“I’ll wait out in the car,” I said.
“No. No, come on in. If you sit out there, all the neighbors gonna be yackin’ back an’ forth till one of ’em call the police and then Mercury get mad at me for gettin’ you arrested.” Blesta backed away from the door and I entered the small and perfectly ordered home.
The Halls’ front door led right into the living room. Blesta had two yellow chairs with a matching sofa. The plush chairs had turquoise hassocks with walnut legs. The carpet was formed out of concentric ovals of dark blue and light green. A six-foot avocado sapling filled one corner and a big console TV sat in front of the couch.
The picture window beside the door looked out upon my green Pontiac. The room managed to be both peaceful and festive.
“Boo!” little Artemus Hall shouted at me.
The four-year-old jumped out from a doorway, yelled his scary word, and then fell down laughing.
I laughed, too. It was the funniest thing I’d seen in the past few days, days that seemed like months. I caught myself before the laughter turned hysterical.
“Go get your coloring book, Arty,” Blesta said.
“No,” he told her. And then to me, “Will you gimme a piggyback ride?”
“My back is a little sore today, partner,” I said. “But why don’t you come over here and make a picture for me?”
“Okay,” Arty chirped, and then he ran full speed out of the room.
I sat on the couch.
“Can I get you something, Mr. Rawlins?”
“Could you see your way to callin’ me Easy?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You guess what?”
“Easy.” Blesta’s smile was the axe that brought Mercury low. Her whole face seemed to ignite behind that grin.
Artemus came thundering back from his trove of toys with at least six coloring books under his arm. There was one of circus performers and animals and one filled with cowboys and Indians. He even had a coloring book of different kinds of houses throughout history.
I asked for a sad clown and he looked until he found one.
Blesta had to do work elsewhere in the house, so I sat with Arty while he carefully rubbed the Crayolas onto the newsprint outlines.
“Look at this, Mr. Raw-wins,” he’d say, showing me the tangle of yellow lines he’d used to fill in the clown’s upturned hands.
And... “Look at this” for the red eyes or the green mouth.
I sat there as peacefully as I had been at work earlier that morning.
I needed peace. There were two dead men on my mind: Aldridge Brown and Henry Strong.
I tried to think of what the two men might have in common other than Brawly — but nothing came to mind. Then I tried to figure why the boy would want to kill either man. Again I came up blank.
“Mr. Raw-wins, you like blue?”
“Yes, sirree,” I said. “Blue is the color of music.”
“Music don’t hab no color,” Arty said.
“Not when you’re a boy,” I replied. “But when you grow up it will be blue that you see when the music makes you cry.”
Artemus gazed up at me with wondering, amazed eyes. Somehow my words made him think something that stopped everything else.
A car door slammed outside and Arty screamed, “Daddy!”
He jumped up and ran for the door. Blesta came in from the kitchen. I stood up. A few moments later the front door opened.
“Blesta, baby, somebody’s car parked out f—” he said before catching sight of me.
Artemus grabbed onto his leg chanting, “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy...”
Blesta turned on that smile.
“Hey, Merc,” I hailed, stretching out my hand.
He shook with me but there was suspicion in his eye.
Mercury was a shade darker and six inches shorter than I. He was truly big-boned, not fat or even chubby. He had the kind of build that professional boxers are trained to stay away from — powerful and low to the ground.
“Mr. Rawlins,” he said.
“I just finished gettin’ your wife to call me Easy, Merc. Don’t mess it up now.”
“He said he had to talk with you, honey,” Blesta said, kissing him on the cheek. “I told him to wait in here ’cause old Mrs. Horner would sure call the cops if he stayed out in his car.”
“Sit in the car?” Mercury said. “Easy Rawlins don’t have to sit in no car in front’a my house. You want somethin’ to drink?”
“No thanks, Merc.”
“What you come by for?” he asked, all smiles and openness.
“I need to ask you a few questions,” I said.
“Come on, Arty,” Blesta said. “Come help Mama make dinner.”
“I wanna stay wit’ Daddy.”
“I’m makin’ frostin’.”
Without another word Arty picked up his coloring book and ran from the room, his mother right behind him.
I returned to the yellow sofa while Mercury perched on a turquoise hassock.
“What you need, Easy?” he asked. “More about Brawly?”
“In a roundabout way,” I said. “What you know about the houses they buildin’ down a couple of blocks from where John’s lots are?”
“Down where they got the pink flags hangin’ from the eaves?”
“Yeah,” I said. “How’d you know?”
“A man got shot down there last night.”
“Who?” I asked.
Mercury shook his head. “All I know is that the cops come down and closed up any construction on that block. They didn’t say who it was.”
“Who’s buildin’ those houses?”
“I don’t know exactly. It’s another black investment group, though. I’m pretty sure it’s one’a Jewelle’s.”
“She got them, too, huh?”
“Yes, sir. But I don’t know their names. We all keep pretty separate out around there.”
“So you never been over to that site?” I asked.
“No.”
“How about Brawly?”
“Maybe, yeah. If John wasn’t around, Brawly’d take him some long walks, if you know what I mean. He’d ramble around lookin’ for someone to talk to. You know I don’t have much patience for talkin’ on the job. Brawly got along better with Chapman than he did with me.”
“Chapman ever tell you what Brawly was talkin’ ’bout?”
“Just shit, man. Brawly got an opinion on everything under the sun. Boy’d talk a blue streak and not say one goddamned thing.”
“So you didn’t like workin’ with ’im too much then?”
“Man, I don’t like workin’ construction — period,” Mercury said. “Matter of fact, I’m thinkin’ that I’m gonna leave this whole thing.”
“You quittin’?”
“Quittin’, pullin’ up stakes, an’ headin’ back down to where people talk like I talk.”
“Back to Arkansas?”
“Maybe Texas,” Mercury said. “There’s gettin’ to be some jobs down there. They havin’ what you call a oil boom.”
“Chapman leavin’, too?”
“What am I?” he asked. “Chapman’s keeper? Niggah can take care of his own business.”
“You ever hear about a man named Henry Strong?” I asked in ambush.
“Yeah,” he admitted, unperturbed.
“Where from?”
“A couple’a months ago. Brawly came by with him. They took me an’ Chapman to Blackbird’s for a shot or two.”
“What he have to say?”
“Just all that black shit. You know, how we all should have what the white man have. He wanted us to come down to his meetin’-house. I told him no.”
“What did Chapman say?”
“Why don’t you ask Chapman?”
“I’m askin’ you, Mercury. I figure you owe me one thing, at least.”
“You have my gratitude, Mr. Rawlins. But I ain’t tellin’ you nuthin’ ’bout my friends. No, sir.”
Of course he’d told me volumes by refusing to talk.