“Come to bed,” she said.
“Come again?”
Her smile was a long-ago memory of good things.
“Not that,” she said. “But you need some sleep. Come lie down with me. Let me hold you.”
“Bonnie,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Do you know a man called Bill Bartlett?”
“William. Yes. He used to work at Sojourner Truth. I met him after that, though, at a party that Idabell gave. By that time he was working on the supply truck that brought Holland his daily papers.”
“He still work a paper route?”
“No, I don’t think so. He quit about the same time that Holland did. Ida told me that he became a cook.”
She helped me off with my clothes and almost guided me into the bed. She pressed her warm body against me from behind and placed her hand on my bare chest — over my heart.
“Your heart’s beating,” she whispered.
“An’ yours isn’t?”
“Shh.”
The warmth of her body through that thin slip was what was missing in my life. A woman who took charge of herself and her needs. A woman who could hold my desire without fear or anger.
“You know,” I said.
“Hm?”
“I’d like to turn around here.”
“We’ve got time, Easy. Let’s just get some sleep tonight.”
I was running hard with wild dogs on my trail. I hit the forest under a moonlit, cloudless sky and ran deeper and deeper into the thickening gloom of branches. My progress was slowed by the trees but the hacking breath of dogs seemed to be further behind. Soon I was crawling through pitch black, pushing hard against the wall of snapping sticks. Finally I was flat on my stomach.
I heard a whisper, “Shh,” and then I was asleep.
I woke up alone in the bed, fully rested. It was early but Bonnie and the kids were already gone. I remembered Feather’s laugh, a growl too near my ear, and a “shush,” and then a kiss on my cheek.
The note, resting in hard sun on the kitchen table, said:
Easy,
Feather and Jesus are off to school. I’m going down to the airline to pick up my check and cash it. I’m really looking forward to getting to know you.
Yours,
There was a big kiss at the bottom of the page. I looked at the note wondering at how wrong I could be and still survive.
Jewelle was happy with Jackson Blue.
“He knows so much,” she said to me over the phone.
“I don’t know about that, JJ,” I said.
“What you mean?” she asked. “He knows math and electronics and all about the history of the world.”
“But he don’t know how to survive, honey,” I said. “If you put him outta that house he’d be dead ’fore the sun went down.”
Jewelle didn’t have anything to say to that. She was a smart girl. Smart in every subject but men.
“What time is it?” Jackson asked me when he got on the line.
“’Bout eight-thirty.”
“Shit.”
“Jackson,” I said, “you remember what we talked about?”
“Bout Stetz?”
“Yeah.”
“Go on.”
“I want you to find out where he is and how I can get in touch with him.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to tell him that I know how to get my hands on the final shipment of aitch that Roman Gasteau was supposed to have for Joey Beam.”
“How much?”
“I already told you, three pounds,” I said.
“Naw, man,” Jackson complained. “How much we gonna charge?”
“Ain’t no how, Jackson. I’ma tell’im that you gonna quit bein’ his competition and that I’ll give him the drugs back for his friend.”
“But don’t you think we better ask for some money, man? I mean he ain’t gonna believe that you in it for your health.”
“You want money, Jackson?” I asked.
“I need it, man.”
“Well then,” I said. “Think about your life like it was a wad’a cash. An’ try not and spend it all in one place next time.”
“You passin’ up a golden opportunity right here, Easy.”
“All I want from you is to find out how I can get in touch with Philly Stetz.”
“Shit, man, I already know where that motherfucker is hid.” Jackson was beginning to sound like his old self. The presence of a woman will do that to a man — for better or worse.
“How you know that?”
“Well, you know.”
“No. I don’t know at all, Jackson.”
“Ortiz. Ortiz found out but… but well, you know.”
“Ortiz was going to shoot Stetz,” I declared.
“It was just insurance, Easy. Best to be prepared.”
“Prepared,” I repeated. “Jackson, you ain’t prepared for shit.”
When he didn’t say anything I added, “One mo’ thing, Jackson.”
“Yeah?”
“JJ got enough trouble wit’ her fam’ly an’ Mofass. Keep yo’ fingers outta the pie. You hear me?”
“I hear ya, man.”
He gave me the address of the gangster and I wrote it down. I felt good taking steps that would lead me somewhere. I wasn’t thinking of what might happen when I arrived.
The information i needed wasn’t in the phone book this time.
“Bertrand Stowe’s office,” Stephanie Cordero said in my ear.
“May I speak to him, please? This is Mr. Rawlins.”
I was put on hold for about ten seconds and then the phone rang again.
Stowe answered on the half ring. “Easy?”
“Yeah.” I was about to say more when he cut in.
“Where is she? Have you talked to her? I called but nobody answered. I went by there this morning but there was nobody there. Mrs. Grant said that she’d left but she didn’t even ask them where they were going.” It all came out at once.
“What you talkin’ ’bout, Bert?”
“Gracie, man. Gracie. She’s gone.”
“John an’ Alva prob’ly took her over to their place. You know they got lives and there’s no space for three full-grown adults and a baby at Gracie’s.”
“Give me his number.” I heard sounds over the phone of him searching for something to write on or with.
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“John don’t want no junkie’s boyfriend callin’ at all hours. I’ll call him and find out what’s happenin’ with Grace.”
“What’s John’s last name?” Stowe asked with every ounce of authority he could muster.
“Naw, Bert. You gotta trust me on this one.”
“I need that number, Easy.”
“No.” I let that hang in the air and then said, “But you got to do somethin’ for me. I want William Bartlett’s address. Gimme that and I’ll call you about Grace tonight.”
The Little Butcher had been living on Rondolet Street while he worked for the Board of Education. He’d moved but the landlord, who also lived in that building, knew his forwarding address. That was on Courlene, a residential street not far from downtown. It was a small house with peeling white paint and bare brown dirt for a lawn. There was an overflowing trash can right there on the porch. The front door didn’t belong to that house. It was an unfinished plyboard door meant for a temporary bungalow out on some construction site.
I hated that house.
I hated the disrespect it showed for the neighborhood and for itself.
I played the front door like a kettledrum.
“Bartlett!”
When I’d pounded a dent in the cheap wood I remembered Rupert. The next thing I knew my shoulder was making kindling from the door. I stumbled into the house stunned by my own violence.