Little Green by Walter Mosley Read Free Book Online Page B

gown. There was something familiar about that face but I thought, at the time, it was the look that Timbale had stamped on all her kids.
    “Isn’t he handsome?”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    I took a deep breath and stood up with nary a waver.
    “I’ll go up to Sunset tonight and canvass the whole boulevard.”
    She winced at my vow. Maybe she worried that a dead man was only good for finding corpses.
    At the door I stopped and asked her, “What’s the trouble between you and Mr. Alexander?”
    “No trouble. It’s just if I ever see him I will send his narrow high-yellah ass to hell.”

10
    People have often told me that walking downhill is harder than climbing up. That might be true, but it felt a lot easier descending the stairway from Timbale Noon’s second-floor apartment.
    Before I got to the bottom I heard LaTonya laughing carelessly. I stopped for a few moments, listening to the squeals of childhood’s abandon. It seemed very far away.
    Maybe it was the sugar from the Kool-Aid and not the evocation of my name, but walking back to the car was easier than I expected. I jerked the handle to pull the car door open, then lowered into the passenger’s seat with great concentration.
    “Well?” Mouse asked.
    “Why does that woman hate you, Raymond?”
    “Lotsa people hate me. You think I know all their stories?”
    “I think you know hers.”
    “It ain’t nuthin’, Easy, and it sure don’t have to do with Little Gr—I mean Evander goin’ missin’. You gonna close that door?”
    “She corroborated everything that your friend Lissa told you.”
    “A carburetor?”
    “She said that he went missing up on Sunset some days ago. Other than that all I got was a graduation photograph.”
    “Lemme see it,” Mouse said, less a demand than a request.
    I took the picture from my inside jacket pocket and passed it over.
    He held it at a distance from his face great enough to show that his vision was deteriorating.
    While he gazed intently at the photograph, his face gave up no inkling of what it was that he felt.
    “Mind if I keep this, Easy?”
    “I need it.”
    “You seen it already,” he argued. “You not gonna forget.”
    “When I go around lookin’ for him I’ll need to show that picture to people.”
    “All right then,” he said reluctantly. “Here you go. Now shut that door and let’s get outta here.”
    “I’m walking,” I said.
    “Easy, we already in the car. I know you only a few blocks away but you been hurt, man.”
    “If I’m gonna do this for you I have to test my limits,” I said. “Why don’t you go down to Meaty Meatburgers on Fairfax and pick us up some food. I’ll meet you at my place.”
    With that, using the full strength in both arms, I lifted myself out of the car. I leaned over to peer inside and said, “I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” then levered myself into an erect stance and slammed the door.
    I knew that neighborhood quite well. A block west of the intersection of Pico and Stanley there was a huge metal structure, a hollow, nine-story-high building made from metal plating that had been painted dark yellow, almost the same color as Beatrix’s dress. This was an oil well that plumbed the dark liquid out from under us.
    There was no crossing light at the Stanley corner, so I walked past Spaulding down to my street, Genesee, where there was a light.
    It was really only three blocks from Timbale’s front door to mine, but the fact that I didn’t know her was no surprise. Neighbors don’t necessarily know one another that well in L.A. We spend most of our time in single homes and one-person cars. In the late sixties we moved as often as fleas leaping from one dog’s head to another one’s butt. There was no walking to or from parks or local bars whereneighbors might hang out. If you went somewhere it was either to work or family. And if you partied it was rarely with neighbors.
    By the time I made it to the southeast side of Genesee and Pico I was sorely