He pulled out his wallet and flipped through the bills. "I have a hundred and seventy-some-odd in here. They could write you a check for the rest."
"I'll take one-fifty," I said.
He just took all the money from his wallet and handed it over, mumbling, "Take it all, take it all."
And I took it too.
Somewhere along the way I had developed the feeling that I wasn't going to outlive the adventure I was having. There was no way out but to run, and I couldn't run, so I decided to milk all those white people for all the money they'd let go of.
Money bought everything. Money paid the rent and fed the kitty. Money was why Coretta was dead and why DeWitt Albright was going to kill me. I got the idea, somehow, that if I got enough money then maybe I could buy my own life back.
18
I had to find Frank Green.
Knifehand held the answer to my problems. He knew where the girl was, if anybody did, and he knew who killed Coretta; I was sure of that. Richard McGee was dead too, but I didn't care about that death because the police couldn't connect me to it.
It's not that I had no feelings for the murdered man; I thought it was wrong for a man to be murdered and, in a more perfect world, I felt that the killer should be brought to justice.
But I didn't believe that there was justice for Negroes. I thought that there might be some justice for a black man if he had the money to grease it. Money isn't a sure bet but it's the closest to God that I've ever seen in this world.
But I didn't have any money. I was poor and black and a likely candidate for the penitentiary unless I could get Frank to stand between me and the forces of DeWitt Albright and the law.
So I went out looking.
The first place I went was Ricardo's Pool Room on Slauson. Ricardo's was just a hole-in-the-wall with no windows and only one door. There was no name out front because either you knew where Ricardo's was or you didn't belong there at all.
Joppy had taken me to Ricardo's a few times after we locked up his bar. It was a serious kind of place peopled with jaundice-eyed bad men who smoked and drank heavily while they waited for a crime they could commit.
It was the kind of place you could get killed in but I was safe as long as I was with a tough man like Joppy Shag. Still, when Joppy would leave the pool table to go to the toilet I could almost feel the violence pulsing in the dark.
But I had to go to places like Ricardo's to look for Frank Green. Because Frank was in the hurting trade. Maybe there was somebody who had taken his money, or messed with his girl, and Frank needed a gunman to back him up in the kill—Ricardo's was where he'd go. Maybe he just needed an extra hand in taking down a cigarette shipment. The men in Ricardo's were desperate; they lived for hurting.
It was a large room with four pool tables, a green lamp shade hanging above each one. The walls were lined with straight-back chairs where most of the customers sat, drinking from brown paper bags and smoking in the dim light. Only one skinny youth was shooting pool. That was Mickey, Rosetta's son.
Rosetta had run the place ever since Ricardo got diabetes and lost both his legs. He was upstairs someplace, in a single bed, drinking whiskey and staring at the walls.
When I'd heard about Ricardo's illness I said to her, "I'm sorry t'hear it, Rose."
Rosetta's face was squat and wide. Her beady eyes pressed down into her chubby brown cheeks. She squinted at me and said, "He done enough ho'in 'round fo' two men and then some. I guess he could rest now." And that's all she said.
She was sitting at the only card table at the far side of the room. I walked over to her and said, "Evenin', Rosetta, how you doin' t'nite."
"Joppy here?" she asked, looking around me.
"Naw. He still workin' at the bar."
Rosetta looked at me as if I were a stray cat come in after her cheese.
The room was so dark and smoky that I couldn't make out what anyone was doing, except for Mickey, but I felt eyes on me from the haze. When I turned back to Rosetta I saw that she was staring too.
"Anybody been sellin' some good whiskey lately, Rose?" I asked. I had hoped to have some light talk with her before asking my question but her stare unsettled me and the room was too quiet for just talk.
"This ain't no bar, honey. You want whiskey you better go see yo' friend Joppy." She glanced at the door, telling me to leave, I suppose.
"I don't want a drink, Rose. I'm lookin' t'buy a case or two. Thought maybe you might know how I could get some."
"Why'ont you ast yo' friend anyway? He know where the whiskey grow."
"Joppy send me here, Rose. He say you the one t'know."
She was still suspicious but I could see that she wasn't afraid. "You could try Frank Green if you want t'buy by the box."
"Yeah? Where can I get a'hold of im?"
"I ain't seen'im in a few days now. Either he shacked up or he out earnin' his trade."
That was all Rosetta had to say on the subject. She lit up a cigarette and turned away. I thanked her back and wandered over to Mickey.
"Eight ball?" asked Mickey.
It really didn't matter what we played. I put a five down and lost it, then I lost five more. That took me about a half an hour. When I figured I'd paid enough for my information I saluted the hustler and walked out into the sun.
I had a feeling of great joy as I walked away from Ricardo's. I don't know how to say it, exactly. It was as if for the first time in my life I was doing something on my own terms. Nobody was telling me what to do. I was acting on my own. Maybe I hadn't found Frank but I had gotten Rosetta to bring up his name. If she had known where he was I would have gotten to him that day.
There was a big house on Isabella Street, at the end of a cul-de-sac. That was Vernie's place. Lots of working men would drop by there now and then, to visit one of Vernie's girls. It was a friendly place. The second and third floors had three bedrooms each and the first floor was a kitchen and living room where the guests could be entertained.
Vernie was a light-skinned woman whose hair was frosted gold. She weighed about three hundred pounds. Vernie would stay in the kitchen cooking all day and all night. Her daughter, Darcel, who was the same size as her mother, would welcome the men into the parlor and collect a few dollars for their food and drinks.
Some men, like Odell, would be happy to sit around and drink and listen to music on the phonograph. Vernie would come out now and then to shout hello at old friends and introduce herself to newcomers.
But if you were there for companionship there were girls upstairs who sat out in front of their doors if they weren't occupied with a customer. Huey Barnes sat in the hall on the second floor. He was a wide-hipped, heavy-boned man who had the face of an innocent child. But Huey was fast and vicious despite his looks, and his presence caused all business at Vernie's to run smoothly.
I went there in the early afternoon.
"Easy Rawlins." Darcel reached her fat hands out to me. "I did believe that you had died and left us for heaven."
"Uh-uh, Darcie. You know I just been savin' it up for ya."
"Well bring it on in here, baby. Bring it on in."
She led me by the hand to the living room. A few men were sitting around drinking and listening to jazz records. There was a big bowl of dirty rice on the coffee table and white porcelain plates too.
"Easy Rawlins!" The voice came from the door to the kitchen.
"How you, baby?" Vernie asked as she ran up to me.
"Just fine, Vernie, just fine."
The big woman hugged me so that I felt I was being rolled up in a feather mattress.
"Uh," she groaned, almost lifting me from the floor. "It's been too long, honey. Too long!"
"Yeah, yeah," I said. I hugged her back and then lowered onto the couch.
Vernie smiled on me. "You stay put now, Easy. I want you to tell me how things is goin' before you go wandr'in' upstairs." And with that she went back to the kitchen.
"Hey, Ronald, what's goin' on?" I said to the man next to me.