Fear Itself Part 7

"So why do you want to talk to him?"

"I think he's in trouble."

"Why?"

Oscar cleared his throat. Winifred turned her gaze to him.

"Make me a chocolate malted, Oscar." It was the last thing in the world I expected to hear from her.

"Yes ma'am."

The butler, or whatever he was, turned and left.

When he had gone from the study Winifred said, "Oscar is very protective of me."

"That's a good quality in an employee."

Winifred smiled and said, "He doesn't like you."

"He tell you that?"

"I can see it in his eyes."

"You were going to tell me something while he was gone," I suggested.

"Esau Perry is a fool. He's a gifted mechanic. Anything made from moving parts he can fix. He knows watches and steam engines, cotton gins and hydraulic lifts. But put a deck of cards in his hand, a woman on his lap, or a bottle anywhere within reach and he loses his mind."

I was enjoying the way the tall old maid put together sentences. You could tell by her grasp of the language that she was formidable and in control.

"So what?" I asked.

Winifred's stormy eyes washed over me. Then for a moment the squall subsided.

"Bartholomew is just like his father. Good under the hood but a mess out in the street. He'd be in jail today if I hadn't helped out. Now I think it was a mistake. Maybe he would have done better in prison."

"No ma'am," I said.

Lance Wexler was dubbed with a demiG.o.d's name, but Winifred Fine held herself like a real deity. Her high cheekbones and sleek face seemed to bring her eyes to the great heights of heaven. She considered me and then nodded; maybe I knew more about the pedestrian doings of the world.

"Whatever you say, Mr. Minton. All I know is that Bartholomew has done something that could be very embarra.s.sing to this family. And I want to talk to him before the damage becomes irreversible."

"What damage?"

"That is none of your concern."

"It is if it's illegal and I'm out there up to my neck in it."

"Who said anything about illegal?" she asked.

"n.o.body," I said. "But you got all the elements there. Foolish men around wild women, gamblin', liquor, and cars."

Winifred smiled. It was a wonderful thing. Beautiful. She opened her mouth, showed two rows of almost perfect teeth (one on the bottom was missing), and said, "Go to the desk, Mr. Minton, and open the top right drawer. There's a brown envelope there. Take it and go find Bartholomew for me."

The desk was made from some knotty, light-hued wood. The shallow drawer slid open with ease. There were three items inside: an antique dagger with a seven-inch blade, a new Luger pistol, and a light caramel-colored and sealed envelope that was stuffed with some sort of paper.

"What is this?" I asked.

"A small sum," she said. "For your services."

"I didn't come here looking for a job."

"If you are working for Mr. Sweet I want you to remember who the real client is. If you find out anything, a personal report to me will earn you another such envelope."

I shoved the fat letter into my front pocket.

"Uh-huh. One more question, Miss Fine."

She sighed deeply and asked, "Yes?"

"Kit Mitch.e.l.l."

"What about him?"

"Do you know him?"

"He did some mechanical work for us a while back, two or three months ago, I think. Bartholomew had suggested him."

"You seemed to be upset when I mentioned his name."

"He wasn't a very good worker," she replied coolly. "I should have known better than to take a recommendation from Bartholomew."

I didn't believe a word of what she said, but Winifred L. Fine wasn't the kind of woman you called a liar. Her breeding prohibited any such intimacy.

"Does Bartholomew's problem have anything to do with Kit?"

"No," she said with all the finality of Creation. "Go now, Mr. Minton. Come back when you have knowledge of my nephew."

"Can I get a phone number?"

She pointed with her baby finger to a small stack of cards on the lower left corner of the desk. The card had two lines. The first one read W.L.F. and the second one had her number.

"You can show yourself out," she said.

"What about Oscar?"

"What about him?"

"Isn't he going to bring your malted?"

"I'm allergic to milk products," she said. Then she turned her back on me and stared out upon the stone image of her younger, more vulnerable self.

11.

"WHO IS THIS?"

"It's Paris, Ambrosia. Fearless there?"

"He's sleep."

It was two in the afternoon.

"Wake him up for me, will ya? We got to be movin' soon."

"Who do you think you are, tellin' me what to do, Paris Minton?"

"Listen, honey. I know you thought that you'd have him longer than this but playtime is over for a while. Fearless needs me to help out with a problem he's got. It's a big problem, and you would not want him thinkin' that you kept him from me at an important point like the one we at right now."

Love might be light in someone's eyes, but hatred is silent and dark. Ambrosia didn't say a word for a full thirty seconds, and then she put the phone down-hard. She yelled a few well-chosen curses, and then Fearless picked up an extension somewhere in the house.

"Paris?"

". . . and tell that skinny-a.s.s mothahf.u.c.kah that he bettah not show up at my door to get ya, neither!" Ambrosia yelled on her line. Then she slammed down the receiver in both our ears.

"Yeah, Fearless. It's me."

"You find Kit?"

"Meet me at the Emerald Lounge."

"Why'ont you pick me up?"

"Because Ambrosia said she don't want me there."

"You scared of a woman, Paris?"

"No," I said. "It's just that I'm respecting her wishes."

"I won't let her hurt you."

"Just get over to the bar soon as you can. All right?"

Fearless laughed and hung up the phone.

I leaned forward over my butcher-block table and recounted the five-dollar bills that had been stuffed in the envelope Winifred L. Fine gave me. There were 186 186 notes. Nine hundred and thirty dollars. Not the millions Milo was talking about, but a pretty big payday for a man who had never earned over two dollars an hour on a regular job. notes. Nine hundred and thirty dollars. Not the millions Milo was talking about, but a pretty big payday for a man who had never earned over two dollars an hour on a regular job.

The name Wexler was still nagging at me. It was as if I had heard it before calling the Bernard Arms. The newspaper was in the trash, the column heading WOMAN FOUND DEAD WOMAN FOUND DEAD in plain sight. I remembered that when I thought about the name Wexler it was as though I had read it before. . . . And there it was-Minna Wexler. The corpse of the young woman in Griffith Park. Wexler. Could it be a coincidence? in plain sight. I remembered that when I thought about the name Wexler it was as though I had read it before. . . . And there it was-Minna Wexler. The corpse of the young woman in Griffith Park. Wexler. Could it be a coincidence?

She had been found by a hobo, Ty Sh.o.r.eman, who had been living in the park for a few weeks. She was stripped to the waist at the time of her death. Strangled. There were signs that she had been tortured before her demise. I thought about the burns up and down Lance's arm. The hobo was held for questioning and then released.

Wexler.

There were three sharp raps on my front door. I s.h.i.+vered in response.

BOTH WHITE MEN WORE DARK SUITS and frowns. One was going bald and the other had hair nearly down to his eyebrows. and frowns. One was going bald and the other had hair nearly down to his eyebrows.

"Paris Minton?"

"Yes, officer?"

"Why you think we're cops?" the hairy one asked.

"Guilty conscience?" his partner chimed.

"How can I help you?" I replied.

"We're looking for a friend of yours," baldy said. "A man named Fearless Jones."

"He ain't here."

"Do you know where we might find him?"

"No sir."

My face went blank. The life drained out of my voice. My arms hung down at my side and I was willing to do anything those policemen wanted-except tell the truth.

"When's the last time you saw him?" the ape-man asked.

I stared out at the sky between their faces, pretending to concentrate. "Maybe four weeks. He's been up north working for a man grows watermelons."

The cop with the advancing hairline took out a small leather notebook and the nub of a yellow pencil. He jotted down something and smiled at me. I remember being surprised that the one with all the hair was also the man in charge. That seemed unfair somehow.

"May we come in, Mr. Minton?" he asked.

"Sure." I stepped backward, pulling the door with me. "Have a seat."

They entered my front room but neither one took me up on the offer to sit. They scanned the room like dog-pack brothers, looking everywhere. The balding cop stepped into the bookstore, checking for surprises or infractions.

"Sorry for the intrusion," the other cop said. "I'm Sergeant Rawlway and this is Officer Morrain."

"Pleased to meet ya."

"Nice place you got here," bald Morrain said from the left aisle. "You sell a lotta books?"