A Red Death (2 page)

— 2

Y
OU GOT YOUR CAR HERE?” Mofass asked when I climbed into the passenger’s side of his car.

“Naw, I took the bus.” I always took the bus when I went out to clean, because my Ford was a little too flashy for a janitor. “Where you wanna go?”

“You the one wanna talk to me, Mr. Rawlins.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go to that Mexican place then.”

He made a wide U-turn in the middle of the street and drove off in the direction of Rebozo’s.

While Mofass frowned and bit down on his long black cigar I stared out the window at the goings-on on Central Avenue. There were liquor stores and small clothes shops and even a television repair shop here and there. At Central and Ninety-ninth Street a group of men sat around talking—they were halfheartedly waiting for work. It was a habit that some Southerners brought with them; they’d just sit outside on a crate somewhere and wait for someone who needed manual labor to come by and shout their name. That way they could spend the afternoon with their friends, drinking from brown paper bags and shooting dice. They might even get lucky and pick up a job worth a couple of bucksand maybe their kids would have meat that night.

Mofass was driving me to his favorite Mexican restaurant. At Rebozo’s they put sliced avocado in the chili and peppered potato chunks in the burritos.

We got there without saying any more. Mofass got out of the car and locked his door with the key, then he went around to my side and locked that door too. He always locked both doors himself. He never trusted that someone else could do it by holding the door handle so that the lock held. Mofass didn’t trust his own mother; that’s what made him such a good real estate agent.

Another thing I liked about Mofass was that he was from New Orleans and, though he talked like me, he wasn’t intimate with my friends from around Houston, Galveston, and Lake Charles, Louisiana. I was safe from idle gossip about my secret financial life.

Rebozo’s was a dark room with a small bar at the back and three booths on either side. There was a neon-red jukebox next to the bar that was almost always playing music full of brassy horns, accordions, and strumming guitars. But even if the box was silent when we walked in, Mofass would always drop a few nickels and push some buttons.

The first time he did that I asked him, “You like that kinda music?”

“I don’t care,” he answered me. “I just like to have a little noise. Make our talk just ours.” Then he winked, like a drowsy Gila monster.

Mofass and I stared at each other across the table. He had both hands out in front of him. Between the fingers of his left hand that cigar stood up like a black Tower of Pisa. On the pinky of his right hand he wore a gold ring that had a square onyx emblem with a tiny diamond embedded in its center.

I was nervous about discussing my private affairs with Mofass. He collected the rent for me. I gave him nine percent and fifteen dollars for each eviction, but we weren’t friends. Still, Mofass was the only man I could discuss my business with.

“I got a letter today,” I said finally.

“Yeah?”

He looked at me, patiently waiting for what I had to say, but I couldn’t go on. I didn’t want to talk about it yet. I was afraid that saying the bad news out loud would somehow make it real. So instead I asked, “What you wanna do ’bout Poinsettia?”

“What?”

“Poinsettia. You know, the rent?”

“Kick her ass out if she don’t pay.”

“You know that gal is really sick up there. Ever since that car crash she done wasted away.”

“That don’t mean I got to pay her rent.”

“It’s me gonna be payin’ it, Mofass.”

“Uh-uh, Mr. Rawlins. I collect it and until I put it in yo’ hands it’s mine. If that gal go down and tell them other folks that I don’t take her money they gonna take advantage.”

“She’s sick.”

“She got a momma, a sister, that boy Willie she always be talkin’ ’bout. She got somebody. Let them pay the rent. We in business, Mr. Rawlins. Business is the hardest thing they make. Harder than diamonds.”

“What if nobody pays for her?” “You will done fo’got her name in six months, Mr. Rawlins. You won’t even know who she is.”

Before I could say anything more a young Mexican girl came up to us. She had thick black hair and dark eyes without very much white around them. She looked at Mofass and I got the feeling that she didn’t speak English.

He held up two fat fingers and said, “Beer, chili, burrito,” pronouncing each syllable slowly so that you could read his lips.

She gave him a quick smile and went away.

I took the letter from my breast pocket and handed it across the table.

“I want your opinion on this,” I said with a confidence I did not feel.

While I watched Mofass’s hard face I remembered the words he was reading.

Reginald Arnold Lawrence
Investigating Agent
Internal Revenue Service
July 14, 1953
Mr. Ezekiel Rawlins:
It has come my attention, sir, that between August 1948 and September of 1952 you came into the possession of at least three real estate properties.
I have reviewed your tax records back to 1945 and you show no large income, in any year. This would suggest that you could not legally afford such expenditures.
I am, therefore, beginning an investigation into your tax history and request your appearance within seven days of the date of this letter. Please bring all tax forms for the time period indicated and an
accurate
record of all income during that time.

As I remembered the letter I could feel ice water leaking in my bowels again. All the warmth I had soaked up in that hallway was gone.

“They got you by the nuts, Mr. Rawlins,” Mofass said, putting the letter back down between us.

I looked down and saw that a beer was there in front of me. The girl must’ve brought it while I was concentrating on Mofass.

“If they could prove you made some money and didn’t tell them about it, yo’ ass be in a cast-iron sling,” Mofass said.

“Shit! I just pay ’em, that’s all.”

He shook his head, and I felt my heart wrench.

“Naw, Mr. Rawlins. Government wants you t’tell ’em what you make. You don’t do that and they put you in the fed’ral penitentiary. And you know the judge don’t even start thinkin’ ’bout no sentence till he come up with a nice round number—like five or ten.”

“But you know, man, my name ain’t even on them deeds. I set up what they call a dummy corporation, John McKenzie helped me to do it. Them papers say that them buildin’s ’long to a Jason Weil.”

Mofass curled his lip and said, “IRS smell a dummy corporation in a minute.”

“Well then I just tell ’em I didn’t know. I didn’t.”

“Com’on, man.” Mofass leaned back and waved his cigar at me. “They just tell ya that ignorance of the law ain’t no excuse, thas all. They don’t care. Say you go shoot some dude been with your girl, kill ’im. You gonna tell ’em you didn’t know ’bout that killin’ was wrong? Anyway, if you went to all that trouble t’hide yo’ money they could tell that you was tryin’ t’cheat ’em.”

“It ain’t like I killed somebody. It ain’t right if they don’t even give me a chance t’pay.”

“On’y right is what you get away wit’, Mr. Rawlins. And if they find out about some money, and they think you didn’t declare it …” Mofass shook his head slowly.

The girl returned with two giant white plates. Each one had a fat, open-ended burrito and a pile of chili and yellow rice on it. The puffy burritos had stringy dark red meat coming out of the ends so that they looked like oozing dead grubs. The chili had yellowish-green avocado pieces floating in the grease, along with chunks of pork flesh.

One hundred guitars played from the jukebox. I put my hand over my mouth to keep from gagging.

“What can I do?” I asked. “You think I need a lawyer?”

“Less people know ’bout it the better.” Mofass leaned forward, then whispered, “I don’t know how you got the money to pay for those buildin’s, Mr. Rawlins, and I don’t think nobody should know. What you gotta do is find some family, somebody close.”

“What for?” I was also leaning across the table. The smell of the food made me sick.

“This here letter,” Mofass said, tapping the envelope.

“Don’t say, fo’a fact, that he got no proof. He just investigatin’, lookin’. You sign it over t’ some family, and backdate the papers, and then go to him, prove that it ain’t yours. Say that they was tryin’ t’hide what they had from the rest of the family.”

“How I back—whatever?”

“I know a notary public do it—for some bills.”

“So what if I had a sister or somethin’? Ain’t the government gonna check her out? ’Cause you know ev’rybody I know is poor.”

Mofass took a suck off his cigar with one hand and then shoveled in a mouthful of chili with the other.

“Yeah,” he warbled. “You need somebody got sumpin’ already. Somebody the tax man gonna believe could buy it.”

I was quiet for a while then. Every good thing I’d gotten was gone with just a letter. I had hoped that Mofass would tell me that it was alright, that I’d get a small fine and they’d let me slide. But I knew better.

Five years before, a rich white man had somebody hire me to find a woman he knew. I found her, but she wasn’t exactly what she seemed to be, and a lot of people died. I had a friend, Mouse, help me out though, and we came away from it with ten thousand dollars apiece. The money was stolen, but nobody was looking for it and I had convinced myself that I was safe.

I had forgotten that a poor man is never safe.

When I first got the money I’d watched my friend Mouse murder a man. He shot him twice. It was a poor man who could almost taste that stolen loot. It got him killed and now it was going to put me in jail.

“What you gonna do, Mr. Rawlins?” Mofass asked at last.

“Die.”

“What’s that you say?”

“On’y thing I know, I’ma die.”

“What about this here letter?”

“What you think, Mofass? What should I do?”

He sucked down some more smoke and mopped the rest of his chili with a tortilla.

“I don’t know, Mr. Rawlins. These people here don’t have nothin’, far as I can see. And you got me t’lie for ya. But ya know if they come after my books I gotta give ’em up.”

“So what you sayin’?”

“Go on in there and lie, Mr. Rawlins. Tell ’em you don’t own nuthin’. Tell ’em that you a workin’ man and that somebody must have it out for you to lie and say you got that property. Tell ’em that and then see what they gotta say. They don’t know your bank or your banker.”

“Yeah. I guess I’ma have to feel it out,” I said after a while.

Mofass was thinking something as he looked at me. He was probably wondering if the next landlord would use him.

— 3 —

I
T WASN’T FAR TO MY HOUSE. Mofass offered to drive, but I liked to use my legs, especially when I had thinking to do.

I went down Central. The sidewalks were pretty empty at midday, because most people were hard at work. Of course, the streets of L.A. were usually deserted; Los Angeles has always been a car-driving city, most people won’t even walk to the corner store.

I had solitude but I soon realized that there was nothing for me to consider. When Uncle Sam wanted me to put my life on the line, fighting the Germans, I did it. And I knew that I’d go to prison if he told me to do that. In the forties and fifties we obeyed the law, as far as poor people could, because the law kept us safe from the enemy. Back then we thought we knew who the enemy was. He was a white man with a foreign accent and a hatred for freedom. In the war it was Hitler and his Nazis; after that it was Comrade Stalin and the communists; later on, Mao Tse-tung and the Chinese took on an honorary white status. All of them bad men with evil designs on the free world.

My somber mood lifted when I came to 116th Street. I had a small house, but that made for a large front lawn. In recent years I had taken to gardening. I had daylilies and wild roses against the fence, and strawberries and potatoes in large rectangular plots at the center of the yard. There was a trellis that enclosed my porch, and I always had flowering vines growing there. The year before I had planted wild passion fruit.

But what I loved the most was my avocado tree. It was forty feet high with leaves so thick and dark that it was always cool under its shade. I had a white cast-iron bench set next to the trunk. When things got really hard, I’d sit down there to watch the birds chase insects through the grass.

When I came up to the fence I had almost forgotten the tax man. He didn’t know about me. How could he? He was just grabbing at empty air.

Then I saw the boy.

He was doing a crazy dance in my potato patch. He held both hands in the air, with his head thrown back, and cackled deep down in his throat. Every now and then he’d stamp his feet, like little pistons, and reach both hands down into the soil, coming out with long tan roots that had the nubs of future potatoes dangling from them.