"Yes sir."

"That all?"

"I don't understand you, Officer Morrain."

He walked back into the room and looked down into my eyes.

"Lots of times we find that people down around here set up places that are supposed to sell one thing but really they have some other business."

"Like what?" I asked, simple as a stone.

Morrain smiled and sucked in air through his nostrils.

"Where is this watermelon farm?" Sergeant Rawlway asked.

"Up near Oxnard," I said. "Fearless harvests them for these street salesmen that work all over Watts. Is Fearless in trouble?"

"Why don't you worry about yourself?" Morrain suggested.

"Well, yeah," I said. "Sure."

"When did you say you saw Fearless last?" Rawlway asked.

"About a month . . . almost that."

"Are you good friends?"

"Yeah. Uh-huh. I met Fearless when he was discharged from the service, after the war."

"Has he always been a farmer?"

"No sir. Fearless works at whatever. Day labor, farming, you name it."

"If you're such good friends," Morrain asked, "then why haven't you seen him in so long?"

At that moment I thought about the five-dollar bills on the counter in my kitchen. If the police came across that cache they'd arrest me on suspicion. I could feel the moisture breaking through my pores.

"He, he's been on that watermelon farm, like I told you. I run this store and don't have time to drive up there. And even if I did, Fearless is workin'."

"Where is Fearless?" Rawlway asked again.

"I told you," I said. "I don't know. He was up on that farm. He haven't called me. I guess he's still there."

I was wily but numb. That was my defense against the law. I didn't have the slightest antagonism toward those peace officers. That might come as a surprise to anyone who hasn't had the experience of being a black man in America. I wasn't angry, because we were just actors playing parts written down before any one of us was born. Later on, at the barbershop, I'd laugh about my answers with other black men who had grown up playing dumb under the scrutiny of some other man's law.

"He was seen in the past few days by various witnesses not a mile from your door," hairy Rawlway reported.

"Witnesses?"

"Where is he, Mr. Minton?"

"I'm tellin' you the truth, man. I ain't seen Fearless. I don't know anything about what he's been doin' or about any witnesses either."

"What about Bartholomew Perry?" Rawlway asked.

"I know him to say hi to," I said. "I mean, we ain't friends or nuthin' and I don't even remember the last time I saw him."

"Are he and Fearless friends?"

"Not that I know of."

"I could take you down to the station, Paris," Rawlway said.

"You could, sergeant, but that wouldn't change what I said. I don't know where Fearless is. I don't know Bartholomew Perry more than to tell you his name. I'm in this buildin' here all day sellin' books. That's all."

"And you expect us to believe that you sell books for a living?"

"Why not?"

Morrain stepped back into one of the aisles.

"Who wrote . . . um . . . ," he said, holding a book at arm's length so that he could make out the spine. "Let's see here, oh yeah. Who wrote Madame Bovary Madame Bovary?"

"Gustave Flaubert."

He picked out another book.

"How about the, The Mysterious Stranger The Mysterious Stranger?"

"Mark Twain."

"You think you're smart, n.i.g.g.e.r?"

"I'm just trying to make a living, officer. Fearless is my friend but I haven't seen him. That's all I know."

It was always a tough part to play. They saw themselves as the foremen of the neighborhood. I was a lazy worker, a liar looking to cheat them out of what was their superior's proper due. My job was to make them believe in their picture of me while at the same time showing that today I wasn't shirking or lying or lining my pockets with their boss man's money.

"You remember our names?" Rawlway asked.

"Sergeant Rawlway and Officer Morrain," I said.

"If you hear from this Fearless, call us. Because if we find out you didn't, there's nothing in any of these books that will save your a.s.s from me. You understand?"

"Yes sir."

12.

THE EMERALD LOUNGE WAS AN OASIS of sorts in the Negro community. It was run by a Jamaican named Orrin Nye. He had an American wife and three little kids. Orrin only allowed cla.s.sical music on the record player. Because of this aesthetic only a certain kind of customer frequented the place. Members of the church, especially the choir, older ladies who were scandalized by boogie-woogie and rhythm and blues, pretentious white-collar professionals, and world-weary lovers, muggers, and thieves were the regulars-them and Fearless Jones when he was in love. of sorts in the Negro community. It was run by a Jamaican named Orrin Nye. He had an American wife and three little kids. Orrin only allowed cla.s.sical music on the record player. Because of this aesthetic only a certain kind of customer frequented the place. Members of the church, especially the choir, older ladies who were scandalized by boogie-woogie and rhythm and blues, pretentious white-collar professionals, and world-weary lovers, muggers, and thieves were the regulars-them and Fearless Jones when he was in love.

Fearless was a killer of men but that didn't keep him from being sappy sometimes. Love made him think about church and church for him was somehow represented by the German masters, especially their arias. And so in those rare moments that he fell for some girl, he would bring her to the lounge. I think it was because he wanted the woman he was with to see, or maybe hear, the contents of his heart.

The last woman he fell for was Brenda Hollings. She was an overweight, nearsighted girl who had come from Tennessee with her parents at the tender age of seventeen. Her parents came out to live with an uncle who owned a Laundromat and needed workers he could trust.

Fearless met Brenda when she was nineteen.

"Paris," he told me, "that there's the woman I want to bear my sons and daughters."

I didn't say anything. She was awkward and not friendly, plain-looking by the best light and sharp-tongued to boot. Add those drawbacks to the fact that Fearless had never lived in the same place for more than three months during his entire adult life and one could see why I didn't hold out much hope for his dreams of domestic tranquillity.

But he got a steady job at Douglas Aircraft and rented a nice little cottage on Ninety-second Street. Whenever Brenda would snap at him, he'd hop to and do whatever it was she wanted.

Beautiful women were always throwing themselves at him, but he never gave in to temptation for the six months he and Brenda were engaged. Then one night I got a phone call. I was staying in a rooming house then, on Vernon. That was about a year before I opened my first bookstore.

"Hi, Paris."

"Brenda."

"Is Fearless with you?"

"No. He's probably at his place. Is something wrong?"

"I need to talk to you. Can you come over here?"

"Sure. I guess so. You at your mother's place?"

"No. I got my own apartment now."

I was wary, but I agreed because I thought that Fearless would want me to help his fiancee if she needed it. Brenda gave me an address on McKinley and I was there in less than fifteen minutes.

It was the bottom floor of a three-story apartment building that looked something like an incinerator, with its gaping front doorway and shadows like soot up the walls.

Brenda answered the door and invited me in. It was a neat little place with thick maroon carpeting and powder blue walls. The furniture was simple but it was homey.

"When did you move out from your parents?" I asked after being seated and served a beer.

"I don't know," she said. "Sometime last month, I guess."

"But I thought that you and Fearless . . ." My words trailed off then. The walls began to feel like they were leaning in.

"My old boyfriend from Tennessee, his name is Miller, well . . . he came out to see me," Brenda said.

She was ungainly and lumpy, wore gla.s.ses with lenses thicker than c.o.ke-bottle bottoms, but still men swarmed around her like gnats. There are some things about the human animal that I will never understand.

"He wanted me back and I decided to go with him," Brenda was saying.

"Does Fearless know?" I asked.

She shook her head and looked down at the blood-colored floor. "I'm afraid to tell him."

"He's gonna find out sooner or later," I said.

"I was wondering if you could help."

"Me?"

"You're his best friend. He'll need you to be there for him. You know I'm worried that it will break his heart."

Or Miller's spine, I thought. I thought.

"I'm sorry, Brenda, but you know how it is. I mean, I don't think Fearless would want me tellin' him that it's over between you two. No ma'am. He wouldn't like that at all."

She tried to convince me, but when she saw that I wasn't going to budge her face hardened and her tone turned surly.

"Well," she said. "If you don't wanna help me, at least you can give me a ride over to the Emerald Lounge. I'll call Fearless and talk to him there."

She made the call. I overheard her saying baby baby this and this and honey honey that. We drove over to the lounge at about nine-fifteen. that. We drove over to the lounge at about nine-fifteen.

"Paris," Orrin said. "Brenda. Where's Fearless?"

"He's on his way," I said.

We sat down at a small table near the speakers. Beethoven's Seventh Symphony was just beginning and Brenda ordered a grenadine and vodka, the fanciest drink Orrin served. I made do with beer. When the symphony was almost over, and Brenda was on her fifth drink, I started to get worried-I was sh.e.l.ling out the money for her drinks and Fearless had yet to make his appearance.

"I don't want to hurt him," Brenda said sadly.

Tears came to her eyes and she took my hand.

"It's just that my parents made me leave Tennessee because my father hated Miller's father. But I always loved Miller. And now that he's here . . ."

She cried on my shoulder and maintained her grip on my hand.

Fearless never showed up. But that wasn't unusual. Time often got away from him. He might have come across a stranded motorist. He might have gotten himself arrested.

I took Brenda back to her apartment and went home myself, wondering where I was going to come up with the money for food that month now that Fearless's ex-fiancee had swallowed down my last twelve dollars.

A week later I was in Marie's Diner because that was the only restaurant in town that let me run up a tab. Fearless came in and sat down across from me. I had decided to stay away from him while he and Brenda worked out their problems. Fearless was as even-tempered as they come, but a broken heart might let his darker side gain control. And Fearless Jones's dark side was a terrible thing.

"Hey, Fearless," I said. "How's it goin'?"

He was wearing a black T-shirt, black trousers, and black cloth shoes. Looking at him, you might have thought he was a weak sister being so thin. But, as I've already said, I had never met a stronger man in my life.

He took out a pink envelope and handed it to me.