Self-Defense by JONATHAN KELLERMAN

“He didn’t like being black?”

“He didn’t admit it. Talking all white. And tell the truth, he was light as a white man.” Laughing again, he pinched the skin of his forearm. “Too much pale in it. And his hair was yellow—nappy, but real yellow. Like he’d been dipped in eggs—Mr. French Toast.”

“Did he have a mustache?”

“Don’t remember, why?”

“Just trying to get a picture.”

His eyes brightened. “You gonna put my picture in the paper?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Gonna pay me for it?”

“Can’t do that.”

“Then forget it—aw, okay, if you want—lot better than Darnel’s picture. He was an ugly dude. Big and strong—said he played football in college, too. Wouldn’t admit he was black, but his nose was flatter than Fatboy’s back there. Yellow hair and these wishy blue eyes—like yours, but even wishier. Yeah, come to think of it, I think he had a mustache. Little one. Fuzz. Weak, yellow fuzz. Stupid.”

CHAPTER

38

I paid him the rest of the money, and he began walking away from me.

“One more thing,” I said. “In the article, you said you didn’t hear the shots ’cause of traffic. Was traffic that strong at 4 A.M.?”

He kept walking.

I caught up. “Mr. Sylvester?”

The same dry, angry look he’d shown his friend.

I repeated the question.

“I hear you, I’m not stupid.”

“Is there a problem with answering it?” I said.

“No problem. I didn’t hear any shots, okay?”

“Okay. Did Barnard check in alone?”

“If that’s what it says in your paper.”

“It doesn’t say. Just that his name was the only one on the register. Was he with anyone?”

“How the hell would I know?” He stopped. “Our business is finished, man. You used up your money a long time ago.”

“Were you really there, or was it one of the nights Darnel Mullins asked you to leave?”

He stepped back and touched a trousers pocket. Implying a weapon, but nothing sagged the pocket.

“You calling me a liar?”

“No, just trying to get details.”

“You got ’em, now get.” Flicking a hand. “And don’t send no white boy around a camera to take my picture. White boys with cameras don’t do well around here.”

My stomach grumbled. I had lunch at a deli near Robertson. Rabbis, cops, and stockbrokers were eating pastrami and discussing their respective philosophies. I asked for matzo-ball soup, and while I waited I tried Milo’s home, ready to leave another message. Rick answered with his on-call voice. “Dr. Silverman.”

“Hi, it’s Alex.”

“Alex, how’s the new house coming along?”

“Slowly.”

“Big hassle, huh?”

“Better since Robin took over.”

“Good for her. Looking for El Sleutho? He left early this morning, some kind of surveillance.”

“Must be the Bogettes,” I said.

“Who?”

“Those girls who worship Jobe Shwandt.”

“Probably. He’s not pleased having to deal with that again. Not that he’s talked about it much. We have a new arrangement: I don’t discuss the finer points of cutting and suturing, and he doesn’t remind me how rotten the world is.”

Back home, I tried Columbia University again. Darnel Mullins had, indeed, graduated from the university and done one year of graduate school before dropping out— shortly after reviewing Command: Shed the Light. The alumni office had a home address in Teaneck, New Jersey, and a phone number to go with it, but when I called I got a dress shop called Millie’s Couture.

Remembering what Eddy Sylvester had said about Mullins claiming a doctor father, I called New Jersey information and asked for any Mullinses with M.D.’s in Teaneck.

“The only one I have,” said the operator, “is a Dr. Winston Mullins, but that’s in Englewood.”

At that number, a man with an elderly, cultured voice said, “Hello?”

“Dr. Mullins?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

I gave him the biography story.

No reply.

“Dr. Mullins?”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you. Darnel’s been dead for a long time.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” he said. “A little over twenty years. I guess I never called Columbia to notify them.”

“Was he ill?”

“No, he was murdered.”

“Oh, no!”

“Out where you are, matter of fact. He had an apartment in Hollywood. Surprised a burglar, and the burglar shot him. They never caught the man. I’m sure Darnel would have liked to talk to you. He always wanted to be a writer.”

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