BooksBarbecue
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

Blue Suit said something that might have been in English and the thugs parted like as if Moses had spoken their names.

I wondered if I should sit but Mouse stood up before I could decide.

“Good to see you guys,” Raymond said to the dead souls. “We’ll talk about that job later.” Then to me: “Come on, Easy.”

We achieved the dining floor and walked toward where Rudolf was standing. When I realized that we were headed for the door I put a hand on my friend’s shoulder and said, “I need to get an address before I leave. They tell me the club manager got it.”

“You mean for Alonzo Griggs?”

“You got his last name?”

“Name, phone number, address, and the smell’a his pits. I know who you lookin’ for and I know where he say he live at. On top’a that I know where he stays when he needs to hide out.”

16

16

I followed Mouse’s Caddy from Hollywood to Inglewood. At that time of evening in 1969 there was not a great deal of traffic. It was about a quarter past ten when we turned into an alley off Coeller Street. The unpaved lane went by the back doors of a few warehouses and then abruptly stopped at a tall steel mesh fence with barbed wire nested across the top and a huge BEWARE OF DOG sign hung about midway. Above the warning was another, smaller sign that read CAFKIN’S JUNKYARD.

“Cafkin,” I said. “Who’s that?”

“He the man that owns the place where Alonzo go when he wanna stay hid,” Mouse explained.

My friend had a long and slender crowbar in his right hand and a grease-stained brown paper bag in the other. He set the bag down, then threaded the crowbar through the hook of the big padlock holding the chains that kept the front gate from opening.

“You take one side and I will the other and we’ll twist,” Raymond said. “Somethin’ gotta give.”

“What about the dog?”

“Dogs,” he corrected, his smile glittering. “You got your gun, right?”

I sighed and we started turning the steel fulcrum. At about nine turns I heard the metal scrunch. At eleven one or more of the thick chain links cracked. By sixteen the chain fell away and the gate swung in a few inches.

I was thinking about the plural of dog when Mouse walked across the threshold of danger.