“No thanks,” I said. “You know my score on nighttime meetings ain’t too good.”

“I can promise you that Louis won’t be there.”

“Promise me that you’ll meet me at nine tomorrow morning and I’ll be a happy man.”

“All right,” Bradford said in a resigned tone. “Tomorrow at nine. There’s a bench near the sidewalk, across from a French cafe.”

“I’ll be there.”

I WENT TO BED but not to sleep. I just lay there in the dark thinking about how I’d almost died and how I took a man’s life. I had never killed before. Many a time I had been in the room where people had expired violently, but I never pulled the trigger or drove the blade. Theodore Timmerman’s files and his own rank breath clung to me in the darkened room. The depravity and certainty of death created a sad conviction in my heart.

At ten minutes to four Fearless knocked at the door. I knew it was him because I was awake and when I’m conscious I know Fearless’s knock.

“Hey, Paris,” was all he said when I admitted him.

“How are you?” I asked. “Ambrosia was so worried that she called me.”

“I was doin’ things that we don’t need to talk about, man. But you don’t have to worry about Teddy no more.”

I told Fearless about the killer’s house and the obscure notes on the murders.

“Damn that’s cold,” Fearless said after taking it all in. “Sometime people get like that. I seen boys in the war would line up prisoners for target practice. Sometimes they raped and killed more than they fought the enemy. And it wasn’t just the Germans or the Russians. Sometimes you had blue-blood American rich boys rollin’ in the blood. I think there’s just some kinda men made for killin’ and hurtin’. Just one little scratch and they like to go off.”

“Well at least we don’t have to worry about Timmerman anymore,” I said, and then I told Fearless that I was going to meet Bradford, to find out who our friend Mr. Craighton might be.

“Hey,” Fearless said. “That’s a helluva lot easier than makin’ a man disappear from the face of the earth.”

I didn’t ask about what he meant. I didn’t want to know.

“You know I gave you up to him, Fearless.”

“And then you beat him to death. That’s okay.”

“No, man. You shouldn’t put your trust in me. I was so scared when he grabbed me that I told him where you were in a second. Even Milo lied to the man when asked to give up Winifred Fine.”

“Milo lied to save his chance at kissin’ millionaire butt,” Fearless said.

“That doesn’t absolve me.”

“Paris, when I got in trouble I came to you. And you agreed to help me. Now if while you helpin’ me some man says he’s gonna take your life, you should give me up. Don’t worry, baby. You’n me is tight.”

42

I GOT TO THE PARK on Lucile Avenue at eight-fifteen. I like to be early to potentially clandestine meetings. That way I can scout out all the exits and escape routes before it’s too late.

There was a French cafe across the street. Instead of a name there was the picture of a fat chicken wearing a beret as the sign. I moved over toward an alley and took out a newspaper that I pretended to read while waiting for the private secretary to arrive.

I wasn’t worried about Bradford. He seemed like a good guy, a concerned employee. We were the same kind, he and I, thinkers. I would have bet that he was a reader. He was satisfied with his position in life. So was I.

At least I had been until people started talking about hundred-thousand-dollar books. At first I wanted the Fine family diary for myself, but as time had gone by I had begun to crave the money. I had never known a Negro who had a hundred thousand dollars before the day I met Winifred Fine. That kind of money could make a whole new life for me. Even if I had to share it with Fearless I’d still be rich. I could open a bookstore down by the ocean and have the two things I loved most in life: reading and the sea.

Bradford arrived at ten to nine. He wore a simple gray suit that had seen its day of wear. He looked around and then sat on a park bench perched at the edge of the grassy lawn and facing out across the street. Bradford was erect and expectant. He was my doorway to riches. He would know the identity of Maestro Wexler’s nemesis. Wexler’s enemy was mine because he was after the book that was going to make me a rich man. After dealing with him I could sell the book back to Oscar or, if he couldn’t make the grade, I could sell it to Maestro and he could close the deal with Winifred Fine directly. Either way I’d get paid for my services and the world of Theodore Timmerman would slowly fade from my mind.

At three minutes after nine I crossed the street to Bradford. Looking both ways many times before reaching the opposite side, I noticed the French cafe twice. The second view of the silhouetted chicken set off a bell in my head.

“Mr. Minton,” Bradford said, rising as I approached him.

“Mr. Bradford.” I stuck out my hand.

We shook and sat down side by side on the park bench.

There was the cafe again.

“So, Mr. Minton,” Bradford said. “You have information for me.”

“It’s a nice morning, isn’t it?” I said.

Вы читаете Fear Itself
Добавить отзыв
ВСЕ ОТЗЫВЫ О КНИГЕ В ИЗБРАННОЕ

0

Вы можете отметить интересные вам фрагменты текста, которые будут доступны по уникальной ссылке в адресной строке браузера.

Отметить Добавить цитату