pocket and took something from it (later I found out that this was Lux’s driver’s license). He said something to Lux and then slapped the man until he nodded. Then he pulled Lux to his feet. The big white man pleaded with Fearless not to hit him again; that was the only thing we heard through the closed window. But Fearless didn’t hit him. He merely pushed him toward the door. Lux lumbered through the room with his eyes on the floor and pain in every step.
When he went out the front, Fearless came in the back.
“You got a pencil?” he asked Briny.
The ex-seaman nodded and pulled a yellow number two from his pocket. Then he handed Fearless the receipt pad he used for his patrons’ bills.
“This my mother’s phone numbah,” Fearless said, scribbling at the counter. “If that motherfucker ever even look in yo’ windah again, I want you to call this numbah an’ tell her to tell me about it.”
And so we became semiregulars at Briny’s. Lux, who had 156
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hectored Briny for two years, never returned, and we always had to force Briny to take our money.
“Fearless. Paris,” Briny hailed.
He served us fried clams and talked about Louisiana. He bought our beers, but we paid for the food.
“Briny,” Fearless said after the restaurateur brought us our change.
“What, my friend?”
“Paris an’ me need a phone and some privacy for a hour or two.”
“My office is yours,” he said. He might have said the same thing even if Fearless hadn’t broken Lux almost in two.
“ Wy n a n t I n v e s t m e n t G r o u p , ” a young woman said, answering my call.
I was looking out onto the backyard where Fearless had demolished Lux.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m looking for a Mr. Katz.”
“No Katz here,” she replied in a friendly tone.
“Oh,” I said. “I see. Mr. Drummund, then.”
“Sorry, sir. No Mr. Drummund either. If you can tell me the nature of your call, I might be able to pass you on to someone else.”
“You know,” I replied. “I think I must have the wrong number. You said Haversham Investments, right?”
“No. Wynant. Wynant Investments.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “Excuse me.”
I made half a dozen calls like that while Fearless sat back on a walnut chair, smoking one of my Lucky Strikes and staring 157
Walter Mosley
up into space. He wasn’t listening to me or worrying about anything. I’m sure he was the same in the lull between battles during the war.
There was a V.P. named Katz at Casualty and Life Insurance Company of St. Louis. I got as far as his assistant.
“He’s tied up at the moment,” the man said. “May I tell him what your business is?”
“My name is LaTiara,” I said. “Hector LaTiara. I’ve recently come into a great deal of money. Seventy thousand dollars that I’ve inherited from my uncle Anthony.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t know anything about investing and so I wondered if we could set up an appointment or something.”
“I’m sure one of the junior agents at the firm would be happy to advise you, Mr. LaTiara. Mr. Katz, however, only deals with portfolios of a million dollars or more.”
“You mean my money’s not good enough for him?” I said.
For some reason I really was insulted.
“It’s good,” the snooty young man replied. “It’s just not enough money.”
I knew the type. It had nothing to do with race, even though he must have been a white man. He was the sort that identified with his master so closely that he believed he was the arbiter of those million-dollar investors. Here he probably didn’t make seventy dollars a week, but he still sneered at my paltry seventy grand.
I hung up on him.
Three calls later, at Holy Cross Episcopal, I found a rector named Drummund — or least I got a woman who answered using his name.
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“Reverend Drummund’s office,” she said in a well-worn but not world-weary voice.
“Hector LaTiara,” I said, but there was a hesitation in my tone.
“Yes?”
