Easy Rawlins 4: Black Betty by Walter Mosley

Author:Walter Mosley [Mosley, Walter]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Los Angeles (Calif.), Private investigators, Rawlins, Mystery & Detective, African American men - California - Los Angeles, General, Literary, Easy (Fictitious character), American, Literary Criticism, Mystery fiction, African American, Fiction, Private investigators - California - Los Angeles, African American men, Rawlins; Easy (Fictitious character)
ISBN: 9781451612479
Google: IA9MhrcHf5wC
Amazon: B003RRYC9S
Publisher: Simon and Schuster
Published: 2010-06-22T04:00:00+00:00

ORTIZ, STILL SHIRTLESS and in the same pair of trousers, opened Jackson Blue’s door and glowered at me. As a boy I would have gotten my face slapped for looking like that. No adult would take that kind of sass—not even from a stray.

“Jackson here?” I asked.

“What you want?”

“Nuthin’ from you, brother. I just need Jackson a minute.”

There was going to be violence between the two of us one day.

Sometimes you just know somebody, like they’ve been in your business for a whole lifetime. I knew Ortiz and the dark anger inside him. He lived in a haze of rage; probably couldn’t even make love because he was so mad. That anger was a deep hole of despair that he lived in. I’d lived next to that hole since I was a boy. The recognition between us was like electricity. If he had been a woman we’d have ended up on the floor next to the bed. And if we ever had to spend five minutes alone one or both of us would end up dead.

“Easy?” Jackson was fully dressed. He had on a black-and-yellow plaid suit with a green felt hat. The brim of the hat was too wide for Jackson’s spare face.

“You got a minute, Jackson?”

“Sure, Easy. Come on in.”

I made a point not to touch Ortiz as I went past.

“I knew you was comin’ back, Ease.”

“Yeah? How’d you know that?”

Jackson hunched his shoulders and smiled with mock reserve—the closest he would ever come to innocence.

“I don’t know, man. Maybe ’cause I got the best li’l money-maker”—he tapped the telephone box that sat on the couch next to him—“that you or anybody you know’s ever seen, right here.”

I could smell Ortiz’s sour breath from somewhere behind me.

“Naw, man. I mean, it is a good scam, but them gangsters too much for me.”

“So then what you want?”

“I wanna find Terry T. The boxer.”

“Try Herford’s.”

“I need a house address.”

Jackson knew where Terry lived, I could tell by the cagey way he looked at me. But he wasn’t going to tell me—not straight out anyway. If he had information that I wanted then I had to buy it.

“I’m ’bout t’go out an’ make a run,” he said. “You got a car here?”

“I thought you had a red Caddy?”

“I do, but this’ll kill two birds with one stone. You got your car?”

“Uh-huh. But listen, Jackson, I’m in a hurry.”

“Won’t take long. I just got a few tickets to punch.”

“All right. But just a few stops.”

“Yeah.” Jackson smiled and cocked his floppy brim. “Yeah. A couple or so.”

“When you comin’ back?” Ortiz sounded like a taciturn spouse. “You know we gotta do that thing.”

“I be back, boy. Don’t worry. Easy gonna cut my time in half.”

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