit Mitchell’s address instead of Brown?” I asked. And then, “Or did you tell him too?”
“I did not,” Oscar said. “I told Leora because she’s reasonable. If Kit had the book she could at least start to discuss terms with him. Who can tell what a man like Brown might have done?”
“You think he killed the Wexlers?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you know?” I asked.
“That Kit Mitchell came in here and stole our family history. He acted as if it was Son he was after but the book was his real intent. I didn’t mind about the child. A boy should be with his parents.”
“And what about the book?”
“Do you know what it contains?” Oscar asked.
“Yeah. It’s a diary. A family history.”
Oscar grunted at my quaint understatement. “We are the only Negroes in all the New World who can follow our heritage back to the beginning, back to Africa. I know of six generations of my African heritage across a dozen different nations.”
“Shouldn’t something like that be in a museum?” I asked. “Or maybe the Library of Congress?”
“It’s ours. Our history, not theirs. The Negro population isn’t ready yet to receive it. They wouldn’t know the value of such a treasure—not yet.”
“I see. And you think it’s worth the multimillion-dollar deal Maestro Wexler wants to make.”
“It’s worth everything.”
From what Rose had said, Oscar was a man who had thrown away everything once already. I wondered if Winifred was of the same opinion.
“What will you give me if I can get the book?” I asked. “I mean, I hear that Maestro Wexler is willing to pay fifty grand.”
“We will double the offer.”
“You talkin’ for Winifred?”
“She will do what is necessary.”
“Well, I ain’t seen a book like that. But I’ll put it up on the top of my list. I sure will.”
I put the receiver in the cradle and sat back in Loretta’s swivel chair. Milo’s hunger for money was worming in my gut. At the same time I wanted to steal the Fine family chronicle for myself.
I had about twenty-five hundred dollars left from the money I’d been given. Twenty-five hundred was good money in 1955. Even if I had to share it with Fearless it meant a year of easy living and no worries.
But a hundred thousand dollars was a whole lifetime. I could buy a house, build my business, and be set for life. And I had the book right in the trunk of Ambrosia’s car, with Fearless Jones as my Cerberus standing guard.
Those were the most sublime moments of my life. Sitting there in the lap of possible riches and treasure,
