Read Online White Butterfly by Walter Mosley - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Walter Mosley
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective, Political, Hard-Boiled, Detectives, Los Angeles (Calif.), African American, Rawlins; Easy (Fictitious character)
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from the table. Roger followed me with his eyes. I decided to let him keep the handkerchief. Maybe when he looked at the bloody rag he’d remember what I said and refrain from killing Charles Warren.
THE HOWARDS’ HOUSE was a big yellow thing. It had been a plain, single-story house at one time but they kept adding to it. First they made the garage into their living quarters so that the rest of the house could be used for business. Then they added a room on the other side. A second floor was put on in 1952 with a flat roof supporting a flower garden that Estelle tended. At some point they bought the house next door and annexed it by building a long hall-like structure across the yard. The original house was wood but the new addition was brick. The city started giving them zoning problems in ’55 so they farmed out the girls for a while and had the whole thing painted yellow so that it would at least look of a piece.
I guess the city agent backed off or, more likely, was paid off. The girls came back, and along with them their regular customers. Nobody complained. Max, Estelle, and twelve women lived there—raising families, working hard, and going to church on Sundays.
I was drunk. The only reason I didn’t have an accident driving the eight blocks to Bethune was that I didn’t think about driving and somehow steered from instinct. I pushed the button in the center of the lion’s mouth at the front door but I didn’t feel my finger. I didn’t hear the bell either, but, as I said, it was a big house.
A mule-faced woman answered the door. She was more than forty and less than sixty-five but that was all I could say about her age. Her platinum-blond hair cascaded to her shoulders like Marlene Dietrich’s. Her skin was black. Her face had many folds in it. And her eyes were the color and sheen of wet mud. Her small hands, which she held before her pink bathrobe, looked as if they could crush stones.
“Estelle,” I said. I had a stupid grin on my face. I could see it in the bronze-framed mirror that dominated the wall at Estelle’s back. She peered at me as if I might have been a dream that would disappear.
I grinned on.
“What you want?” she asked, not in a friendly way at all.
“Thought I might have a drink an’ some company.” I shuddered. “It’s cold out tonight.”
“You already had enough t’drink, an’ you got a wife t’keep you warm.”
“Business so good you turnin’ it away?”
Estelle pushed at a loose lock of her wig and the whole thing turned askew on her head. She didn’t seem to notice, though.
“Ain’t nuthin’ that good. I just don’t trust you, Easy. I hear all kindsa things ’bout you. What you want? I ain’t axin’ no mo’.”
I tried to make the grin a little more sincere by looking into my own eyes in the mirror.
“Like I said. I want a drink an’ some soft friendship. That’s all.”
“Why come here?”
“I been told that that girl… ” I snapped my fingers again, looking for something I didn’t know again. “You know, that li’l one, Bonita Edwards’s friend.”
The mud in Estelle’s eye hardened to stone. “Nita Edwards is dead.”
“I ain’t lookin’ fo’her, it’s just that I cain’t remember her li’l friend’s name.”
“You mean Marla?” The look on Estelle Howard’s mug would have deterred a rhinoceros.
“I don’t know.” I held up my hands. The smile muscles in my cheeks ached. “Jackson Blue told me ’bout her, but all he remembered was that she was Bonita’s friend.”
I smiled and she scowled for another thirty seconds or so, then she said, “You better com’on in fo’ you let all the heat out.”
— 11 —
WE WENT DOWN A LONG HALL that was papered with yellow and orange velvet. There were small dark-stained tables every few feet with clean ashtrays and dishes of hard candy on them. This led to a largish room that had blue sofas along each cream wall. There were lamps here and
THE HOWARDS’ HOUSE was a big yellow thing. It had been a plain, single-story house at one time but they kept adding to it. First they made the garage into their living quarters so that the rest of the house could be used for business. Then they added a room on the other side. A second floor was put on in 1952 with a flat roof supporting a flower garden that Estelle tended. At some point they bought the house next door and annexed it by building a long hall-like structure across the yard. The original house was wood but the new addition was brick. The city started giving them zoning problems in ’55 so they farmed out the girls for a while and had the whole thing painted yellow so that it would at least look of a piece.
I guess the city agent backed off or, more likely, was paid off. The girls came back, and along with them their regular customers. Nobody complained. Max, Estelle, and twelve women lived there—raising families, working hard, and going to church on Sundays.
I was drunk. The only reason I didn’t have an accident driving the eight blocks to Bethune was that I didn’t think about driving and somehow steered from instinct. I pushed the button in the center of the lion’s mouth at the front door but I didn’t feel my finger. I didn’t hear the bell either, but, as I said, it was a big house.
A mule-faced woman answered the door. She was more than forty and less than sixty-five but that was all I could say about her age. Her platinum-blond hair cascaded to her shoulders like Marlene Dietrich’s. Her skin was black. Her face had many folds in it. And her eyes were the color and sheen of wet mud. Her small hands, which she held before her pink bathrobe, looked as if they could crush stones.
“Estelle,” I said. I had a stupid grin on my face. I could see it in the bronze-framed mirror that dominated the wall at Estelle’s back. She peered at me as if I might have been a dream that would disappear.
I grinned on.
“What you want?” she asked, not in a friendly way at all.
“Thought I might have a drink an’ some company.” I shuddered. “It’s cold out tonight.”
“You already had enough t’drink, an’ you got a wife t’keep you warm.”
“Business so good you turnin’ it away?”
Estelle pushed at a loose lock of her wig and the whole thing turned askew on her head. She didn’t seem to notice, though.
“Ain’t nuthin’ that good. I just don’t trust you, Easy. I hear all kindsa things ’bout you. What you want? I ain’t axin’ no mo’.”
I tried to make the grin a little more sincere by looking into my own eyes in the mirror.
“Like I said. I want a drink an’ some soft friendship. That’s all.”
“Why come here?”
“I been told that that girl… ” I snapped my fingers again, looking for something I didn’t know again. “You know, that li’l one, Bonita Edwards’s friend.”
The mud in Estelle’s eye hardened to stone. “Nita Edwards is dead.”
“I ain’t lookin’ fo’her, it’s just that I cain’t remember her li’l friend’s name.”
“You mean Marla?” The look on Estelle Howard’s mug would have deterred a rhinoceros.
“I don’t know.” I held up my hands. The smile muscles in my cheeks ached. “Jackson Blue told me ’bout her, but all he remembered was that she was Bonita’s friend.”
I smiled and she scowled for another thirty seconds or so, then she said, “You better com’on in fo’ you let all the heat out.”
— 11 —
WE WENT DOWN A LONG HALL that was papered with yellow and orange velvet. There were small dark-stained tables every few feet with clean ashtrays and dishes of hard candy on them. This led to a largish room that had blue sofas along each cream wall. There were lamps here and
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