Part 5 (1/2)
”Then how did Miss Fine get to your door?”
”You might not know it, but I got a reputation for finding people, Paris. Most the times it's bail jumpers, but I do other kinds of searches too. I can be discreet.”
”Discreet about what?”
”Miss Fine needs to have a private talk with her nephew. I didn't ask her why.”
”So you agreed to find a man for somebody and you don't even know what for?”
”She wants to talk to him. That's all I need to know.”
”And what's she gonna pay you for that?” I asked.
”This ain't about no fee,” Milo said. He shrugged just as if he had already made it rich. ”This is gettin' in good with the richest black woman in Los Angeles, maybe even the whole country. A man could become a millionaire behind a woman like that.”
”Listen, Milo. A missin' nephew ain't no million dollars unless there's somethin' serious goin' on.”
”There isn't,” he said.
I sat back in my spindly chair. The joints creaked and the backrest sagged, but I started to get the feeling that that little chair would hold up under a man Milo's size, or bigger.
What I had to figure was how much to tell Milo. How much could I trust him?
We were friends-after a fas.h.i.+on. I had done some work for his bail bonds business when men awaiting trial went on the run. Usually I'd just find out where they were hiding and tell Milo. Nothing dangerous.
We played chess now and then and had political and philosophical debates. But we didn't share the life-and-death kind of friends.h.i.+p that Fearless and I had.
”What does BB have to do with Kit Mitch.e.l.l?” I asked.
”I don't know,” Milo said. ”I hired Timmerman to find BB and he came up with Kit and BB hangin' out together a few months ago. I think they were doin' some kinda business.”
”What kind of business?”
Milo pursed his lips and rubbed his thumbs and forefingers together.
”BB might'a crossed the line a li'l bit, but that don't have nuthin' to do with Miss Fine and why she wants to talk to him,” the bail bondsman said.
”What kind of business?” I asked again.
”Kit needed some trucks for his melon business and BB knew how to get 'em on the cheap.”
”Hot?”
”There ain't no proof of that one way or t'other,” the lawyer turned skip chaser said.
”Is that why the police are lookin' for Kit?” I asked.
Milo shrugged. ”Kit's a businessman and black. You know all businessmen cross the line now and then. But when a black one do it the cops on him like white on rice.”
What Milo said was true but it didn't explain the dead man nicknamed after a Greek demiG.o.d.
”You know a woman named Leora?”
”Never heard of her.”
”She has a young boy-child named Son. Says she's Kit's wife.”
”I don't have any personal information on Mr. Mitch.e.l.l. He could have five wives as far as I know, and two heads for all I care.”
As Milo sat back in the red leather I wondered if he knew anything more. I couldn't ask him about Wexler because I shouldn't have known anything about a murdered man. As far as I knew, Lance Wexler was still decomposing in secret, his foot holding open the door.
”Where does this Winifred L. Fine live?” I asked.
”Why should I tell you?” Milo said.
”All I can say is that you have to trust me. Fearless might be in some trouble around Kit and I agreed to help him out. If I run across BB along the way I'll make sure you know about it.”
”What kind of trouble?” Milo asked.
”This woman Leora come around and asked Fearless where was Kit,” I said. ”She said that she was his wife. She said that he abandoned her and his child. After Fearless asked a couple'a questions the cops come around his place and asked about him. Now the next morning your boy Timmerman comes to my house askin' about Fearless too. You know neither one of us believes in coincidence, Milo.”
”Maybe not,” he said. ”But if there's a word for it in the dictionary then there's a chance that it could happen.”
”Tell me where I can find Miss Fine.”
”But you could get to Winifred if I give you her address. You could make all her fortune work for you.”
”Milo, I wouldn't even know what to do with a beauty product distribution company. All I care about is my books.”
Milo frowned for a full fifteen seconds before calling out, ”Loretta!”
”Yes, Mr. Sweet.”
”Write down Winifred L. Fine's numbers on a card for Paris. Call her and tell her that I'm sendin' him by.” And then, ”You better not be messin' with me, Paris.”
”I was thinkin' the exact same thing about you, Mr. Sweet.”
9.
THE FINE FAMILY LIVED ON BRAUGHM ROAD, which occupied a strip of land between Santa Monica and Los Angeles. It was a big yellow house, a mansion really, flanked by strawberry farms that have long since disappeared. It had a southern look to it. The driveway was long enough to be called a road. It led to an electric fence equipped with a buzzer, a microphone, and a loudspeaker-all of them held together by black electrical tape. which occupied a strip of land between Santa Monica and Los Angeles. It was a big yellow house, a mansion really, flanked by strawberry farms that have long since disappeared. It had a southern look to it. The driveway was long enough to be called a road. It led to an electric fence equipped with a buzzer, a microphone, and a loudspeaker-all of them held together by black electrical tape.
”Who is it?” a man's voice asked a minute or so after I pressed the buzzer.
”Paris Minton,” I said.
”Who the h.e.l.l is Paris Minton?”