Fear of the Dark

Fearless’s reputation.

281

Walter Mosley

“Mornin’, Bubba,” my friend hailed. “We come with Ulysses here to pick up Hector LaTiara’s car . . . for his widow.”

Fearless could lie if he had to. Usually it was to save some poor soul from an ass-whupping. I think that day he was also worried about having to kill those dogs.

“Hector didn’t say nuthin’ ’bout no wife,” Bubba said.

“White girl,” Fearless assured him. “Jessa is what they call her.”

Bubba’s eyes were tiny for his big, bald black head. When he blinked it was almost as if he were being coquettish, flirting with the object of his confusion.

“What you say about that, Useless?” Bubba asked.

There was a moment in which Useless faltered. I believed that he was wondering if maybe he could enlist the aid of this giant standing before him. Maybe Bubba could block us from getting Hector’s Cadillac.

“They just drove me down, Bubba,” he said. “Paris my cousin, an’ Fearless his friend.”

The dogs sensed something and began snarling in a different key.

“Get on back there!” Bubba commanded his curs. They whimpered and obeyed, skulking to some kennel on the far side of the property.

Bubba brought a big ring of keys out of the inside of his work overalls. He used a jagged-looking piece of brass to unlock the gate.

After we entered, and he locked up again, Bubba led us to the right, where the yard part of his business was. The largest of the wolf-dogs came to walk with him. She was a big gray creature, between seventy-five and eighty- five pounds. For all her weight, she looked starved and hungry for fresh flesh and revenge.

282

FEAR OF THE DARK

I had never been inside Bubba’s Yard before. The automo-biles parked in neat rows upon the hard desert soil were impres-sive. Cadillac cars and Italian sports jobs, there was even a Bentley and a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud.

And Hector’s Caddy, pink and chrome, as Useless had promised. It actually sparkled under the hot L.A. sun.

“They say you’re bad, Fearless Jones,” Bubba said.

“Some say I’m good,” Fearless replied easily.

Bubba didn’t like the joke. “What would you do if I told Bree here to jump up an’ tear out yo’ throat?”

Fearless glanced at Bree, who started growling on cue. He, Fearless, contemplated a moment and then looked back at Bubba.

“She’s a beautiful animal,” Fearless said. “Too skinny and knocked around more than she deserves. If she was to jump I’d have to grab her by the jaw an’ snap her neck like a chicken.

An’ then, Bubba Lateman, I would have to teach you a lesson that you’d carry down into the coffin wit’ you.”

Bulfinch’s Mythology came to me then. It seemed to me that this tableau belonged in those pages. Fearless was the hero, I was the hero’s companion, Useless was the mischievous trick-ster, and Bubba was the ogre or giant. We were playing out roles in a history that went back before anyone could remember. The river Styx might have lain to our left, and this was just a step in our journey.

I couldn’t help it: I laughed.

Bubba grinned then too. Bree turned her head toward him with a look of canine surprise on her vicious face.

“Take the car, man,” Bubba said. “And lemme tell ya, if Bree here jumped at ya, you’d never have a chance.”

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283

Walter Mosley

I d r o v e m y c a r while Fearless manned the Caddy with Useless at his side. We took Useless back to Nadine’s house.

Out front he was unwilling to see us go.

“Why you want Hector’s car?” he asked us.

“I like pink,” Fearless said. “It’s my favorite color.”

“Come on,” he said. “What you want it for?”

“Useless,” I said.

“Why you have to call me that?” he asked. He almost sounded insulted.