Free Black Betty by Walter Mosley Page A

Etta said, not taking her eyes off of Mouse.
    Mouse gave a whoop and let the laugh come out. “LaMarque!”
    I looked up and saw the shy boy, dressed all in farmer’s green, coming down the stair. He had inherited his mother’s big bones and her sepia hue. He was sullen and bowed as he came near to us. But Raymond didn’t notice. He grabbed LaMarque in a rough hug around the neck and said aloud, “I missed you, son. I missed you.”
    Raymond kept his arm around the boy’s neck, almost like he had him in a headlock. He jerked him sideways so that they were both facing me.
    “That’s my boy,” he declared.
    And you could see it when they were side by side. Something in the eyes. In LaMarque it was a kind of softness, a childhood that Mouse never knew.
    Etta touched my arm. “Stay for supper, baby.”
    “Naw, Etta,” I said. “I got a job t’do. Anyway, you three should spend some time.”
    She didn’t argue. I shook LaMarque’s hand. He was twelve then and wanted to be treated like a man.
    I was all the way to the car when Mouse yelled, “Easy!” and ran to me. He came up with a big smile on his face.
    “Thanks, man,” he said. “You know, I got pretty sour in there. They try an’ keep a brother down.”
    I smiled. “Nuthin’, man. We friends, right?”
    “Yeah… sure.” Mouse’s glassy gray eyes went cold even though he was smiling.
     
* * *
     
    “JOHN’S.”
    “Hey, man,” I said.
    “Easy.”
    I’d known John for over twenty-five years, from Texas to L.A.; from speakeasy to legitimate bar.
    “Mouse is out.”
    “Yeah?”
    “He’s lookin’ for the men was in the bar that night. Thinks one’a them put the finger on him. There was three men there,” I said. “Melvin Quick—”
    He cut me off. “I know who was there, Easy.”
    “Well, maybe you should tell’em to lay low awhile.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    “In the meantime I’ll try to set it right.”
    “Somebody better do somethin’, ’cause I ain’t gonna take no shit outta Mouse.”
    We both knew that Mouse wouldn’t stop just because those men hid from him.
     
     
     

— 10 —
     
     
    THE NEXT MORNING I was on the road to Beverly Hills. Loma Vista Drive was clear and beautiful. I couldn’t even imagine being rich enough to live in any of the mansions I passed. I mean, even if I was white and they would have let me stay up there I didn’t know where so much money could come from. All the houses had more room than anybody needed, with lawns big enough to raise livestock in. As I went on and on the houses got bigger, making the drive seem even more like a ride in Fantasyland.
    When I got to the gate that said “Beverly Estates,” a uniformed guard came out. I stopped and rolled down my window.
    “Can I help you?” the half-bald man with spectacles asked. He didn’t mean it. His job was to keep out those who had no business in the land of the rich. He was a white nigger hired to keep other niggers, both black and white, out.
    “Yeah, yeah,” I said slow and easy. “I got to see a woman called…” I hesitated while I went into the glove compartment and pulled out an old grocery list. “Let’s see now, um, uh, yeah, here it is. Sarah Clarice Cain. Lives at number two Meadowbrook Circle.”
    “Let me see that.” The white nigger reached for my list, but I shoved it back into the glove compartment.
    “Sorry,” I said. “Confidential.” I loved using that line on white men.
    “I can’t just let you in just because—”
    “You cain’t stop me,” I interrupted. “This road here is public access. So stand aside.”
    I revved my engine and zoomed past. In the mirror I watched the guard go to his little kiosk. That was okay by me. I didn’t care who knew I was coming.
     
     
    THE CAIN MANSION, first seen through bars of wrought iron painted pink, looked like heaven. It was on top of a hill of sloping grasses, dotted now and then with various fruit trees. The structure rose high in the center with giant pillars