Prudence Couldn't Swim (6 page)

“We respect that,” I said.

“So I apologize for the not-so-cordial welcome,” said Pearly. “These days you don't know who to trust.”

“No problem,” said Red Eye gazing longingly at the Jameson. Pearly picked up the bottle and handed it over.

“Maybe you should talk to some of the girls. They'd know more than me,” said Pearly. “A lot of pervs come through this place.”

He got up and headed for the door.

“I'll bring a couple of them here,” he said, “but let me bow out.” He looked at his watch. “The girls might not want to say certain things if I hang around and I want to see you get whoever did this. I ain't no saint but I draw the line at killing young girls.”

“We appreciate that,” said Red Eye.

Two tall, thin white women arrived about five minutes and two more shots of whiskey later. Linda was bleached blonde with extraordinary pink false fingernails, doused with silver glitter. She wore a shiny blue vinyl coat and looked like she spent a lot of hours in tanning parlors, maybe as much time as she spent chasing after crank. The drug hadn't started its full assault on her good looks yet, but it wouldn't be long. Darlene by contrast was wood glue white. She was top-heavy and showed it off with a bare midriff and a see-through blouse with no bra. I wasn't sure if this was part of her performing clothes or if she dared to dress like that on the street. I'd already lived in the hills too long to judge. Her nipples were bigger around than Denny's silver dollar pancakes.

I didn't know what Pearly had told them so I just said Prudence drowned in the pool at my house and we didn't think she fell in.

“I don't let things like that happen on my property without a reply.”

To my surprise, Darlene wept solemnly when she heard the news. She dabbed her eyes with a crumpled-up Kleenex.

“You call the cops?” asked Linda.

“Yeah, but they're not interested,” said Red Eye. “Besides, we don't care much for the man.”

“We never heard a black girl talk like that,” Linda said, “that English accent, always saying ‘bloody' this, ‘flippin' that. Kept callin' 7-Up lemonade. She was a peach.”

“She was,” said Red Eye.

I couldn't bring myself to speak. Darlene's pained sighs had me reeling, fighting to keep my own eyes dry. I don't let go in public.

“Did either of you know any of Prudence's friends?” Red Eye asked.

“You mean friends or the pond scum types from the club?” asked Linda.

“Either one.”

“There was this one African girl who picked her up a couple of times. Can't remember her name. Real square.”

“Mandy,” said Darlene, “her name was Mandy.”

“I thought maybe they had something going on,” said Linda, “if you get what I mean. It's not for me but some of the girls, you know. Who am I to judge?”

“It wasn't like that,” said Darlene. “They were just friends, came from the same place.”

“Where was that?” I asked.

“England,” said Linda. “She never talked much about her past but she was from London. You could tell by the accent.”

“Uh-uh,” Darlene interjected. “She came from Africa. She once told me the whole English thing was an act. She said something to me in African. Sounded funny.”

“That's all she told you?” asked Red Eye.

“Said her family had a lot of problems, that life was hard in her country, that Americans wouldn't understand.”

“My life ain't been no picnic,” said Linda, “my Daddy was slammin' it to me when I was in junior high.”

“Please,” said Darlene, “the girl is dead.”

“You ever see her with any men?” asked Red Eye.

“I saw her drive away with this white guy once. Business type. Drove a Lexus or a Beamer. I'm not good on cars,” said Linda.

“Ever see him again?” asked Red Eye.

“I can't remember,” said Linda with a not so subtle grin. Her business sense had taken over from her grief. She'd already given up too much for free. I opened my wallet and laid fifty dollars on the table.

“Maybe this will lubricate your memories,” I said.

Linda looked at Darlene, then picked up the Grant and stuffed it inside her bra.

“It was a Beamer, E36,” said Linda. “You know, the one with the six-speed tranny.”

“Those are badass,” said Red Eye. He offered Linda a shot of Jameson but she declined, claiming she was a Glenlivet girl.

“Prudence told me she was pulling some white guy's chain,” said Darlene. “He had big bucks. A banker or something. Handsome guy with a wife and kids. The usual.”

She tossed the crumpled up tissue in the waste basket.

“Any other girls who work here know anything?” Red Eye asked.

“Don't think so,” said Linda. “Darlene talked to her the most. Darlene's got two black babies. Different fathers.”

“Oh yeah,” said Darlene, “I think she was married. One of those arranged deals. Said her husband was a lowlife but had a big house in Oakland with a swimming pool.” She paused for a second. I could hear the wheels turning.

“You must be the husband,” Linda said. “Goddamned Darlene can't keep her mouth shut for nothing.”

Darlene added a blushing apology while I tried to laugh it off.

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “This isn't about love. Some lame has disrespected my property. The rest doesn't matter.”

Red Eye and I stood up to leave. I thanked the two girls. Linda grabbed the bottle of Jameson and tucked it into the inside pocket of her jacket.

“You gonna have a funeral or something?” asked Darlene.

“Don't know yet. We'll get ahold of you if we do,” I said.

“I'd appreciate that,” said Darlene. She pulled another Kleenex from
her purse and dabbed at eyes that were now very dry. To them, we were looking more and more like just another pair of tricks.

We shook their hands and waited for Pearly to come back. A couple minutes later Fast Freddy came in and told us Pearly had to tend to some business.

“He said he'd let you know if he heard anything else. Me and G are down for whatever. We loved that girl. Everyone here did.”

“Thank Pearly for us,” I said. “We'll be in touch.”

“I saw her drivin' away one night with a guy in a white car,” he said.

“You get a look at him?” asked Red Eye.

“I did but …” Fred's face went blank, “it was dark.”

I'd already forked out fifty bucks for one set of two-bit memories. I didn't feel like a repeat performance.

“Let's get out of here,” I said. Red Eye and I headed for the front door.

We got outside and just stood on the sidewalk contemplating the next step. We hadn't realized just how stuffy that little office of Pearly Gates's was. Freddy came out the door.

“Jeffcoat,” he said, “the guy's name was Jeffcoat. Prudence called him ‘Mr. Moneybags' but warned me away from him. Said he had a ‘dark side.' That's all I know. Hell, we all got dark sides.”

I pulled out a twenty.

“Keep it,” he said, “just send me an invite to Jeffcoat's funeral.”

“Will do,” said Red Eye.

“And one more thing,” Freddy said to me.

“What's that?”

“Lose that English accent of yours. Sounds like shit.”

“Appreciate the feedback,” I said. Red Eye and I got in the car.

“Okay, level with me,” I said. “You got ‘no longer racist' tattooed on your back?”

He turned his back toward me and started to pull up his shirt, then stopped.

“Hell no, but I thought about doin' it once. This one white dude at Folsom had it done. The Skinheads kicked his ass.”

“You're a dumb motherfucker.”

“It worked, didn't it? Nobody wants to look at my hairy-ass back.”

I started the Volvo and we headed back to Oakland only a little worse for the wear. I'd probably end up having a nightmare or two that involved a big Samoan guy's hands around my throat, but for the moment, my mind drifted back to Prudence.

I'd never dreamed she was running around with the likes of Pearly Gates, Fast Freddy, and big-breasted Darlene. Only a surgeon could have produced boobs like that.

My wife must have been desperate for money or cheap thrills or both. I imagined Pearly had skinny little legs with no hair left. Probably kept his suit coat on in bed. I didn't want to think about it. Maybe she was knockin' boots with G too. The thing I couldn't really understand though was how she could have called me a lowlife when I lived in Carltonville? If she hadn't been killed on my property I wouldn't even have bothered to keep this thing going. But Red Eye was right, this was about respect. I had to get to the bottom of this, for my own peace of mind as a man.

T
he IHOP was on what I knew as E. Fourteenth Street when I was growing up. Sometime in the 1990s they'd changed the name to International Boulevard since so many different people had moved in—Mexicans, Asians, Islanders. Arabs owned most of the stores. In my day, blacks and whites ran the show. Some blacks were still around but there weren't many whites left. They'd fled to Hayward, Dublin, and suburban points beyond. As I cruised past E. Twentieth Avenue, I realized a white guy in a Volvo would stick out like ten sore thumbs. I should have rented a Taurus, something that would blend in. International wasn't the spot for a refined Swedish sedan, even if it did have dual exhaust. Plus, I was carrying a full set of fake IDs. At least I decided to be careful this time and stash the papers for Peter Clark inside the driver's side door panel. Peter was now a fully accredited shopper for the International House of Pancakes.

The usual selection of drug dealers, streetwalkers, and thrill seekers was going about their business. About two blocks from the IHOP a balding white man in a shiny new Buick was negotiating with a young black person in high heels and a fake fur coat. Some things never change. Not that I gave a shit, but I hoped he didn't think he was buying a woman.

The IHOP parking lot was sparsely populated which suited me just fine. I wasn't looking for a crowd or scratches in my fenders.

All three waitresses on duty fit my image of Mandisa. I figured she was a large, dark-skinned woman even though no one had ever described her to me. African women were either starving like the famine in Ethiopia or plump and spry. Prudence fit neither of those types though. If she was African, she was special.

The three women were talking at the register as I entered. Though
I'd dressed casually, my golf shirt and slacks didn't blend in with the more bling-oriented clientele. I caught two nametags as I walked past the waitresses: Ginger and Fontella. I eavesdropped on their conversation, hoping to catch a hint of their accent. These women sounded as American as Queen Latifah.

I found an empty booth and ordered silver dollar pancakes. If I was going to be a shopper, might as well compare them with Denny's. The IHOP had a slightly larger concept of the size of a silver dollar. I appreciated the selection of syrups. I spread the pancakes in a circle, placing a smidgen of syrup of a different flavor on each one. I liked the raspberry the best. I liked it so much I asked Fontella if I could buy a bottle to take home. She promised to bring it with the bill.

“It'll be $2.95,” she said.

As Fontella ran my bill through the register a short, plain-looking woman walked over to where the waitresses gathered. She was light-skinned with her hair pulled back into some kind of ponytail. I guessed black women called them ponytails too. I didn't know. She wore a brown suit. Had to be the manager. Except for a little red streak in her hair, she definitely fit Darlene's idea of a square.

I tried to catch her voice but I always had a hard time hearing clearly if I wasn't looking at the person speaking. I knew enough about after-hours race dynamics not to stare at these women too long. White man accused of gawking at black women was troubled territory where I didn't want to venture.

My manager lady was talking to Ginger about her shifts for the rest of the week. I heard her say schedule just like Prudence used to do—without the “k” sound—”shed-yule.” I had my woman. Now I had to find a way to talk to her. I could go through my Peter Clark routine but maybe there was a shortcut. Fontella was busy wrapping up my bottle of raspberry syrup. I'd probably end up giving it to Luisa. These things never tasted as good when I got them home.

The manager abandoned Ginger and started walking my way. I stood up as she got near my booth. Ginger did a double take as if my standing up had an ulterior motive. Her eyes homed in on me. She was ready to pounce if I turned out to be some kind of predator. Too many of them around these days.

The manager stopped a couple of steps away.

“I hope you're enjoying your food, sir,” she said. The accent was different from Prudence's, neither American or English. Her nametag said, “Ms. Jack, Manager.” Jack didn't sound African, didn't sound like a last name at all. Could it be short for Jackson?

“I'm fine,” I said, sitting back down, “but could I ask you a question?”

If she was a manager, she couldn't say no. The customer is always right.

“Certainly, sir,” she replied, lacing her fingers together at her waist like a dutiful daughter.

“I hope it doesn't sound like I'm prying,” I said, “but is your first name by any chance Mandy?”

Her eyes darted left, then right. She looked confused.

“As you can see, my name is Ms. Jack,” she said, pointing to the white tag on her suit coat, “but why are you so curious about my name, sir?”

“A lady friend of mine named Prudence said she knew someone named Mandy who was a manager at IHOP. It's important that I talk to her.”

Fontella was approaching with my bill and the bright blue bag containing my syrup. She looked annoyed.