Bad Boy Brawly Brown (17 page)

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I removed the pistol from his belt, dragged him inside the house, 17

and closed the door.

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Conrad had risen, propped up on his left hand. There was a pis-19

tol clutched precariously in the fingers of his right. I plucked it free 20

and put it in my pocket to go along with the gangster’s piece.

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Feeling the weight of three pistols in my pocket made me smile.

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It reminded me of a well-spent and wasted youth in Houston. Many 23

a night I carried my friend’s weapons when they were likely to be ar-24

rested or searched.

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Various odors wafted through the air. A garbage pail that should 26

have been emptied three days before, a toilet that should have been 27

flushed that morning.

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Conrad writhed on the floor, wrestling with gravity and bal-29

ance; it was a losing battle. The gangster was dead to the world, but 30 S

breathing.

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I knelt down and pinched Conrad very hard on the cheek. He 1

came to full awareness with a painful start.

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“What?”

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“You might be dead now,” I said. “If it wasn’t for me.”

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“What?”

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“Your boyfriend over there.”

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Conrad turned his head to catch a glimpse of his attacker on the 7

floor next to him, then he toppled over.

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“Shit,” he said.

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In the corner was a door that led to the fragrant toilet. I searched 10

the unconscious gangster for any more weapons and then dragged 11

him into the bathroom and closed the door after him. The window 12

in the toilet was about the size of a cow’s head, too small for a full-13

grown man to crawl out of, so I wedged a metal-framed chair against 14

the doorknob, assuring myself that we wouldn’t be interrupted.

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Conrad had pulled himself up so that his back was against the 16

wall. We were in a dark room that had once been a kitchen.
Dark
be-17

cause there was only one small window and two forty-watt bulbs for 18

light, and
once
because the stove was dismantled, the refrigerator was 19

open and unplugged, and all the shelf space and the sink were piled 20

with books and magazines, cans of paint, and various tools. The un-21

finished wooden table had one metal chair (which I’d used to im-22

prison the thug), a typewriter, and various sheets of paper.

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Conrad glared at me.

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“I know you,” he said.

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“I guess that means he didn’t knock the sense outta your head.”

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“What you doin’ here?” he asked. “I mean, how’d you find me?”

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“What’s happening Saturday?” I asked him.

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Conrad’s attempt at looking innocent was enough to make me 29

want to laugh.

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“You know,” I said. “You told that man beatin’ on you that you 2

could pay your debt on Sunday after you did something on Saturday.”

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“I . . . I . . . I was just talkin’, brother. Tryin’ to save my ass from 4

gettin’ kicked.” Conrad looked away from me, trying to hide the lie 5

in his eyes.

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“Oh,” I said. “I thought it had to do with those stolen guns you 7

and Brawly took over to BobbiAnne’s house.”

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Making no attempt to rise, Conrad looked up into my eyes. He 9

did not blink.

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“You and Xavier plannin’ some kinda war?” I asked, just to keep 11

up the pretense of a conversation.

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“No. No. I’m gonna move them guns is all. Move ’em and then 13

split the money with Bad Boy. On Saturday.”

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On a whim I asked, “What you got to tell me about Aldridge 15

Brown?”

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Again his eyes darted away.

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“Did you kill him, or did Brawly?” I asked.

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“I don’t know what the fuck you talkin’ about, man. I never 19

heard’a no Alvin Brown.”

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“Where’s Brawly?” I asked.

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“I don’t know.”

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“Does he have a room somewhere?”

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“I only see him at the meetins,” he said.

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“You collect them guns at the meetins?” I asked.

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“I don’t have to talk to you,” he said angrily. He was working 26

himself up, getting ready to do something.

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“The cops think that you’re about to blow up City Hall, Anton.”

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“How you know?” he asked. “You a cop?”

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I pulled out the gangster’s gun. It was a long-nosed .22, a killer’s 30 S

caliber. I pulled back the hammer and Conrad’s handsome Cau-31 R

casian features blanched.

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“Get up,” I said, and he hopped to it.

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“Take off your shoes and socks.”

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He obeyed that command, too.

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“Turn out your pockets,” I said. “And put everything on the 4

table.”

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By this time there was the sound of movement coming from the 6

toilet. Conrad glanced at the door fearfully.

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“Okay, let’s go,” I said.

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“Go where?”

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“Out to my car.”

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We left the house and walked to my car. I stayed close to Conrad, 11

with the gun always touching his side. I made him get in on the driv-12

er’s side and scoot over to the passenger’s seat.

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“This gun don’t make no more noise than a cap pistol,” I told 14

him, pressing the muzzle firmly into his side. “But it will tear your 15

guts up.”

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As we drove I asked him the same questions. He told me again 17

that he and Brawly were in the gun business, that they were going to 18

unload the weapons on Saturday so that he could pay his gambling 19

debt to Angel London, a bookmaker from Redondo Beach.

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I
HAD A KNOTTY PROBLEM.
There was a semiconscious killer 23

wedged into Conrad’s bathroom. The killer now hated me more 24

than he did Conrad. I couldn’t let him see me or question Conrad 25

about my identity. On the other hand, if I left Conrad in his house, 26

he might have shot the gangster through the door or window. One 27

way I’d be the target of a killer, and the other I’d be an accessory to 28

murder.

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So I decided to take Conrad on a drive up into Griffith Park. He S 30

was sweating and, I’m sure, expecting to be killed. So he breathed a R 31

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sigh of relief when I kicked him out way up on a hillside. He didn’t 2

even complain about being let out with no wallet and no shoes.

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“Next time maybe you’ll give me a ride back to my car when I 4

ask for it,” I said before driving off.

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I doubted that Conrad would go back home, and I was sure that 6

the gangster was already on the street looking for my name.

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18
/ JESUS, FEATHER, AND I
all got home at about the same time. I picked them up as they got off the

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blue bus at Pico and Genesee.

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Feather had a homework assignment that she was so concen-3

trated on, she didn’t even take time for her snack before she was hard 4

at work at the kitchen table.

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“It’s a book about a girl who fought in a war,” she told me, “in 6

Frenchland. I have to read it and write a book report.”

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“What girl?”

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“Joan Arks,” she said.

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“Did she have a gun?” I asked.

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“No, un-uh, a sword. A big sword.”

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“And did she cut off people’s heads?”

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“No. She just held it up over her head and ran after the enemy 13

and they got scared and run.”

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It was a real book, about thirty pages, with large print and a R 15

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black-and-white illustration every six pages or so. The cover showed 2

Joan with the sword held high, men on their knees before her and 3

men shouting her praises from behind. Feather studied each page 4

with rapt attention.

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“You want peanut butter an’ jelly, sis?” Juice asked her.

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“Um, uh-huh.”

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He made her the sandwich and poured some milk while I put 8

rice on to boil and took frozen oxtails, which I’d cooked a week be-9

fore, from the freezer. I also had a bowl of green beans and ham 10

hocks on ice. When Feather had snacked and the food was all cook-11

ing, Jesus and I went into the backyard, where his long planks and 12

sawhorses stood.

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“So you still think you gonna build that boat, huh?”

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“Uh-huh.”

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“And what about school?”

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“I don’t know,” he said.

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“If you wanna drop out, I got to sign a paper, right?”

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“Yeah.”

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“Then you have to look me in the face and talk to me, ’cause I 20

don’t see any reason at all that you can’t go to school when every 21

other kid in Los Angeles seems to be able to.”

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“Not everybody,” he said.

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“No. Pregnant girls and juvenile delinquents don’t go. Kids act-24

ing in the movies and little kids don’t have no parents to show ’em 25

the right way to go. But everybody else makes it.”

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Jesus turned away. He was probably going to leave, but I took his 27

arm before he could make a move.

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“Talk to me.”

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He sat on the grass and I did, too. When he started rocking back 30 S

and forth, I put my hand on his knee.

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“I love you, boy,” I said. “You know when I was a kid I lost my
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parents, too. I know what it’s like to be in the street. That’s why I 1

wanna see you get an education. What I never had.”

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He stopped fidgeting and looked into my eyes.

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“I can’t learn in class,” he said.

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“Of course you can,” I said.

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“No.” His tone and demeanor could not be denied. “I don’t want 6

to listen to them anymore. They act like we should just listen and be-7

lieve. They say things that are wrong. They lock the gates. I don’t 8

want to be there anymore.”

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“But you just have a little bit more than a year to go.”

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“I want to build my boat.”

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“Will you stay in school and try hard if I tell you to?” I asked him.

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After a moment’s hesitation he said, “I guess I will.”

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“Then let me think about it for a couple of days.”

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W
E HAD A GREAT TIME
at dinner. Feather regaled us with frag-17

ments of “Joan Arks” while we ate. After dinner she read to us 18

from her paper. Jesus went to bed early, reading his book on how to 19

build a single-masted sailboat. Feather and I watched
The Andy Grif-20

fith Show.
She loved little Opie.

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“Because he’s so nice,” she said.

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D
ADDY? DADDY.”

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I had just walked into a graveyard’s warehouse where dozens 26

of occupied coffins had been stockpiled, waiting to be buried. It 27

seemed that there was only one man, armed with just a shovel, 28

whose responsibility it was to inter all those dead souls. I looked from 29

one casket to another, but none had Raymond’s name on the little S 30

bronze nameplate placed at the foot of each box.

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Somebody called my name. Somebody held out a shovel. He 2

wanted me to get back to digging.

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“What?” I said. And then I remembered: I was the man in charge 4

of burials, I was the gravedigger for all the dead black men and 5

women.

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“Daddy.”

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“What?” I said.

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