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Back Blood Grove
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. Discover More
  53. Praise for Walter Mosley andBlood Grove
  54. About the Author
  55. Also by Walter Mosley

In America everything is about either race or money or some combination of the two. Who you are, what you have, what you look like, where your people came from, and what god looked over their breed—these were the most important questions. Added into that is the race of men and the race of women. The rich, famous, and powerful believe they have a race and the poor know for a fact that they do. The thing about it is that most people have more than one race. White people have Italians, Germans, Irish, Poles, English, Scots, Portuguese, Russian, old-world Spaniards, new-world rich, and many combinations thereof. Black people have a color scheme from high yellow to moonless night, from octoroon to deepest Congo. And new-world Spanish have every nation from Mexico to Puerto Rico, from Colombia to Venezuela, each of which is a race of its own—not to mention the empires, from Aztec to Mayan to Olmec.

I’m a black man closer to Mississippi midnight than its yellow moon. Also I’m a westerner, a Californian formerly from the South—Louisiana and Texas to be exact. I’m a father, a reader, a private detective, and a veteran.

I’m sure as shit a vet.

From the sand-strewn corpses of D-day (on that day my race, for a brief moment, was all-American) to the Battle of the Bulge with its one hundred fifty thousand dead, to the masses of skin-stitched corpses, living and dead, at Auschwitz-Birkenau. The explosions in my ears, the death at my hands, and the smell of gunpowder and slaughter made me brother to any man, woman, or child who ever raised arms or had arms raised against them.

Because of that bloody history, Craig Kilian was as much my brother in blood as any black man in the U.S. I had to help him because I could see his pain in my mirror.

5

5

It was just about Eighteenth Street when I made up my mind to go see Kilian’s mother. That decision accomplished, I could then think about my destination.

The pale yellow 1968 Rolls-Royce Phantom VI was in the shop for its quarterly tune-up. I had in my possession a contract that said the car was under a yearlong lease to me for payment of one dollar. If, at the end of that time, Chuck Zuma couldn’t pay at least sixty thousand dollars, I would assume ownership of the automobile.