“Can we do anything, so I don’t have to go to Uncle Raymond?”
That request, that threat, was stunning. I could imagine Benita telling her husband, my son, about what the streets knew of the man called Mouse. Ray would have no compunction about killing crooked federal agents. And there was all that cash Jesus had stashed away.
“No,” I said. “I’ll take care of it.”
“You will?”
“Of course I will. You think I’d let them mess with my family?”
“I... I thought you would be mad.”
“Naw. I don’t like drugs. But people use ’em, and weed is prob’ly less of a threat than alcohol.”
It was a pleasure to see the tension drain out of Jesus’s face.
“Do you know anything else about these agents?” I asked.
“I’m pretty sure that one of ’em arrested this guy I know named Terry Lomax. He’s a street dealer out in the Valley. White guy. When I told him about the scar on Scott’s lip, he said that was one of the ones who busted him. He said the other name too, but I don’t remember it.”
“You wanna write down Terry’s phone number?”
“Sure.”
“And his address too, if you know it.”
After he did this, I asked, “So, how you holdin’ up, Juice?”
“Good, now that I’m talkin’ to you. I feel stupid about what we did, but it’s kinda cool stayin’ out here. It makes me feel like I’m a cowboy or sumpin’ in the Old West. And you know, Mama Jo is somethin’ else.”
“Essie okay?”
“She’s fine. She knows that somethin’s wrong, but she’s not worried.”
“You need anything?” I asked. “Money? Food?”
“No, Dad. You get us outta this and I promise that I’ll never ask you for anything, ever again.”
“They were dealing weed?” Amethystine asked me. “Tons at a time?”
“Probably just one ton at a go.”
“Still. He’s such a quiet, sweet boy.”
“Man,” I corrected.
“I guess.”
We were on the chaise lounge set on the jutting terrace that looked out over the side of our mountain home. She was reclining against the raised cushion as I lay with my head resting between her legs.
“What are you gonna do about it?” she asked.
“Benita suggested going to Mouse.”
“That killer you know?”
I nodded, feeling the strength of her thigh.
“You gonna do it?”
“No. I’m too old for that kinda shit, and Jesus is too young.”
“So what, then?”
“Great thing about bein’ a detective is that you don’t need to know what before you have to act.”
“What does that mean?”
“The boy and his family are safe where they are. So, now all I gotta do is see what I can see.”
She leaned down and kissed the top of my forehead. Soon after that, I was peacefully asleep.
14
I awoke upstairs, in bed, thinking that I was still on the lower terrace. I must have walked up there, but I couldn’t remember the passage. That was a revelation for me. Over the entirety of my life, I had been aware of every step I’d ever taken. From the back ways of the bayou behind our one-room shack in New Iberia, Louisiana, to the forced marches with fifty thousand soldiers, headed toward Germany’s destruction — I always knew, or thought I knew, exactly where I was headed. As a child, as a soldier, as a Black man walking down white streets, and Black streets too — I had to be aware of my surroundings and my actions, always. But Amethystine interrupted that litany, that endless catalog of mostly unremarkable steps.
“Are you gonna wake up, or do I have to hit you in the head with this pillow?” she threatened jovially, standing there, as real as anything, at the foot of the bed.
“What time is it?”
“Time for you to get up.”
She was wearing one of my yellow dress shirts and her hair was a delightful mess.
“It’s a quarter to eight,” she said. “Do you have time to make me breakfast?”
“I thought it was the woman supposed to make the meals.”
“Not if the man is a great cook and she can’t boil water.”
“I love you,” I said when I hadn’t expected to.
She plopped down on the mattress, her hip pressed against mine.
“If I had my druthers,” she said, “I’d marry you tomorrow and move to Italy, or maybe France. Not in a big city but the countryside, where the olive trees are a thousand years old, and the people remember Alexander the Great in their bones.”
This last confession sat me up. I wanted to say something but all I could manage was to stare at her.
“But I know the kinda man you are,” she continued. “You need to be absolutely sure, no matter what your blood is tellin’ you.”
Still silent, I wondered what she was saying behind what she said.
She leaned close to my face, kissed me ever so lightly, and said, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take it slow. I’ma go home tonight and wait for you to call me. I mean, after you make breakfast.”
“I don’t even have your phone number.”
“That’s okay, I put it in the Rolodex on the desk in your office downstairs, while you were out saving the world.”
She threw the blankets back, revealing what my blood had been telling me. And then, after an hour or so, I went downstairs to make her breakfast.
When I got to the office, Clementine Bowers was seated comfortably behind Niska’s desk. Clemmie was a dark-skinned young woman with dimples and blazing dark brown eyes. She wore a wig made into a complex hairdo that was deep brown and gold of color. She and Niska were about the same size and shape, but Clemmie dressed to accent her figure whereas Miss Redman did not.
“Hi, Mr. Rawlins.”
“Hey, Clementine. Niska sick?”
“I don’t think so. She told me to tell you that she was lookin’ into that thing you were talkin’ about, whatever that is.”
“Did she say how long you would be takin’ her place?”
“She said it was gonna be day by day. But I hope it’s at least a few days. We need the money. My mama got sick and Mr. Henderson, down at the restaurant, fired her.”
“For bein’ sick?”
“She been outta work for three weeks.”
“Oh. She okay?”
“I don’t know. She won’t go to a doctor, too scared he might say she got cancer.”
“Cancer?”
“You know, she watch all them medical shows on the TV.”
At my big desk I had to ball my fists and imagine being in a fight to get myself going again. That’s when I picked up the receiver and dialed a number.
“Hello?”
“He there, Myra?”
She didn’t stall this time. Three clicks and: “Suggs.”
“Hey, man.”
“Easy. What’s up?”
“You get anything else on that home invasion?”
“No. No fingerprints, no witnesses, nothing. You find that woman, Lutisha?”
“No, but I’ll call you the minute after I do.”
“Myra looked up those names,” Melvin said in a rush. He most always sounded like he was in a hurry to get on with something else. “That Santangelo’s been arrested for public disturbance a couple’a times. And the James woman was once arrested in a gambling bust.”
“What kinda gambling?”
“Poker. It was a private game at a rich man’s table. They didn’t press charges.”
“Huh.”
“That all you need?” he pressed.
“No.”
“What else?”
“I need to talk to your wife, probably face-to-face.”
Melvin was quiet for maybe six seconds before asking, “What for?”
“Her vast knowledge of unwritten lore.”