“Yes,” I admitted. “And I’d be happy to omit that prevari-cation if you would tell us how we could get to the man.”
From rage to suspicion is a long jump. Mr. Motley’s head bounced like a child’s rubber ball running out of steam. Then he said, “What?”
“We know about Angel, or Monique,” I said. “We also know about Hector LaTiara. . . .”
222
FEAR OF THE DARK
That name struck home. Motley’s head now made a viper-like motion: serpentine without the fangs.
“He’s dead,” I said. “Killed in his own apartment.”
At this point Motley began breathing through his mouth. I didn’t know what that meant. Was he frightened that someone might kill him too or was he excited that a dark cloud over his head had gone away?
“What do you want from me?”
“Sterling.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because if you don’t, I’m still going to be looking for the man. And when I do find him, I will tell him that it was you who sent me. That is unless you really do.”
The wine garbled my words in Motley’s ears. He had to think about what I’d said for a moment or two.
“I need much money,” he said at last.
“How much?” I asked.
“Two hundred,” he said. “No. No. Three, three hundred.
Three hundred dollars in fives and tens.”
“Can you do that, Mr. Friar?” I asked.
“I don’t have it on me, and my bank will be closed by the time we get there.”
“I got it if the man take twenties,” Fearless offered.
He pulled a large wad of cash from his back pocket. This didn’t surprise me. Fearless often carried large amounts of cash. He never trusted banks.
“Bank ain’t nuthin’ but a robbery waitin’ t’happen,” he always said.
While Fearless peeled off the bills, I said, “Sterling.”
“What do you want to know about him?” Motley asked, licking his lips for every third twenty Fearless thumbed.
223
Walter Mosley
“I wanna know the scam, his address, and his full name.”
Fearless had finished counting.
Motley looked at the money like it was a glass of water and he’d spent seven dry days in the Gobi Desert.
“Lionel Charlemagne Sterling,” he said. “He was once a member of the Santa Anita racing commission. He also belongs to the Greenwood Golf Club.”
“He’s the one you gave Mr. Friar’s name?” I asked.
“First I met Monique,” Motley admitted. “She brought me to a few card games and showed that she was always a winner.
I put some money with her, and she won a few times. Then she told me about a big game. I put up six thousand dollars. . . .
Only one of it was mine. She lost and Hector came to me. He made me take more, ten thousand more. Then, when I told him I couldn’t take anything else without getting caught, he said he wanted other names. What else could I do?”
“You could have been a man,” Martin Friar suggested.
I wondered what the righteous Mr. Friar would have done if gangsters had threatened his lifestyle and his family for the cost of a few names.
“Where does Sterling come in?” I asked Motley instead.
“Hector brought me to him when I said I couldn’t steal anymore. He told me that they’d cut me loose if I played along. I gave them what they wanted, but my superiors found out about the money I took. They didn’t want a scandal, but they fired me and blackballed me. I can’t work. I can’t live. My wife won’t have me after those women. All I can do now is get on a bus and go back to Sacramento to my family.”
He reached for the money, but I put my hand in the way.
“Write down the list of names you gave to Sterling and his address,” I said.
224
FEAR OF THE DARK
“I don’t know where he lives,” Motley said, his voice quavering.
“I can find him,” Friar said in that man-in-charge voice of his.
“Okay,” I said. “Get a pencil and write down the names.”
