Little Scarlet by Walter Mosley Page A

with Miss Landry?” he asked.
    “She called me from jail and asked for help.”
    “I never heard’a you before,” he said.
    “I got an office over on Central. I help people out now and then. She told me her problem and I said that I’d ask around. A couple’a people mentioned that you been talking about a white man that got pulled outta his car and got the shit beat outta him. I just wanted to see if you knew who it was.”
    “Who said?” Bobby wanted to know.
    “I didn’t get no names,” I said, using language that made us both feel at home. “I just heard about you and went around tryin’ to look you up.”
    “I’d like to help Geneva out, man, but I don’t know nuthin’.”
    “You know that a white man got pult outta his car and messed,” I suggested.
    “What’s that got to do with anything?”
    “Geneva said that Nola said on the phone that she had seen a white man runnin’ around her buildin’.”
    I could see in Bobby Grant’s eyes that I had hold of some facts.
    “I — I don’t know nuthin’ about that,” Bobby said. “All I know is that she was in the buildin’ where he ran to after, um, after they beat on him.”
    “Who was that?”
    “Just some guys. You know it was Friday night and he was drivin’ down around here. They was pullin’ every white person they found outta their cars. Beatin’ ’em an’ shit.”
    “Who was?” I asked again.
    “What’s that got to do with Nola and Geneva?”
    “What kind of car was he drivin’?” I shifted gears easily.
    “Red.”
    “Was it a Ford or a Chevy?”
    “I’ont know, man. It was a car. A nice car. They pult him out and beat on his ass and then somebody drove it off.”
    “Did the white man know Nola?” I asked.
    “Naw, man. That motherfucker was just lost, tryin’ to get his ass back to Hollywood or wherever. Did Geneva say that that white man they beat on went to Nola’s?”
    “Like I said, all she knew was that that white man was runnin’ around Nola’s place. So if you don’t mind I’d like to know if Nola knew the white man you boys beat on.”
    “What you mean by that?” Bobby asked, his face now filled with fear.
    “I see what you got here, man,” I said, pointing at his pitiful pile of loot. “And what you ain’t got. You was out there that night when your boys pulled that white man outta his car. Either that or you were up here twiddlin’ your thumbs figurin’ out what chair to sit in. You were out there. Maybe you didn’t get a lick in. Maybe not. But you saw him and you saw where he went too.”
    It was all guesswork. He was a looter and young. He was black in America, transplanted from the South, and all alone in a room hot enough to brew tea.
    Bobby stared at me with anxious, calculating eyes. He wanted to steer clear of trouble and he was wondering if a lie or the truth would accomplish that end.
    “I don’t know nuthin’ about what happened to Nola,” he said at last. “I haven’t even seen her since before the riotin’ started. All I know is some men pult that white man outta the red car and beat him. He ran away an’ after that I don’t know nuthin’.”
    It could have been true.
    “So you didn’t see Nola since the riots started?” I asked.
    “No sir.”
    “Did anybody around here see her?”
    “Nobody I know.”
    The police had put a muzzle on the murder. It hadn’t happened — yet.
    “I need to know two things, Robert,” I said.
    “What’s that?”
    “Where does Nola live exactly and who stole the white man’s car?”
    “What do I get out of it?”
    “For starters I won’t throw you out the window.”
    “You think I’m scared’a you, old man?” the youth asked me.
    “You should be, son. You should be.”
    Grant had a weak jaw. When his mouth hung open he looked pathetic, though I’m sure he thought he was looking mean.
    When he saw I wasn’t buying it he broke into a half-hearted laugh.
    “I’m just fuckin’ wit’ you, man. Yeah, sure I’ll tell ya.