“I cain’t tell her nuthin’ more than I told you,” he whined.
“Why she got to come here?”
“That’s her boy,” I said reasonably. “He’s missin’ an’ you the last one seen ’im. You know Three Hearts gotta talk about that.”
“Paris,” he begged, “you know that woman. You know what they say about her.”
“An’ it’s all true,” I pronounced. “That’s why I’m’a bring her to you. I don’t want that evil eye on me.”
Jerry gulped loud enough for us both to hear. He bit his lips and clasped his hands.
Then he said, “This shit cain’t git out, man.”
“You got our word,” Fearless said.
I do believe a tear escaped Jerry’s eye.
“Last time I seen Ulysses,” Jerry said, “he was worried that a man named Hector was after him. He told me that his girl, Angel, had turned against him and he was gonna have to run.”
“Why he tell you?” I asked.
“He needed money.”
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“And you a bank?”
A sour taste passed Jerry’s big lips and he looked to the left.
Then he looked back at me and said, “Ulysses been fleecin’ rich white people. Blackmailin’ ’em, I think.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. All I do know is that he been bringin’ me money, lots of it, an’ I been helpin’ him put it into accounts that the IRS won’t see. You know, foreign shit.”
“How you do that?”
“That ain’t got nuthin’ to do with what’s goin’ on with Ulysses,” Jerry said.
“Okay,” I said. “All right. What’s this guy Hector got to do with all this?”
“Hector LaTiara,” Jerry said. “French-assed nigger. Think his shit don’t stink. I met him one time. He got somethin’ to do with Ulysses’ business, but don’t ask me what ’cause I don’t know.”
“You know where he live at?” Fearless asked.
Jerry just shook his head. His lips were hanging loosely, as if he had just run a desperate race and was exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “And I appreciate the information.
Three Hearts will too.”
“You keep that witch away from me,” Jerry said.
“Don’t worry,” I promised. “I’ll keep her curses all to myself.”
132
O n t h e way o u t we were distracted by a pool game. A man made an exceptionally good 21 shot, sinking two balls and putting his shooter in prime position. Fearless put a hand on my arm and we waited until the player — a dark-skinned, elegantly dressed man —
finished his run and the game. I was about to go when Fearless whispered, “Let’s see what this other dude could do.”
The other player was light-skinned, fat, and sweating. He wore a flouncy Bermuda shirt with big purple and green patterns printed on it. He was smoking and drinking and seemed a little pixilated. But when he leaned over to shoot, he was all business.
It was some match. If either guy got a clear shot the game was over. It was pool on a whole other plane than the one where I lived. These men were masters.
We probably watched for two hours before I made to leave.
Those men were going to play until sunrise, and I had things on my mind. Fearless could have stayed but he followed me out.
M u m wa s g o n e by the time we got downstairs. So was the bulk of Ha’s crowd. I took a phone book from behind the cash 133
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register and looked up Hector LaTiara. He lived on a street called Saturn.
Harold Crier wished us good night at the door. Fearless and I wandered down the street. He had parked next to me in an empty lot there.
“What you think about what Jerry said?” I asked Fearless.
He shook his head. “You cain’t evah tell wit’ Jerry, man. He might be lyin’. He might be straight. I mean, I believe it about this Hector dude ’cause you knew his name anyway.”
Fearless couldn’t read the newspaper without help, but he knew people. He could tell what a man felt by watching him blow his nose.
“Yeah. But he called Useless Ulysses,” I said. “That means he got somethin’ goin’ with him.”
“Doin’ business, like he said,” Fearless reasoned.
