Rose Gold

Paperback | June 9, 2015

byWalter Mosley

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Rosemary Goldsmith, the daughter of a weapons manufacturer, has been kidnapped by a black revolutionary cell called Scorched Earth. Their leader, Uhuru Nolicé, is holding her for ransom and if he doesn’t receive the money, weapons, and apology he demands, “Rose Gold” will die—horribly and publicly. So the authorities turn to Easy Rawlins, the one man who can cross the necessary lines to resolve this dangerous standoff and find Rose Gold before it’s too late.  
In the sixties era of black nationalism, political abductions, and epidemic police corruption, Easy’s investigation will pull him—unremittingly and inevitably—into the darkest underbelly of Los Angeles.

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Rosemary Goldsmith, the daughter of a weapons manufacturer, has been kidnapped by a black revolutionary cell called Scorched Earth. Their leader, Uhuru Nolicé, is holding her for ransom and if he doesn’t receive the money, weapons, and apology he demands, “Rose Gold” will die—horribly and publicly. So the authorities turn to Easy Rawli...

WALTER MOSLEY is the author of more than forty-two books, most notably twelve Easy Rawlins mysteries, the first of which, Devil in a Blue Dress, was made into an acclaimed film starring Denzel Washington. Always Outnumbered was an HBO film starring Laurence Fishburne, adapted from his first Socrates Fortlow novel. He is the winner of n...

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Format:PaperbackDimensions:320 pages, 8.02 × 5.2 × 0.67 inPublished:June 9, 2015Publisher:Knopf Doubleday Publishing GroupLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0307949796

ISBN - 13:9780307949790

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Extra Content

Read from the Book

1Back then, Moving Day in L.A. was a phantom holiday that occurred, for many Angelenos, every other month or so. In the 1950s and ’60s, when the rent was dirt cheap, people moved to be closer to a new job, away from an old lover, or when it seemed that a fundamental change of life was in order. Sometimes the person moving would not only change the numbers on his or her door but also the name on the mailbox, the used car in the driveway, and even the style of clothes they donned to walk out and meet the day.Now and then the move was not merely aesthetic or convenient but necessary; like when a bill collector, lawyer, or the law itself was hot on the temporary tenant’s trail. At a time like this the migrant leaseholder would make sure that the new domicile was inside the border of a different unincorporated town or municipality of L.A. County. That way the law offered few systems to track his whereabouts. A man could actually avoid dunning or even arrest by merely moving across the street.In the case of a necessary move, the rental émigré would load up a truck in the middle of the night and go with no fanfare, or notice to the landlord.This was not the case with my midmorning migration.My daughter and I were moving, that Sunday, from Genesee at Pico to Point View just a few houses north of Airdrome; not more than eleven blocks. This was a necessary move that was not due to any legal or monetary bureaucracy.Five months or so earlier I had almost died. At that time I had been involved in a case that put my home in jeopardy, and so I had sent my daughter to stay with her brother at a friend’s place, temporarily. I resolved the case but then drove my car off the side of a coastal mountain. Whether this accident was due to a subconscious death wish or just bad luck is uncertain, but I was in what the doctors called a semicoma for the better part of two months.During that time a squatter named Jeffrey had taken possession of the empty house on Genesee. With the help of my friend Raymond Alexander, Jeff was put out. This was not a gentle eviction and I worried that Feather, my adopted daughter, might one day be home alone when the squatter returned for revenge.And so I sold the Genesee house and bought a new, larger place on Point View. I might have ranged farther but that September, Feather was going to enter the seventh grade at Louis Pasteur Junior High and the new address was just a block away from there.And so some friends—­LaMarque Alexander (Raymond’s son), Jesus (my adopted boy, now a young man), Jackson Blue and his wife’s associate Percy Bidwell—­helped Feather and me load our belongings into a rented truck and drive it over to the new door.I would have hired a moving company but recently, within the last week, the city had seen fit to inspect all five of the rental properties I owned and demanded I fix structural problems, perform a termite-­extermination, and in one place they even required that I install a new heating system. It would take every cent I had, and then some, to pay for the improvements, so I rented a truck from my old pal Primo and called on my friends to lend a hand with the move.Feather set herself up in the entranceway of the rare two-­story residence and directed the men where to deposit the bureaus, tables, beds, boxes, and chairs. My daughter had light brown hair and skin. She was tall for twelve and lean, not to say thin. She was becoming an accomplished long-­distance runner as her brother, Jesus, had been, and was fluent in three languages already. Neither she nor her brother had one drop of blood in common with me, or each other, but they were my kids and we were family.“Uncle Jackson,” Feather said from the front hall, “that little table goes in Daddy’s room upstairs. He uses it for his desk.”“Upstairs?” Jackson exclaimed. He was around my age, mid-­forties, short, jet black, and skinny as a sapling tree. “Girl, this table might look little but the wood is dense, and heavy.”“I’ll help, Uncle J,” Jesus said. My boy was pure Mexican Indian. He was no taller than Jackson Blue but his years of working his own small fishing boat had made him strong.Jesus got behind the table, taking most of the weight, and Jackson groaned piteously as he guided it up the stairs.“This is a really nice house you got here, Mr. Rawlins,” Percy Bidwell said.He was almost my height, a brassy brown, and good-­looking. His hair had been processed into tight curls. I always distrusted men who processed their hair. This was a prejudice that I realized was not necessarily justified.“Thank you, Percy. I like it.”“Jewelle said that you haven’t moved in years. I guess this house was just too good to pass up. Must’ve cost quite a bit for a place this big in this neighborhood.”I also didn’t like people asking about my business. Percy was racking up the negative points on my friendship register.“Do you work for Jewelle?” I asked.“No.” He seemed almost insulted by the question.Jewelle MacDonald had come from a real estate family and on her own had amassed an empire of apartment buildings and commercial properties. She was even part-­owner of a major international hotel that was being constructed in downtown L.A. Jewelle was barely out of her twenties and married to the onetime roustabout, now computer expert Jackson Blue. It was no insult to ask if Bidwell worked for her. She had sent him to help Jackson, after all.“Jewelle told me that if I wanted to get in contact with Jason Middleton,” Percy said, “that you were the one who would do that for me.”His sentence structure told me that he thought that I was somehow under the direction of Jewelle; that all he had to do was mention that she had asked for something and I would make that something happen.I turned away from him and called, “LaMarque!”“Yes, Mr. Rawlins?”The lanky twenty-­two-­year-­old loped from the truck to my side.“Where’s your father?”“He had to go back east on business.”Business for Raymond, more commonly known as Mouse, was high-­end heists with the strong possibility of brutality and bloodshed.“So he sent you to take his place?” I asked. I could feel Percy Bidwell starring daggers at my back.“Mama did. When you called to ask for Dad to help, she send me.”“How long you been back from Texas?”“Nine days.”“You outta all that trouble now?”“I ain’t in no gang no more,” he said, looking down a little sheepishly.EttaMae, LaMarque’s mother and Raymond’s wife, had sent the young man down to Texas to work on her brother’s farm for a while. She did that to save the lives of the gang members who had tried to claim him as one of their own. Raymond would have killed them all if she hadn’t interfered.A car pulled up to the curb just then. It was a dark Ford with four male passengers. Most cars in Southern California transported a solitary driver, a couple, a double date, or a family. Four men in a car most likely spelled trouble if there wasn’t a construction site somewhere in the vicinity.“Well,” I said to LaMarque while watching the men confer, “you get back to work and I’ll give you twenty dollars to go home with.”“Yes, sir,” he said. Etta had taught the boy his manners.LaMarque ducked his head and ran back to the truck.“Mr. Rawlins,” Percy Bidwell said.“Yeah, Percy?” I was watching the men as they prepared to disembark.“About Mr. Middleton.”“What is it you want with Jason?”“That’s private,” the young man said.“Then you better just call him up yourself and leave me out of it.”“I don’t know him.”“And I don’t know you.”“Jewelle told me to tell you to call him.”“You don’t tell me what to do, son, and neither does Jewelle.”The four men were out of the car by then. They were all white men, tall, and burly. Three of them wore off-­the-­rack suits of various dark hues. The eldest, maybe fifty years of age, was dressed in a dark-­colored, tailored ensemble that was possibly even silk.The leader began the stroll up the slight incline of my lawn.“Easy,” Jackson warned from an upstairs window.“I see ’em, Blue.”“Is it all right?”“I hope so.”“Mr. Rawlins,” Percy was saying, trying once again to impress his will upon me.“Either get back to work or go home, Percy,” I said. “I got other things on my mind right now.”

Editorial Reviews

"You know Mosley will bring things to a satisfactory conclusion, so you can let the story fall away in favor of its rich social fabric, rendered in well-observed details of skin color, speech, dress and, of course, neighborhoods. This is the triumph of each Easy Rawlins story—documenting this changing panorama of a city where the migration of Southern blacks, eager to claim it as their new world, is constantly remaking the city as it remakes them. Every Rawlins novel can be read on its own, but it's a far richer experience to read them in sequence and follow Easy's complex evolution as well as that of his ad hoc family and tight circle of friends. These are the folks who provide a fascinating set of roadside attractions as Easy's case rolls on."—Los Angeles Times"When it comes to naming names, Walter Mosley knows no peer. A cop called Frisk, a guru who goes by Vandal, a boxer known as Hardcase Tommy Latour and a black militant with the excellent moniker of Most Grand all figure in Rose Gold, Mosley's endlessly entertaining new Easy Rawlins mystery."—The New York Times Book Review"Fans of Mosley's private investigator were grateful Rawlins survived, and for good reason: Mosley's writing gifts go well beyond the gumshoe genre. With Rawlins, he weaves in a tense racial element throughout, and raises the level of his achievement."—Associated Press"Set in L.A. during the height of the Vietnam War, Mosley’s impressive 13th Easy Rawlins mystery (after 2013’s Little Green) finds Roger Frisk, special assistant to the police chief, calling on Easy with a job...  Easy’s experiences and insights perfectly mirror the turbulent ’60s."—Publishers Weely, starred"Mosley has few peers when it comes to crafting sentences, and he's woven some beauties into this swift-moving yet philosophical story that does more for illustrating an iconic perioud than hours of documentary film could. This Easy Rawlins novel harks back to the great early days of the series."—Booklist, starred"...The most quotable of all contemporary detectives stirs up enough trouble for scene after memorable scene."—Kirkus Reviews