Little Scarlet (Easy Rawlins Series #8) by Walter Mosley

From the Publisher

Watts is smoldering in ruins-and the cops are on Easy Rawlins's doorstep. Easy expects the worst, as usual. But, incredibly, they're asking for his help. A redheaded woman known as Little Scarlet had sheltered a man during the riots. Witnesses later saw him fleeing her building; not long after, Little Scarlet was found viciously murdered. Now, with his old friend Mouse at his side, Easy follows the case's single clue across Los Angeles. The missing man is the key, but he's only the beginning. Hidden in the heart of the city is a killer whose red-hot rage is as fierce as the fires that rocked L.A.

The Washington Post - John Burdett

Although the story is narrated in the first person by Easy Rawlins, who is the hero of a series of Mosley novels, the true protagonist of the book is collectively the riots and their aftermath. Mosley is considerably more interested in the ambiguous state of mind of the black citizenry, the disorientation of the cops and the looted, shambolic condition of Watts itself than he is in the adventures of his hero. Watts, in truth, is a world turned upside down, and Mosley simply points his hero at it and rolls the camera.

The New York Times Sunday Book Review - Marilyn Stasio

Once he recovers his own street voice, Easy finally comes up with the last word on the riots: ''It's hot and they been sittin' on our necks forever.'' Nobody, but nobody, writes this stuff like Mosley.

The New York Times - Janet Maslin

Little Scarlet — most of the Easy Rawlins books, like Devil in a Blue Dress, have colors in their titles — does a thoughtful, effective job of making that sense of racial outrage pivotal to its murder plot. As he did most recently in the non-Rawlins novel The Man in My Basement, Mr. Mosley is able to show how extreme racial polarities can lead to situations that are in no way black and white.

USA Today - Tatiana Siegel

Little Scarlet works so well because it operates on two distinct levels: as a compelling cat-and-mouse game and as a dead-eyed examination of the injustices inherent in racism. Little Scarlet enjoys the bonus of taking place against a lush and frightening historical backdrop of urban America teetering on the precipice of change.

Publishers Weekly

Admirably performed by reader Boatman, this audiobook the latest in Mosley's series featuring Los Angeles PI Easy Rawlins (A Red Death, etc.) picks up immediately after the Watts riots of 1965. It is a time of change, and Rawlins finds himself in the unusual position of being asked to officially help the LAPD in its search for the killer of a young black woman. Mosley is at his best capturing the gritty ambience of a setting, and Boatman's skillful reading of the author's rich, descriptive prose transports listeners to that sweltering summer, when violence and fear simmered just below the city's surface. With the support of the LAPD in his back pocket, Rawlins makes his way through places that had previously been closed, if not forbidden, to the blacks of that time. Boatman does a fine job of conveying the growing sense of confidence and strength that comes with Rawlins's newfound freedom. Tightly edited and nicely produced, this already enjoyable audiobook is further enhanced by snippets of jazz accenting the story elements at the beginning and end of each disc. Simultaneous release with the Little, Brown hardcover (Forecasts, May 24). (July) Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Library Journal

The raw treatment of blacks in America, which has simmered beneath the surface of Mosley's Easy Rawlins novels and came to a low bubble in Bad Boy Brawley Brown, here erupts to a full boil. Set during the 1965 Watts riots, the eighth book in the series finds Easy, now 45, as he is recruited by the LAPD to investigate a murder in that combat-zone neighborhood. With a letter from the deputy police commissioner giving him carte blanche, Easy semipartners with his street crew of Rawlins regulars and LAPD Detective Melvin Suggs to work both sides of the law to unearth the identity of what proves to be a serial killer. Beyond the backdrop of the riots, the question of color is intricately and masterfully woven into the fabric of the story without overwhelming the mystery. The pervading theme here is change, in both the community and the core characters, and the novel's conclusion is perhaps indicative that this installment is a turning point in the series. Mosley's hot streak continues with Little Scarlet, the best Easy novel in years. Highly recommended. [Previewed in Prepub Alert, LJ 3/15/04; see Q&A with Mosley on p. 107.]-Michael Rogers, Library Journal Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Easy Rawlins sizzles as Watts burns. The official death toll in the 1966 Watts riots is 33, but the LAPD is keeping a 34th fatality quiet. The victim is red-haired Nola Payne, a.k.a. Li'l Scarlet, strangled and then shot after she rescued a white man who'd been rousted from his car by an opportunistic thief. Det. Melvin Suggs and Deputy Commissioner Gerald Jordan don't say it in so many words, but the cops who drive the streets hassling loners are scared to go door-to-door asking questions while storefronts are still smoldering. So Easy accepts a paper from Jordan authorizing him to investigate. As usual, Easy isn't much of a detective-his inquiries lead to a chain of suspicious characters who finger one another-but he could hardly be improved as a philosopher and aphorist. Recognizing early on that the official response to the riots, enlisting subservient black men into the oppressive ranks of white officialdom and cracking down on the rest, marks "the beginning of the breakup of our community," Easy, who's "never willingly said anything intelligent" to a white man, follows a trail of ill-fated souls who've sought to cross racial divides till he finds the most tortured killer of his checkered career (Six Easy Pieces, 2003, etc.). The real strength of Easy's narrative, though, is his unflinching recognition that in working with the police, he's crossing the same border that's driven his brothers and sisters to violence. Author tour. Agent: Gloria Loomis/Watkins Loomis Agency

Product Details

• Table of Contents
• Read a Sample Chapter

Table of Contents

Read a Sample Chapter

The morning air still smelled of smoke. Wood ash mainly but there was also the acrid stench of burnt plastic and paint. And even though I knew it couldn't be true, I thought I caught a whiff of putrid flesh from under the rubble across the street. The hardware store and Bernard's Stationery Store were both completely gutted. The Gonzalez Market had been looted but only a part of its roof had been scorched. The corner building, however, Lucky Dime Liquors, had been burned to the ground. Manny Massman was down in the rubble with his two sons, kicking the metal fixtures. At one point the middle-aged store owner lowered his head and cried. His sons put their hands on his shoulders.

I understood how he felt. He had everything in that liquor store. His whole life. And now, after a five-day eruption of rage that had been simmering for centuries, he was penniless and destitute.

In his mind he hadn't done a thing wrong to anyone down in Watts. He had never even thought about calling someone a nigger or boy. But the men and women down around Central and Eighty-sixth Place took everything of Manny's that they could carry, then smashed and burned the rest.

Four young black men passed in front of the liquor lot. One of them shouted something at the white men.

Manny barked back.

The youths stopped.

The Massman sons stepped forward with their chests out and their mouths full of angry sounds.

It's starting all over again, I thought. Maybe we'll be rioting a whole year. Maybe it won't ever end.

The black men crossed the threshold of the Lucky Dime's property line.

Stephen Massman bent down to pick up a piece of metal that had once been attached to their counter.

One of the angry youths shoved Martin.

I held my breath.

"Halt!" a man shouted through a megaphone.

A dozen or more soldiers appeared out of nowhere. A black soldier wearing a helmet and camouflage khakis talked to the black men while four white soldiers stood in an arc in front of the store owners. The rest of the troop stood across the property line cutting off the ravaged lot from the street.

Most of the National Guardsmen brandished rifles. A crowd was gathering. My hands clenched into fists so tight that my right forearm went into a spasm.

While I massaged out the knot of pain, the black soldier, a sergeant, calmed the four youths. I could hear his voice but my fourth-story window was too far away for me to make out the words.

I turned away from the scene and fell into the plush blue chair that sat at my desk. For the next hour I just sat there, hearing the sounds of people in the street but not daring to look down.

It had been like that for the past five days: me holding myself in check while South Los Angeles went up in the flames of a race riot; while stores were looted and snipers fired and while men, women, and children cried "Burn, baby, burn!" and "Get whitey!" on every corner familiar to me.

I stayed shut up in my home, in peaceful West L.A., not drinking and not going out with a trunk full of Molotov cocktails.

WHEN I FINALLY roused myself the street down below was full of black people, some venturing out of their homes for the first time since the first night of rioting. Most of them looked stunned.

I went to my office door and out into the hall.

There was the smell of smoke in the building too, but not much. Steinman's Shoe Repair was the only store that had been torched. That was on the first night, when the fire trucks still braved the hails of sniper bullets. The flames were put out before they could spread.

I went to the far stairwell from my office and down the three flights to Steinman's side entrance. There was a burnt timber blocking the way. I would have turned around if it weren't for the voices.

"What the hell you mean you don't have my shoes, white man?"

"Everything is burned up," a frail voice replied in a mild German accent.

"That's not my fault, man," the angry voice said. "I give you my shoes, I expect to get them back."

"They are all burned."

"And do you think if this was my store that I could tell you I didn't have nuthin' for ya?" the customer said. "Do you think a black man could just say his store done burned down so he don't have to make good on his responsibilities?"

"I don't have your shoes."

I shoved the timber out of the way, smudging the palms of my hands with sooty charcoal. When I came into the burned-out room, both occupants turned to look at me.

Theodore was a short, powerfully built white man with little hair and big hands. The irate customer was much larger, with a wide chest and a big face that would have been beautiful on a woman.

"Hey, Theodore," I said.

"Wait your turn, man," the Negro customer warned. "I got business to take care of first."

He swiveled his head back to the cobbler and said, "Those shoes costed me thirty-six dollars and if you can't give 'em up right now I want to see some money across this here hand."

I took a quick breath and then another. There was an electric tingle over my right cheekbone and for a moment the room was tinged in red.

"Brother," I said. "You got to go."

"Are you talkin' to me, niggah?"

"You heard me," I said in a tone that you can't make up. "I been in the house for some time now, trying not to break out and start doin' wrong. I've been patient and treadin' softly. But if you say one more word to my friend here I will break you like a matchstick and throw you out in the street."

"I want my shoes," the big beautiful man said with tears in his voice. "He owe it to me. It don't matter what they did."

I heard his cracked tone. I knew that he was just as crazy as I was at that moment. We were both black men filled with a passionate rage that was too big to be held in. I didn't want to fight but I knew that once I started, the only thing that would stop me would be his lifeless throat crushed by my hand.

"Here you are, sir," Theodore said.

He was handing over a ten-dollar bill.

"Your shoes were old, you know," the shoemaker said. "And they both needed soles. It was a good make and I would have bought them for seven dollars. So here's ten."

The burly man stared at the note a moment. Then he looked up at me.

"Forget it," he said.

He turned around so quickly that he lost his balance for a moment and had to reach out for a broken, charred timber for support.

"Ow!" he shouted, probably because of a splinter, but I can't say for sure because he blundered out, tearing the front door off of its last hinge as he went.

There was a sleek antique riding saddle on the floor, under a shattered wooden chair. I moved away the kindling and picked up the saddle. Theodore had received it from his uncle who was a riding master in Munich before World War I. I'd always admired the leatherwork.

Setting the riding gear on a fairly stable part of his ruined worktable, I said, "You didn't have to pay him, Mr. Steinman."

"He was hurting," the small man replied. "He wanted justice."

"That's not your job."

"It is all of our job," he said, staring at me with blue eyes. "You cannot forget that."

"Ezekiel Rawlins?"

It was a question asked in a voice filled with authority. It was a white man's voice. Putting those bits of information together, I knew that I was being addressed by the police.

Copyright © 2004 by Walter Mosley