had to die, I knew that. I knew it but I didn’t want to admit it.
O N MONDAY I went to Mofass’s office. He was sitting behind the desk glowering at a plate of pork chops and eggs. A boy in the neighborhood brought up his breakfast every morning at about eleven. Mofass stared at the food for sometimes up to half an hour before eating. He never told me why, but I always imagined that he was afraid that the boy spat in it. That’s the kind of insult that Mofass always feared.
“Mornin’, Mofass.”
“Mr. Rawlins.”
He picked up a chop by its fatty bone and took a bite out of the eye.
“I ain’t gonna be ’round much for the next three or four weeks. I got business t’take care of.”
“I’m doin’ business ev’ry day, Mr. Rawlins. I cain’t take no vacation or you’d go broke,” he chided through a mass of mashed meat.
“That’s why you get paid, Mofass.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said. He scooped a good half of the scrambled egg into his mouth.
“Anything happenin’ that I need to know about?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. The police come and asked about Poinsettia.” A brief shadow worked its way across Mofass’s face. I remember thinking that even a hard man like that could feel pain at a young woman’s demise. “I told’em that I only knew that she was five months behind on the rent. That Negro cop didn’t like my attitude, so I advised him to come back when he had a warrant.”
“I wanted to talk to you about her,” I said.
He looked at me with only mild interest.
“Her boyfriend, Willie Sacks, tried t’knock my head off in front of First African Sunday.”
“How come?” Mofass asked.
“He wanted you, and I didn’t wanna tell’im where you was.”
Mofass took a mouthful of egg and nodded. As soon as he got the mess down to the size of a golf ball he said, “Okay.”
“But he was sayin’ somethin’ like whatever happened to her, I mean like her accident, had sumpin’ t’do with you.”
“That boy’s jes’ grievin’, Mr. Rawlins. He done left’er when she got sick and now he wanna blame somebody else when she up and kills herself.” He shrugged slightly. Harder than diamonds is right.
Mofass was contemptuous but I still felt bad. I knew what it was to be the cause of another human being’s demise. I had felt that guilt myself.
“You want me to hire somebody to take care of the work ’round the places while you on vacation?” Mofass asked.
He knew I didn’t like to be called lazy.
“I’m just doin’ some extra work, man. Somethin’ gotta do with that tax thing.”
“What?”
He stopped eating and picked up a cigar that had been in a glass ashtray on his desk.
“They got me doin’ ’em a li’l favor. I do that right an’ the taxes get easier.”
“What could the IRS need from you?”
“Not them exactly.” I didn’t want to tell him that I was working for the FBI. “Anyway they want me t’ find a guy gotta do with the minister down at First African. Maybe he owes ’em mo’ taxes than me.”
Mofass just shook his head. I could tell he didn’t believe me.
“So you be at church the next couple of weeks?”
“More or less.”
“I guess you gonna be prayin ’ off them taxes instead’a payin’ ’em.”
He made a sound like coughing. At first I thought he was choking but then as it got louder I realized that Mofass was laughing. He put his cigar down and pulled out the whitest pocket handkerchief I’d ever seen. He blew his nose and wiped tears from his eyes and he was still laughing.
“Mofass!” I yelled, but he just kept on laughing.
“Mofass!”
He added a little catch in his throat, sort of like a far-off goose calling her mate. The tears flowed.
Finally I gave up and walked out.
I stood outside for a few minutes, listening behind the closed door; he laughed the whole time I stood there.
I N THE LATE AFTERNOON, I went to First African.
The front of the church was on 112th Street and went all the way
O N MONDAY I went to Mofass’s office. He was sitting behind the desk glowering at a plate of pork chops and eggs. A boy in the neighborhood brought up his breakfast every morning at about eleven. Mofass stared at the food for sometimes up to half an hour before eating. He never told me why, but I always imagined that he was afraid that the boy spat in it. That’s the kind of insult that Mofass always feared.
“Mornin’, Mofass.”
“Mr. Rawlins.”
He picked up a chop by its fatty bone and took a bite out of the eye.
“I ain’t gonna be ’round much for the next three or four weeks. I got business t’take care of.”
“I’m doin’ business ev’ry day, Mr. Rawlins. I cain’t take no vacation or you’d go broke,” he chided through a mass of mashed meat.
“That’s why you get paid, Mofass.”
“Yeah, I guess,” he said. He scooped a good half of the scrambled egg into his mouth.
“Anything happenin’ that I need to know about?” I asked.
“Not that I know of. The police come and asked about Poinsettia.” A brief shadow worked its way across Mofass’s face. I remember thinking that even a hard man like that could feel pain at a young woman’s demise. “I told’em that I only knew that she was five months behind on the rent. That Negro cop didn’t like my attitude, so I advised him to come back when he had a warrant.”
“I wanted to talk to you about her,” I said.
He looked at me with only mild interest.
“Her boyfriend, Willie Sacks, tried t’knock my head off in front of First African Sunday.”
“How come?” Mofass asked.
“He wanted you, and I didn’t wanna tell’im where you was.”
Mofass took a mouthful of egg and nodded. As soon as he got the mess down to the size of a golf ball he said, “Okay.”
“But he was sayin’ somethin’ like whatever happened to her, I mean like her accident, had sumpin’ t’do with you.”
“That boy’s jes’ grievin’, Mr. Rawlins. He done left’er when she got sick and now he wanna blame somebody else when she up and kills herself.” He shrugged slightly. Harder than diamonds is right.
Mofass was contemptuous but I still felt bad. I knew what it was to be the cause of another human being’s demise. I had felt that guilt myself.
“You want me to hire somebody to take care of the work ’round the places while you on vacation?” Mofass asked.
He knew I didn’t like to be called lazy.
“I’m just doin’ some extra work, man. Somethin’ gotta do with that tax thing.”
“What?”
He stopped eating and picked up a cigar that had been in a glass ashtray on his desk.
“They got me doin’ ’em a li’l favor. I do that right an’ the taxes get easier.”
“What could the IRS need from you?”
“Not them exactly.” I didn’t want to tell him that I was working for the FBI. “Anyway they want me t’ find a guy gotta do with the minister down at First African. Maybe he owes ’em mo’ taxes than me.”
Mofass just shook his head. I could tell he didn’t believe me.
“So you be at church the next couple of weeks?”
“More or less.”
“I guess you gonna be prayin ’ off them taxes instead’a payin’ ’em.”
He made a sound like coughing. At first I thought he was choking but then as it got louder I realized that Mofass was laughing. He put his cigar down and pulled out the whitest pocket handkerchief I’d ever seen. He blew his nose and wiped tears from his eyes and he was still laughing.
“Mofass!” I yelled, but he just kept on laughing.
“Mofass!”
He added a little catch in his throat, sort of like a far-off goose calling her mate. The tears flowed.
Finally I gave up and walked out.
I stood outside for a few minutes, listening behind the closed door; he laughed the whole time I stood there.
I N THE LATE AFTERNOON, I went to First African.
The front of the church was on 112th Street and went all the way
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