Fearless Jones

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MY USED-BOOK STORE had been open for just about a month when the police showed up. I hadn’t called them, of course; a black man has to think twice before calling the cops in Watts. They came to see me late that afternoon. Two well-built young men. One had dark hair and the other sported freckles.

The dark one wandered around the room, flipping through random books, looking, it seemed, for some kind of contraband.

“Where’d you get all these books, son?” the other cop asked, looking down on me.

I was sitting in my favorite swivel chair behind the makeshift table-desk that I used for book sales and purchases.

“Libraries,” I replied.

“Stole ’em?” the dark-haired cop asked from across the room. There was an eager grin on his face.

“Front’a each page marked discarded,” I said, editing out all unnecessary words as I spoke. “Library throws away thousands of books every year.”

I reached for a paper folder at the far end of the table, and the cop standing over me let his right hand drift toward his holster. I removed a sheet of paper and handed it over slowly.

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