Part 8 (1/2)
”Yes sir.”
”That all?”
”I don't understand you, Officer Morrain.”
He walked back into the room and looked down into my eyes.
”Lots of times we find that people down around here set up places that are supposed to sell one thing but really they have some other business.”
”Like what?” I asked, simple as a stone.
Morrain smiled and sucked in air through his nostrils.
”Where is this watermelon farm?” Sergeant Rawlway asked.
”Up near Oxnard,” I said. ”Fearless harvests them for these street salesmen that work all over Watts. Is Fearless in trouble?”
”Why don't you worry about yourself?” Morrain suggested.
”Well, yeah,” I said. ”Sure.”
”When did you say you saw Fearless last?” Rawlway asked.
”About a month . . . almost that.”
”Are you good friends?”
”Yeah. Uh-huh. I met Fearless when he was discharged from the service, after the war.”
”Has he always been a farmer?”
”No sir. Fearless works at whatever. Day labor, farming, you name it.”
”If you're such good friends,” Morrain asked, ”then why haven't you seen him in so long?”
At that moment I thought about the five-dollar bills on the counter in my kitchen. If the police came across that cache they'd arrest me on suspicion. I could feel the moisture breaking through my pores.
”He, he's been on that watermelon farm, like I told you. I run this store and don't have time to drive up there. And even if I did, Fearless is workin'.”
”Where is Fearless?” Rawlway asked again.
”I told you,” I said. ”I don't know. He was up on that farm. He haven't called me. I guess he's still there.”
I was wily but numb. That was my defense against the law. I didn't have the slightest antagonism toward those peace officers. That might come as a surprise to anyone who hasn't had the experience of being a black man in America. I wasn't angry, because we were just actors playing parts written down before any one of us was born. Later on, at the barbershop, I'd laugh about my answers with other black men who had grown up playing dumb under the scrutiny of some other man's law.
”He was seen in the past few days by various witnesses not a mile from your door,” hairy Rawlway reported.
”Witnesses?”
”Where is he, Mr. Minton?”
”I'm tellin' you the truth, man. I ain't seen Fearless. I don't know anything about what he's been doin' or about any witnesses either.”
”What about Bartholomew Perry?” Rawlway asked.
”I know him to say hi to,” I said. ”I mean, we ain't friends or nuthin' and I don't even remember the last time I saw him.”
”Are he and Fearless friends?”
”Not that I know of.”
”I could take you down to the station, Paris,” Rawlway said.
”You could, sergeant, but that wouldn't change what I said. I don't know where Fearless is. I don't know Bartholomew Perry more than to tell you his name. I'm in this buildin' here all day sellin' books. That's all.”
”And you expect us to believe that you sell books for a living?”
”Why not?”
Morrain stepped back into one of the aisles.
”Who wrote . . . um . . . ,” he said, holding a book at arm's length so that he could make out the spine. ”Let's see here, oh yeah. Who wrote Madame Bovary Madame Bovary?”
”Gustave Flaubert.”
He picked out another book.
”How about the, The Mysterious Stranger The Mysterious Stranger?”
”Mark Twain.”
”You think you're smart, n.i.g.g.e.r?”
”I'm just trying to make a living, officer. Fearless is my friend but I haven't seen him. That's all I know.”
It was always a tough part to play. They saw themselves as the foremen of the neighborhood. I was a lazy worker, a liar looking to cheat them out of what was their superior's proper due. My job was to make them believe in their picture of me while at the same time showing that today I wasn't s.h.i.+rking or lying or lining my pockets with their boss man's money.
”You remember our names?” Rawlway asked.
”Sergeant Rawlway and Officer Morrain,” I said.
”If you hear from this Fearless, call us. Because if we find out you didn't, there's nothing in any of these books that will save your a.s.s from me. You understand?”
”Yes sir.”
12.