“Why not you?”
“I didn’t want to live at home, and Aunt Winnie wouldn’t let the books out of the house. Anyway, she detested Brown because he always stood up to her.”
“And that’s what Kit stoled?” Fearless asked.
“Yes. BB told him about it. When we were kids Aunt Winnie would take us to her secret library and tell us about our family history. BB was never very interested but he knew where it was.”
“Did the Wexlers know?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What about Oscar?”
“What about him?”
“Where does he come into the story?”
“He’s the one who told me about the book being missing.”
“Does Winnie know about it?”
“Not yet. The only reason Oscar knows is that it just happened to be time for him to clean out that little room. Aunt Winnie calls it a shrine.”
My respect for Bartholomew Perry’s intelligence rose then. He sent in a thief to grab his family’s most precious treasure, and if the thief got caught he could say that he was there trying to get a mother back together with her son. If he was lucky Winifred would be so distracted by the loss of Son that she wouldn’t know about the real theft until Maestro Wexler called.
Just about smart enough to get himself hung, my mother always says.
35
FEARLESS ELECTED TO TAKE LEORA to Esau’s. I stayed behind in Milo’s office. It was my time to shine. I knew almost everything, even what people didn’t know. The one piece that was missing was the identity of the man who had killed the Wexlers and Kit. I would have liked to know that man’s face and name for my own security and peace of mind.
But the biggest problem was Winifred Fine’s family journal. That was what everyone was after. That’s why people were getting killed. And I wanted that book for myself. The only thing I had ever wanted more was the ability to read. When I was a child I fantasized about a book like that, a book written by intelligent Negro minds that told the truth about some shred of our history. I didn’t care so much about slavery or racism. I didn’t want to know about abuses as much as I wanted to know what people were thinking, my people. Everybody else had it: the English, Irish, French, and Russians; the Chinese, Indians, Tibetans, and Jews; even the Mayans and Egyptians had hieroglyphics, and the Australian Aborigines had paintings that went back before all of them. The stolen book was all of that and more for me.
Was it worth my life? No, but maybe I wouldn’t die. There was no one except possibly Fearless who knew I had the book. He wouldn’t turn me over. All I had to do was make sure I knew who the threat was. If I knew the threat I could avoid the problem. That’s what I told myself.
Greed will make even a meek man into a fool.
I CALLED A NUMBER and a man I knew answered, “Fine residence.”
“Tell me about Brown.”
“Excuse me? Who is this speaking?”
“You know who I am, Oscar, and you know what I’m talkin’ about too. So let’s not be stupid this late in the game.”
“Are you crazy, man?” the once-rich butler asked.
“I got this number from a man that got it from Brown. You’re the only one in the house he’d be callin’, and that’s because you brought him out here to find that book before Winifred found out it was gone.”
Silence is almost always an admission, usually of guilt. When you run out of retorts, replies, rejoinders, and responses there must be truth on the table with you out of money and cards.
“What do you want?” Oscar asked.
“Why did you send Brown after those white people?”
“I did no such thing. If he went after them that was his decision. I only told him about that Kit Mitchell. I told him that Kit stole the book, that if he found it he could keep Winifred from ever threatening to take his son again.”
“And what you supposed to get out of all that?”
“That book means more than the life of any member of this family. We must have it.”
“You could give Maestro what he wants,” I suggested.
“He doesn’t have the book. I’ve already spoken to his agent. What is it that you want, Mr. Minton?”
It was a good question, a very good question.
“I don’t know, Oscar. I really don’t. Did Leora know that you had gotten in touch with Brown?”
“No. I called him because I knew that he would do anything to protect his family. She wanted him to stay away for the same reason.”
“Why did you give Leora Kit Mitchell’s address instead of Brown?” I asked. And then, “Or did you tell him too?”
“I did not,” Oscar said. “I told Leora because she’s reasonable. If Kit had the book she could at least start to discuss terms with him. Who can tell what a man like Brown might have done?”
“You think he killed the Wexlers?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“What do you know?” I asked.
“That Kit Mitchell came in here and stole our family history. He acted as if it was Son he was after but the book was his real intent. I didn’t mind about the child. A boy should be with his parents.”
“And what about the book?”
“Do you know what it contains?” Oscar asked.
“Yeah. It’s a diary. A family history.”
Oscar grunted at my quaint understatement. “We are the only Negroes in all the New World who can follow our heritage back to the beginning, back to Africa. I know of six generations of my African heritage across a dozen different nations.”
“Shouldn’t something like that be in a museum?” I asked. “Or maybe the Library of Congress?”
“It’s ours. Our history, not theirs. The Negro population isn’t ready yet to receive it. They wouldn’t know the value of such a treasure—not yet.”
“I see. And you think it’s worth the multimillion-dollar deal Maestro Wexler wants to make.”
“It’s worth everything.”
From what Rose had said, Oscar was a man who had thrown away everything once already. I wondered if Winifred was of the same opinion.
“What will you give me if I can get the book?” I asked. “I mean, I hear that Maestro Wexler is willing to pay fifty grand.”
“We will double the offer.”
“You talkin’ for Winifred?”
“She will do what is necessary.”
“Well, I ain’t seen a book like that. But I’ll put it up on the top of my list. I sure will.”
I put the receiver in the cradle and sat back in Loretta’s swivel chair. Milo’s hunger for money was worming in my gut. At the same time I wanted to steal the Fine family chronicle for myself.
I had about twenty-five hundred dollars left from the money I’d been given. Twenty-five hundred was good money in 1955. Even if I had to share it with Fearless it meant a year of easy living and no worries.
But a hundred thousand dollars was a whole lifetime. I could buy a house, build my business, and be set for life. And I had the book right in the trunk of Ambrosia’s car, with Fearless Jones as my Cerberus standing guard.
Those were the most sublime moments of my life. Sitting there in the lap of possible riches and treasure, plotting out a future that no poor man I ever knew had attained, and with none of the responsibilities that come with such gifts.
It was like that span of time when you’ve just met a woman that you want more than anything. She wants you too but you have to wait a day or two so as not to seem improper and tactless. You sleep alone but she’s there with you. You never speak but you know every word that would come out of her mouth. And when she finally does say, I’ll be seeing you, you know the deeper implications, the heat of her desire to give and take everything you both have.