Charcoal Joe (17 page)

An hour later the silver chime of my alarm system sounded.

I was at the front door with a gun in my hand before the doorbell rang.

Through the peephole, under the porch light, I saw a hale white man in an eggplant-colored double-breasted suit; no hat, oiled and combed wavy hair, clean-shaven, and with empty hands in evidence at his side.

He stood there alone and assured, as American as redwoods and Manifest Destiny.

Pocketing the piece, I opened the door, my mind a blank slate in preparation for whatever this fancy stranger brought with him.

“Yes?” I said, taking inventory of his broad shoulders, thick neck, and big if empty hands.

“Mr. Rawlins?”

“Uh-huh.”

“My name is Eugene Stapleton. My friends call me Gene.”

“And people in the know call you the Cinch.”

He accepted my knowledge with equanimity the general public does not usually associate with gangsters.

“May I come in?” he asked.

My once sparse living room now had three stuffed chairs, a sofa, and a small round mahogany table with three straight-back chairs of the same wood and style. Even though Feather and I lived alone, she had friends come over now and again.

I sometimes entertained also.

The Cinch took the couch and I pulled out a hard chair just in case I had to jump up shooting at a moment's notice.

“Nice house,” the bad man commented.

“It's late, Mr. Stapleton, and I've had a long couple'a days—very long.”

“You're right,” he said. “I'm sorry for coming over at this hour but our kind of business is demanding and it doesn't run by a clock.”

“What business is that?” I asked.

“I have an apology and a question for you,” he said instead of answering the question.

“Apology for what?”

“I sent three men to break into your house and question you. You weren't at home but the same men grabbed you out of Seymour Brathwaite's apartment and tried to force you to play our game. I apologize for underestimating you. And I'd like to add that I won't make that mistake again.”

His words were an offering of respect and a threat rolled up into one; in short—it was poetry.

“How did you even know to be looking at me?”

“I know many things, Mr. Rawlins.”

“And what is the question?” I asked.

“Where's the money?”

One thing you learn when dealing with bad men and bloodletters is that money is a very touchy subject, whether a dispute over a thin dime or the disposition of a bag full of gold doubloons.

“I haven't had anything to do with any money,” I said.

“But the people you're around have,” he rejoined.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then why are you involved in the Boughman murder?”

“I'm only involved as far as it has to do with Seymour being cleared of the crime.”

Stapleton's eyes were a jaunty brown but when those orbs drilled into me I felt anything but cheerful.

“Boughman had a great deal of my friends' money,” the Cinch said. “Now he's dead and no one knows where it is.”

“Seymour was arrested at the scene,” I said, trying to sound logical. “He didn't shoot Boughman and he certainly didn't have any money on him when they dragged him off to jail. I'm not trying to say that somebody else didn't steal it. But he was at that house looking for the housekeeper who was once his foster mother.”

“Maybe I'm not making myself clear, Mr. Rawlins. There's a great deal of money missing; more money than three generations of a dozen Catholic union men could make in their lifetimes. If somebody just saw the back of the thief's head as he turned the corner I would want to know the color of his hair. I'd kill for that information alone.”

“Killing doesn't provide answers,” I said, giving up hypothetical reasoning for blunt fact.

“But it is a great motivator.”

“I don't have your money and I have no idea where it might be. If I had stolen from your friends I'd be in Mexico City at this very moment with a new name on four senoritas' lips.”

Stapleton smiled and pursed his own lips in appreciation of my lyrical turn.

“You mind if I have a drink?” he asked.

“I been off the stuff for a while now. Nuthin' stronger than orange juice in the box.”

When my guest reached into the left breast of his many-buttoned suit, my hand drifted down toward my gun pocket. And I wasn't embarrassed when he came out with a tarnished silver flask.

He unscrewed the top, took a quick swig, then recapped it and put it away.

He looked at me very closely and said, “I want my money.”

“The closest I've gotten to it is asking Seymour what happened at the beach house. He said that he went there looking for the housekeeper, found your man Boughman and some other guy, both dead. Before he could call the police they busted down the door.”

“I don't care about any of that,” the gangster uttered. “What I want to hear is where has the money gone.”

“Help me out, Gene. What can I possibly know that would get you what you want?”

“Who hired you to get the kid out of trouble?”

I answered immediately but the matrix of thought behind that answer was convoluted and complex.

I considered the truth, telling Stapleton that Rufus “Charcoal Joe” Tyler had hired me to help a friend of his clear her foster son of unfounded charges. But I didn't know if Joe would like his name mixed up with a powerful mobster's business. Then I thought of Jasmine; she was the reason that Joe even cared and so, in a way, she was the one that caused me to be hired. But it had been grilled into me since childhood never to put a woman in harm's way unless there was no other choice.

For a moment I thought of saying that Melvin Suggs was the source of my work. He had as much as told me that finding the money would be the fastest way to get Seymour cleared of the crime. But I had already used Melvin against Stapleton's minions, and getting the police involved was never the preferred option. And, anyway, I didn't want the Cinch to know that I had been aware of the missing money or what Boughman was doing with the cash.

Those thoughts passed through my mind as quickly as the striking of a match. With the fire came a light.

“Raymond Alexander asked me to do it,” I said.

“The colored man they call Mouse?”

“Me and Ray are old friends and he knows the kid from the neighborhood. When Ray asks a favor it's hard to decline.”

A new light of respect came into my well-dressed guest's eyes. Mouse's name carried weight from coast to coast for those in the know.

“How is Mr. Alexander involved with Boughman?”

“He's not. Ray was clear that he wanted me to talk to the cops about Seymour. He knows that I have connections and he believed Seymour was innocent. He never said anything to me about suitcases full of money. But let me ask
you
a question.”

“What's that?” he allowed.

“How did you know to send your men to my house just hours after I took the case on?”

“Can't tell you everything, Mr. Rawlins. If I did I'd have to kill you.”

“Your men already tried that.”

“You called the cops on them,” Stapleton said.

“Look, man, your people had me tied hand and foot with a washrag taped over my mouth. Your boy Arnold Mayhew touched my temple with his finger and told me that he was going to shoot me there.”

Recalling the experience unexpectedly ignited a rage in my breast. That's how I knew that Mama Jo's tea was still doing something.

“Arnold's wife is a widow,” the gangster said.

“I'm sorry for her but happy about him. Those motherfuckers didn't give me any choice but to fool 'em. Tie a man up and hold a gun to his head—fuck that.”

I can't say my anger intimidated the Cinch but he took it into account.

“Did you ask your cop connection about the kid?” he asked; the dead men floating on waters that had already passed under the bridge.

The question quelled my anger because I realized that I did have information for the mob man.

“Yeah,” I said. “Boughman and the other guy had been dead a couple of hours before the cops grabbed Seymour, and there was no gun to be found.”

“So they cleared him?”

“Nobody cares about a dead gangster, man. And if they could blame some brother why not do it? You know that's two birds right there.”

“So you're still trying to clear Mr. Alexander's friend?”

I nodded.

“And Alexander's not looking for any money?”

“And I'm not talkin' to him about it. All I want is charges dropped and young Seymour back at college where he belongs.”

It was time for Stapleton to consider his options. I was sure one of these possibilities was my death.

“So you might still come across some information about who killed Peter,” he speculated.

“That's a far cry from proof.”

“I don't need proof, Mr. Rawlins. I'm not the law. If you get a good idea of who might have done this I would like to know and I would certainly pay for that knowledge.”

“How much?”

“Fifteen thousand sounds right. That is if your information leads me to our money.”

“What if you're sure the man I point you at is the one that stole from you but the money is not there?”

“I don't know. Maybe a five-thousand-dollar kill fee could be arranged.”

I walked the Cinch to the front door at around eleven. I'd promised to tell him anything I found out about Peter Boughman's murder and anyone who might have seen him in the days before his demise. He gave me three telephone numbers, saying that I'd find him at the end of one line or another.

He stepped across the threshold and stopped, made a half turn, and regarded me.

“Why haven't you asked me for money up front, Mr. Rawlins?”

“Same reason I wouldn't steal from you, Mr. Stapleton. I don't want you to think that I'd take your money without giving something in return.”

He considered my answer, nodded, and said, “I'll be waiting for your call.”

He strolled down the walkway, past the sidewalk, and all the way to the curb. He stopped there and the headlights of a dark Lincoln Continental came on four houses down, across the street. The car pulled up to where Stapleton was standing. He opened the door to the backseat and climbed in.

The Lincoln didn't take off immediately. Maybe they were just discussing the next stop on their late-night rounds. Maybe. But I knew that if he didn't like my answers the entire carload of killers would be at my door.

As the car pulled off I realized that I had my hand on the gun in its pocket.

“Mr. Rawlins?”

The most courageous act I performed on the whole Charcoal Joe job was not shooting myself in the leg when petite Augusta Tryman called my name from behind the poinsettia bushes next to my front porch.

She emerged from the dark boughs in a shimmery silver micro-mini dress; the darkness of her skin was equal to the blackness behind her. Stepping into the yellow electrical light of the porch, she was both smiling and scared.

“Was that Eugene Stapleton?” she asked.

“What would a sweet young thing like you know about a bad man like him?”

Augusta had thick lips and a protruding rear end. The rest of her was quite thin.

Her fear turned into a sneer. “Every man needs a woman sometimes. Prince or pauper, they all get down to that.”

“How long have you been out here?”

“I was comin' ovah when I seen him. You didn't tell Big D 'bout no party so I thought you had some business to take care of before.”

“It's nice to see you, Augie. Come on in and have a seat.”

I took her to the dinette off the kitchen. The small octangular room was surrounded by windows on four of its eight sides. The table was the same shape.

I sat down and she sidled up next to me.

“You want a soda or something?” I asked.

“Tap water be fine.”

I got her modest request from the kitchen and sat down to join her again.

“Thank you,” she said.

Augusta had intelligent eyes. She was at least thirty but most bartenders would have asked her for ID.

She took a drink from the tumbler then sat back and exhaled. In that sigh was all the pain and exhaustion of a whore's life.

“You sound like the weight of the world is on you, girl.”

“You bettah believe it,” she agreed. “He weigh three hundred and fi'ty pounds and his name is Oscar. He like me so much that he always sees me the first or second Friday of every mont'.”

“Well,” I said. “You can rest here.”

“People don't pay me to rest,” she observed.

“It's good to think that way,” I said. “Because then somebody might surprise you.”

“Surprise me how?”

“If you could go home right now what would you do?”

“Kiss my baby asleep in her crib, make a plate'a eggs scrambled in butter with some ketchup, an' take a bath so hot the mirror be steamed.”

“Go on upstairs and run the bath,” I said. “I'll make the eggs while the water's rising.”

When the butter was melting in the pan I dialed the kitchen phone.

“Who is this?” EttaMae Harris challenged, answering on the third ring.

“Easy, honey.”

“Oh.” The anger dissipated. “Anything wrong, baby?”

“I hope not.”

“I'll get him up.”

I beat three eggs with a fork while she coaxed her bedmate to consciousness.

“Easy?” he said.

I was pouring the eggs into the skillet.

“Hey, Ray. Sorry to wake you up but a guy named Eugene Stapleton was just here.”

“The Cinch?”

“That's him.”

“What he want?”

“The name of the man hired me to help Seymour.”

“You didn't say our friend's name, did you?”

“I told him that it was you.”

Using a rubber spatula I slowly shifted the eggs so that they cooked evenly and in layers.

Mouse was quiet for fifteen seconds, no more.

“All right,” he said. “All right. Yeah. What else you gonna say? He probably had a gunman or two somewhere close, so you had to.”

“I just wanted to give you a heads-up.”

“I appreciate that, Easy, but the Cinch ain't gonna fuck with me. He got to get the okay to come after me.”

“He does?”

“Oh yeah, baby. People I know put the people he know to shame. But that don't mean he won't hurt you. So you did the right thing.”

“What's his thing?”

“He used to have real power but the old heads and young guns have been pushin' him out. He strugglin'.”

Augie was standing next to the deep tub when I came upstairs with her eggs and ketchup. The mirror was fogged up and she had only taken off her bright blue high-high heels.

“I thought you'd be in the tub by now,” I said.

“I didn't know if you wanted to watch me take off my dress,” she said. “A lotta men get mad if you just naked. They wanna show.”

“I get my excitement making eggs in butter.”

She shrugged and then pulled off the flimsy dress like it was a T-shirt.

Augie's body was like a teenager's too. I was sure that Doris, Big D, would sell her as underage-and-willing to any new client.

“You want to get in with me, Easy?”

“No thanks.”

“That's not what your eyes is tellin' me.”

“Get on in there.”

Augusta moaned as she lowered into the hot water. I was absolutely sure that no client ever made her cry out like that. I handed her a fork and the plate of eggs.

“Oh my God this is delicious,” she said after three fast forkfuls. “You could cook too? Damn, Mr. Rawlins, you should take me outta this life and make me your wife.”

I put the lid down and sat on the commode, there next to the bathtub. She finished her eggs in quick order. I took the dish and set it in the sink.

“This is perfect,” Augusta said, luxuriating. “If you wanna call me and go out on a real date I will definitely say yes. But you can't tell Big D.”

“I won't. You look better than you did the last time I saw you, girl,” I said.

“That was two years, right?”

I nodded.

“I was still doin' aitch back then. Got pregnant, kicked the habit, and now I go to beauty school in the daytime and work three nights for Doris.”

“I guess I was lucky that you were on the job tonight.”

“I was workin' but you know I would'a come in anyway if they told me it was you. We all like you down at the office.”

She closed her eyes and lay back.

That was a very peaceful moment. Augusta had dumped her flimsy dress on top of her blue high heels. The water from the bath faucet was dripping. Somewhere there was a distraught woman grieving over the violent death of Arnold Mayhew.

“Are we gonna fuck?” Augie asked. I looked up to see her intelligent eyes focused on me.

“Not tonight.”

“You don't like me?”

“No,” I said. “I mean…I like you fine but I called for you because I had a few questions.”

“Questions about what?”

“They used to call you Jailbait, didn't they?”

“Still do sometimes.”

“And they used to just say JB sometimes too, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Then I wanted to ask you about Uriah Hardy.”

“That nasty old man? Why you wanna know about him?”

“His wife's foster son, Seymour, got into some trouble and I'm trying to get him out. I tried talking to Uriah but he just stubborn.”

“Stubborn? Uriah Hardy is livin' proof that some people cain't win for losin'. Here he got everything an' all he is is mad at Jasmine Palmas. She give him a house, a allowance, freedom to see any woman he want, and a new car every three years. Niggah don't know what side his ass is buttered on. That's why she introduced him to Big D an' paid half what we cost so he keep usin' us. Jasmine wanted to hear if he was schemin' against her.”

“Jasmine paid for Uriah's prostitutes?”

“Half herself and the other half came outta the allowance she give him.”

“I was told that Jasmine was a housekeeper,” I said. “How's a cleaning woman get all that money?”

“The only kinda cleaning woman Jasmine Palmas is is the kind that clean up.”

“What kind of business she in?” I asked.

“I don't know and I don't ask.”

“And what did she get out of you?”

“She just wanted to know if Uriah said anything about her.”

“Did he?”

“Did he? The second time I was with him, after he made me do all kindsa disgustin' stuff, he wanted me to rob Jasmine. Told me he had the key to her place and that he would tell me when him and her and her foster son would go out for dinner. I was supposed to use the key and take a albino-crocodile-skin bag she use. He said he'd gimme fi'e thousand dollars for that bag. I was usin' pretty heavy back then but I wasn't so out of it that I wanted to cross Doris and Jasmine too.”

“Doris knows Jasmine?”

“Jasmine was her number one girl way back. One day she went to a job with Charcoal Joe Tyler—after that she never worked again.”

“Why would Uriah need you to steal the bag if he already had the key?”

“That way he could say that he was with Jasmine when the house got robbed.”

“Did he tell you what was in the bag?”

“Naw. He said that it'd be locked and if the lock was broken he'd kill me. But I didn't care 'cause I wasn't gonna steal it in the first place. I told Doris and she told Jasmine. Jasmine had the lock changed and Uriah never talked about it again.”

“Was he suspicious?”

“I was strung out back then and so I did whatever nasty thing a client wanted; and Uriah wanted a lot. I think he suspected but you know nine men outta ten think with they dick. I was half price and on time. He never talked about Jasmine no mo'.”

“What about Jasmine's foster son?”

“What about him?”

“He told me that you gave him your card.”

“That's why you called, huh?” she said. “Damn.”

“Seymour?”

“He was just a child, Easy. You know, havin' a crush one minute, watchin'
Mighty Mouse
the next. I give him my little card to make him feel important.”

“Did he ever call you?”

“One time he did. It was pretty late and I was watchin' TV or sumpin'. He said that his mother wasn't home and he was scared and was wonderin' if he should call the police. I told him that I'd call her friends and see where she was but before we got off the phone she come in. She was mad that Seymour had my number, and Big D told me the next day that I wasn't gonna see Uriah no mo'. Cain't say that I cried.”