Free The Further Tales of Tempest Landry by Walter Mosley Page A

you agree, Mr. Cruickshank?”
    “I suppose that we might have been a bit overzealous in demanding the maximum sentence for a man driven by desperation,” the tall and darkly handsome state representative admitted.
    “And if that is the case,” Noble said slyly, “then the court might agree to reconsider this thirteen-year sentence that the otherwise innocent Mr. Walcott has received.”
    Instead of answering, Judge Beam frowned and stood up to her full four-foot-eleven height.
    “The papers have already been signed and submitted, counselor,” she said. “We have only come here to put the imprimatur on the judgment.”
    “So we agree?” Noble asked, holding out a hand for the judge to shake.
    She did not return the gesture and only said, “Yes,” after she had turned her back and was heading for the exit.
    Cruickshank did shake Tempest’s lawyer’s hand. He also handed him a large brown envelope.
    “In the decree, Mr. Walcott remains a convicted felon and he will be considered to be on parole for the next four years,” Cruickshank said. And then he turned to Tempest. “You are to have weekly visits with your parole officer and will be expected to maintain a regular job. If you fail the requisites of the state, you will be returned to prison.”
    “But I’ma be free?” was all Tempest had to ask.
    “Yes.”
    —
    Only after the representatives from the state were gone did I understand what had happened.
    “So I’m free?” Tempest asked Noble.
    “Yes, Mr. Landry, you are free—on parole.”
    “I know that one, man,” Tempest said. “I been there before in work release.”
    If he had heard the lawyer using the name he went by before he died, he didn’t let on.
    “Bob?” I said to the lawyer.
    He turned to me and smiled. His teeth were extraordinarily white.
    “Nothing so exalted, Accounting Angel. My name, before I was murdered, was Lime, Harvey Lime. I was a Boston attorney who represented a lower class of clientele. I made the error of sleeping with one of those client’s girlfriends for services rendered. I suppose she forgot to tell him about the arrangement.”
    “But you’re from hell?” Tempest asked.
    Again Noble shrugged. “Bob, as you call him, has certain agents that he has freed upon the world. Heaven is not the only one to chum the mortal waters with its refuse.”
    “What do you want with him?” I asked the man from Hades.
    “You came to me, Joshua. You paid Billings the blood money to free your charge. I have simply done what you have asked me to do.”
    For the first time in an eternity of existence I felt the urge to violence. I shivered and Stuart Noble smiled.
    “Temper, temper now, Accounting Angel. You’re already walking the razor’s edge.”
    “I thought Bob was afraid of what I could do to him?” Tempest asked as he took up the space between Noble and me.
    “I am not privy to Satan’s inner thoughts.”
    “Aren’t you afraid?” Tempest asked, taking a step closer.
    “You can’t harm me, Tempest. I’m just a man doing his job. A brother just like you.”
    “You paid off the court?”
    “Most certainly. All things human can be reduced to commerce and commodity. You just have to shop in the right places.”
    “You took the money I gave Billings and spent it on bribes?” I asked.
    “Billings took the money. He made the deal. I just sat in a room breathing the cool air of earth.”
    —
    On the street I felt light-headed and oddly betrayed, though I could not say by whom. Tempest stood next to me, a look of wonder on his face.
    “Damn, Angel,” he said, “you got to watch yourself, brother, or we just might end up cell mates in hell.”

Just Another Word

Freedom
    My first meeting with Tempest after his release from prison was at a small coffee shop on East 27th called the Silver Spout. This was across the street from the fourth-floor office of his parole officer. We were to meet at 9:30, two hours after his morning meeting was to begin, but Tempest