I don’t know for sure, but I believe that in part of his mind Friar felt that he was being a fool and so was ashamed to divulge further intimacies of his heart.
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s true. Hector and Sterling were using her. I was just wondering what you thought.”
“Where is she?” Friar asked, leaning toward me.
“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” I told the heartbroken executive. “She’s with a friend’a mine, a guy named Maurice.”
“What’s he to her?” Friar asked, without waiting for even a second to pass.
This worried me. I had hoped to find someone who was feeling hate for Angel. Hate is a good source of energy. It makes your allies blind and eager. Love is a much stickier form of fuel. It burns unevenly and often causes internal damage.
“He used to be her lover too,” I said. “But no more. Now they’re just friends.”
The tension easing a little, Friar asked, “What can I do to help?”
205
Walter Mosley
He was moving too fast. I needed time to dicker with him, to figure out where he was coming from. Here he wanted to jump right in with both feet, and I still didn’t have a good understanding of his part in the puzzle.
“I, I need some information before I could tell ya that,” I said.
“What kind of information?”
“How did Sterling get to you?”
“I don’t know any Sterling or that other name — Hector, you said?”
I told him about Hector and the little I knew about Sterling, the man in charge.
“I know the Negro is Paul Dempsey. He was the one who ran the game,” Friar told us on that overexposed park bench.
“But I don’t know anything about a man named Sterling. I’ve only met black people since Monique and I have been together.”
“When’s the last time you saw Monique?” I asked.
“Two weeks ago,” he said, choking a bit. “She called me and said that she was going away. She said that she was free of Paul Dempsey and that I didn’t have to worry about her anymore.”
“Was she gonna call you again?”
“No. She said that it would be better if I never saw her again.” Friar looked down at his expensive Italian shoes with bitter regret.
There was a very thin gold band on the ring finger of his left hand. The ring had probably always been that slender, but the way I read this man, I imagined that it had once been a big thick gold ring that had worn away over time like a Lifesaver confection under a dripping tap.
206
FEAR OF THE DARK
“How did you meet her?” I asked him.
“It was a church function. I got a note from a man I know telling me that there was a young Negro woman who had come into a modest sum and wanted some advice on how to make that work for her church.”
“Really? What’s this man’s name?”
“Brian. Brian Motley.”
“A white man?”
“Why . . . Yes, he is.”
“And how did Mr. Motley come into contact with a young Negro woman?” I asked, trying hard to keep the sarcasm out of my voice.
“He said that he had a friend who had done work with the church, that they didn’t really have a good system set up for their investments, but that this girl really wanted to help out.”
“And then?” I asked.
“I . . . Well, I met her. She called and suggested a restaurant on Olvera Street. We, we met.”
“I’ve only met her once myself,” I said, feeling every word.
“Her eyes are somethin’ else.”
Fearless grunted in agreement.
“I fell in love,” Friar admitted. “Completely.”
“Was that your first time?” I asked.
“I’m married, after all,” he replied. “We have two children.
I love my family.”
“I’m sure you do, Mr. Friar. But I’m not asking you if Monique or Angel, or whatever her name really is, was your first lover. What I wanted to know was, was she your first black girl?”
That stopped him for a second. His outpouring of feeling coagulated there, just behind his eyes.
