“Twenty-five hundred dollars,” he said.
I stuck to my number because it was all the money I could get. I decided that I would pay for Mr. Stowe’s freedom and he would pay me back with a job.
The trade happened the next morning.
I went alone to Petey’s to meet with Sallie and his thugs. I was a fool, I know, not to have brought Raymond with me. But it was my own move. It was a chance at a new life and I was willing to gamble everything for that chance.
Mouse was in the room anyway. Sallie had to be thinking that he wanted me dead. Seventeen hundred dollars was nothing compared to what he could steal out of the Board of Education warehouses. But if he killed me it was only a matter of time before Mouse got to him.
I was playing a card that was still in the deck.
Sallie folded.
He gave me the photograph and negative. It was a blurred image of Grace half-naked, sneering happily down on Bertrand — who was on his knees.
I guess we all have to submit sometimes.
I told myself that that was the last favor in a lifetime of doing favors. From that day on I planned to work for my living; to put in my eight hours and take home my paycheck.
Stowe demanded Bill Bartlett’s resignation, got it, and then hired me. There was a lot of red tape but we got through it. Bertrand and I became good friends. I was his confidant.
He’d broken up with Grace after the whole thing was over. But almost every week he’d call me in, or come to my office, and talk about her. He’d tell me about her calling him at work and at home. I knew she did because she called me too, trying to find out how to get to him.
Finally, more than a year later, he broke down and went back to her after she’d gotten pregnant by some other man. That’s the way Bert was, he wanted to take care of somebody — Grace needed a whole lot of care.
“Bertrand.” I took his hand and shook it.
“Sit down, sit down,” he told me. “How’s it going?” Bertrand wore thick glasses that magnified his already intense eyes. His black-and-gray mustache stuck out like a bristle brush.
“Oh, I don’t know,” I said. “I guess it could be better.”
“The police were here,” he said.
“Oh?”
“They told me that you were suspected for crimes at the Seventy-seventh Street station.” Stowe angled his lenses at me.
“I see,” I said. Each passing minute brought me closer to the tight-lipped attitude of my earlier years in the street.
“I never knew that you were suspected of murder.” Stowe looked at me for some kind of reply.
He wanted a declaration.
“Is that what they said?” All he got was another question.
“Is that all you have to say?” asked my boss.
“You didn’t ask me about what my record might be when you had problems with Sallie Monroe and Billy B. All you cared about then was your wife — and your girlfriend too.”
“Is that a threat, Easy?” Stowe was turning whiter, in more ways than one.
“You the one threatenin’, Bert,” I said. “The cops come in here an’ scare you an’ you ready to give me up. You already got your story all set about how you didn’t know anything.”
Bert took off his glasses and wiped them clean. He looked up at me with an indecipherable expression.
“Did you have anything to do with that man getting killed?” he asked.
“What do you think?” I asked back.
“I don’t know what to think. The police say that you’ve been involved in this kind of thing before.”
“And you believe that?”
Bertrand Stowe was confused. He didn’t see anything wrong with asking a man if he was implicated in murder. He didn’t see anything wrong in believing a stranger in uniform over a friend. It wasn’t a rude question — for him to ask.
“Don’t you understand me, Easy?”
“I understand you. It’s you who don’t get me.”
Bert sat down and I did too. He put his glasses back on. I crossed my right leg over my left.
“What do you want?” he asked me at last.
“You called me, Mr. Stowe. You wanted me to come here.”
“I told you,” he said. “The police called. They said that you were a suspect in the killing. They said that you knew something about the people involved and that you were involved in similar crimes in the past.”
“They said all that?”
“Yes they did.”
“And what did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything,” Bertrand said. “What was I supposed to say?”
“You could have said that you knew me, that I wasn’t the kinda man who went around killin’ folks. You could have said that I was an excellent worker who came in on time every day and who bent over backwards to make sure that my plant worked smoothly for the kids and teachers. You could have said that I got a hard principal but that, to your knowledge, I never lost my temper or spoke a word in anger.” I sat up straight in my chair. “You could have said I was a good friend to you who never asked you for nuthin’ without givin’ you something in return. It wouldn’t have cost you a dime to tell that man that you backed me up. Not a goddam dime.”
Bertrand Stowe had his strong stubby fingers splayed out in front of him on the desk.
“What do you want?” he asked me.
“Just don’t count me out unless I’m on the canvas. That’s all I ask you for. That, and I might be out of work a couple’a days. You could tell Newgate that you needed me for somethin’. Give him a call and tell him that I’ll be needed for a few days at the area office. Tell him that I’ll check in at the school but I’ll be out a lot too.”
Stowe gazed at me like some dumb animal mesmerized by a snake. He nodded after a while and took off his glasses — then put them back on again.
He’d do what I asked him to.
I’d do what I had to.
14
Simona Eng lived in the San Fernando Valley with her father, Conrad Eng.
During our lunchtime talks in the maintenance office Simona had told us about her father. Mr. Eng was a tall Chinese gentleman who had come to the United States from Hong Kong when he was only five. His father was already dead from weak lungs and a hard life of labor; his mother was dying. Conrad was raised by Hilda Coke, daughter of a prosperous orange farmer from Pomona. Hilda had met the Engs on board the liner Sea Carnation, a Dutch ship that had a route across the Pacific early in the century. Hilda had found a great deal of pleasure in the playful boy and was heartbroken when, the night before they landed in San Francisco, his mother succumbed to pneumonia in her cramped quarters in the lower decks of the Carnation.
After leaving the home of the Coke family in his late teens Conrad had become a butler. His wife, Irene, was an Italian cook. Conrad only worked until his middle years, when chronic weakness and a mild confusion set in. Early on, Simona’s mother died, leaving her daughter and slightly doddering husband to fend for themselves in the San Fernando Valley.
Their house was small but impeccably well kept. The mums and honeysuckle made me jealous. The oranges were the pride of their race.
“Hello,” Mr. Eng said. He’d come to the door in a full butler’s tux with vest and bow tie. He was two inches taller than I but a full forty pounds lighter. He wavered a little on his feet, reminding me of a reed or a tall stalk of wheat.
“Mr. Eng?”
“Yes,” he said through a bright smile. The question in his eyes found no words.
“Is Simona in, sir? My name is Mr. Rawlins. We work together.”
“She’s very sad today,” he confided in me. “You know children shouldn’t stay in. Old people have to stay out of the sun. But children need it.” His smile was wonderful.