Prudence Couldn't Swim (12 page)

“Please don't repeat the things I've told you about my relationship with Prudence,” he said. “My family means the world to me. Everyone makes a mistake now and then.”

“Not every mistake makes you a millionaire,” I said. “It could be worse, Mr. Newman, way worse.”

I stood up to go. His whining was starting to get to me.

“What about the money?” he asked.

“I'll call you when I've spoken to the other beneficiaries. We'll have a meeting.”

“When?”

“Soon, very soon.”

I spared him the warning about publicity. He was already scared enough. The problem was, he didn't look any more like a killer than Jeffcoat. But it had to be one of the two.

As I left him in his office with his hands once again atop his shiny head, I wondered what I'd gotten myself into. There is a famous section in the Oakland Coliseum known as the “black hole.” During games the diehard members of the Raider Nation gather there. Anything goes. People come dressed as pirates, wild bulls, gorillas, their faces painted in the wildest combinations an artist can create with silver and black. The citizens of Raider Nation drink in the black hole, they smoke weed, shoot crank, fight, probably even make love every now and then when the Raiders score a spectacular TD. To outsiders the black hole is entertaining, yet enticing. And a little scary. Who knows what a crazed pirate can do when defeat looms?

This investigation was becoming my personal black hole, filled with sexual predators dressed up as investment bankers, trucking magnates, maybe even cops. Where were their boundaries? Like the citizens of
the Raider Nation, Jeffcoat and Newman might be capable of desperate things if all of a sudden the tide turned against them. Yet the danger of my black hole was alluring. I delighted in watching these deep-pocketed men fret like a Bronco defense facing Kenny Stabler and Clifford Branch.

We were entering the exciting part of the game. Crunch time. We'd had the marching band and the baton twirlers at half time. My opponents were heading into the locker room to recalculate their strategy. I was definitely the underdog, even with my muscle-bound Red Eye defense. If I wasn't careful I could get swallowed up like a lonesome, drunken Charger fan who staggered into the black hole wearing the blue, gold, and white of San Diego. Common sense told me to rush for the exit. But once a Raider Nation diehard enters the black hole, common sense never prevails.

W
hen I got back from Newman's, Carter was reading a magazine in an unmarked car in front of my house. He opened the door and got out as I walked past. His blazer was a definite blue light special from K Mart. The sunglasses were still there to hide the hangover or whatever else those eyes might reveal.

“We need to talk,” he said. I avoided his gaze and glanced down at the magazine on the passenger seat of his car—the latest issue of
Barely Legal.
The editors promised that their cover girl, Hot Coffee, would bare all inside.

“Shoot,” I said, “I've got nothing but time. I'd invite you in but the house is a mess. Maid's day off.” Actually I could see Luisa peeking through the blinds. She'd be heading out that bedroom window in a few seconds.

“Some privacy would be better,” he said.

“Fine,” I said, “let's go to the station. That is, if I'm under arrest. Otherwise, unless you've got a warrant, let's talk here.”

“Listen up, Winter,” he said, “I'm trying to be reasonable here. Don't play that smartass shit. You'll end up second best.”

I stared at his sunglasses. Even though I couldn't see into his eyes, I knew he'd blink first.

“I don't want to be in your business,” he said, “but you seem to be making rounds saying something about this girl's will.”

“I don't know what the hell you're talking about.”

“You know a Jeffcoat?”

“The name doesn't ring a bell, Let me check my phone numbers.” I pulled my cell from my pocket and pretended to be going through my directory.

“Okay, you want to play games,” he said, “fine. But let me tell you. I don't want this case coming back to bite me in the butt. I'm in line for promotion. I don't want you fucking it up. This case is closed. Let's keep it that way and not start talking about wills, lotteries, and all sorts of other silly shit. Close the book or I'll have to start going through your business operations with a fine-tooth comb.”

“Do what you gotta do, boss,” I said. “I'm clean.”

“Don't tempt me,” he said, reaching toward his shoulder holster, “just don't tempt me.” He pulled his empty hand out and pointed his forefinger between my eyes. “Bang,” he said, mimicking a trigger pull, “bang, bang you're dead. Shot fleeing police. Found with an unregistered firearm on his person. I'd enjoy writing that report.”

He turned around and walked back to his car.

At least I didn't have to waste more of my Re-Nu to get rid of the aftertaste of this visit. I had to admit, though, he was giving me sound advice. My business activities couldn't stand the scrutiny of an investigation. I wasn't deep in the mix like the old days, but squeaky clean was too boring for me, especially living up in the hills where they didn't even have a pool hall.

What I couldn't figure out was how he found out about my visit to Jeffcoat so quickly. Maybe I should have mentioned this Peter Margolis to Carter to test the waters but I wasn't sure how that would have helped. To tell the truth, I felt a little out of my depth and common sense kept kicking me in the head and telling me to back off. The problem was, I just didn't feel in the mood.

Mutare, Zimbabwe
October 15, 1991

P
arents and relatives of the pupils filled the lush green hockey fields of Mutare Girls' High. Many of them had traveled a great distance to attend the year-end prize-giving. Tarisai Mukombachoto's parents sat in the front row. They'd never been to such an event. The two rarely left their rural village. They'd definitely never set foot on the grounds of a place as auspicious as Mutare Girls' High. Opened in 1959, Mutare Girls' High, or MG as they called it, was constructed along the lines of its sister school, Wolverhampton Girls' in England. The founders named the buildings at Mutare after famous British settlers who came to Zimbabwe in the late 1800s and early 1900s: Alfred Beit, David Livingstone, Allan Wilson. The student residences took the names of famous English cities: Manchester, Liverpool, and the one where Tarisai lived: Cornwall Hall.

During colonial days only white girls attended MG. But when Zimbabwe became independent in 1980, schools opened up to all students. A flood of talented young black girls rushed to enroll at MG. Most of them came from the newly emerging elite. Their parents were lawyers, certified accountants, medical doctors. Many worked in the higher echelons of the government bureaucracy—positions previously reserved for whites. The children of the elite arrived at MG in their parents' Peugeots, Audis, and Mercedes Benzes, sporting portable stereos and a collection of the latest cassettes from America: Lionel Richie, Atlantic Starr, Michael Jackson.

But the school offered a few scholarships to girls who otherwise could not afford the levy and the uniforms MG required. In 1987 Tarisai Mukombachoto earned one of those scholarships by submitting an essay explaining why attending this prestigious institution would
be the first step toward lifting her and her family out of the “misery of crushing rural poverty.”

For the next six years, while her classmates fretted about the boys at the high school just up the road and strove to master the latest dance steps to their music, Tarisai lived for her academic work. In her first two years at the high school she struggled. Many of her classmates had lived overseas before 1980. They spoke English better than the local languages of Shona and Ndebele. They had educated parents who'd spent hours assisting them with their homework during primary school days. Since all of the classes at MG were done in English, they had an advantage over Tarisai. But none of them loved to read and solve mathematical problems as much as Tarisai. She'd spend her Saturday nights reading Charles Dickens or practicing how to bisect an angle with a compass while the other girls hunted for potential boyfriends.

By her third year she was the number one student in the entire class. She even surpassed Sheila Chikomba, who'd grown up in the UK and whose father, Dr. Phineas Chikomba, was a former professor of chemistry at Cambridge University.

In her final year the teachers and principal selected Tarisai to be head girl. She was the first black to fill this position in the history of MG. One of the head girl's many responsibilities was to give an address to the crowd that gathered at the prize-giving ceremony. On this occasion not only were the family and friends of students in attendance; the British high commissioner had come all the way from Harare to be the guest of honor.

The day started with some songs by the school choir, then a speech by the principal. Finally Tarisai's turn came. She walked to the podium fully mindful of the erect posture her teachers had encouraged throughout her time at MG. By now Tarisai had blossomed into a beautiful young woman, though in her red school skirt, white blouse, pink blazer, and straw bowler hat, she still looked like a girl. Other pupils envied her long-legged, rounded figure, her flawless mocha skin. Tarisai was oblivious to such issues. She wore no perfume and kept her hair in a short Afro, just like when she first arrived at MG. For her, only schoolwork mattered.

Tarisai surveyed the faces of the hundreds of people seated in folding
chairs across the well-manicured grass. Though her parents had worn the best clothes they could find in the village, they were no match for the sea of stylish suits, silk ties, and imported dresses donned by most of the crowd. Tarisai didn't care. Her parents were happy and proud of their daughter. One day she would earn enough money to buy them outfits even finer than those of the high commissioner and his wife.

Tarisai had never used a microphone before. As she began her speech by acknowledging the presence of the high commissioner, the power of her English almost frightened her. She no longer spoke like a rural schoolgirl but had picked up the intonation of the many white teachers at MG. She spoke, as the local people described it, “through the nose.”

Her mother couldn't understand a word her daughter said. The father managed to grab bits and pieces. Still, both beamed with pride, confident that their child would one day bring great wealth and happiness to their family. When Tarisai and her brother were young, her parents expected that Garikai, being the boy, would be the one on whom the family's future would depend. Now they counted on Tarisai. No one else. When they were too old to plow or weed their fields, Tarisai would provide.

“My fellow students,” said Tarisai, “we have an obligation. As successful students in our newly independent country, we must use our wisdom and our knowledge to build up this great land of ours. In the past, doors were closed to African girls. Today they are all wide open. We must burst through those doors and show the world that a Zimbabwean girl can achieve anything that any man or woman anywhere can achieve. If we apply our minds we can become doctors, lawyers, accountants, scientists, even astronauts. Let us set our sights very high and never give up our goals. That is the message and the challenge I put to you today. Rise to greatness, my fellow students. Opportunity is in your hands.”

Tarisai's parents led the clapping. They applauded so long and hard that it almost bruised their field-hardened hands. Their daughter had done them so proud. She was destined for great things in life, of that there was no doubt.

T
he morning after the encounter with Carter in front of my house I woke up with what Red Eye called an “anvil” hangover—one where your head feels like someone reshaped it on an anvil with a ball peen hammer. At least I slept through the night. That hadn't happened since the day I found Prudence in the pool.

I tried vodka and tomato juice, the hair of the dog. It got me drunk right away. The second one worked even better. As I poured the third, Red Eye rang the bell. He'd won $1,500 betting on Thai kickboxing the night before. He wanted to celebrate.

“I'm not quite ready,” I said. “I need another vodka and TJ.”

“Add some Worcestershire,” he said, “to clear the head.”

“Carter was here again yesterday,” I told him while I tracked down the Worcestershire. Luisa had reorganized the kitchen cupboards the day before. When she did that, I couldn't find anything. She had a system, I just kept forgetting what it was. My method was to just line everything up in neat rows of the same size, spices, tuna, evaporated milk. She said my approach made no sense.
Estúpido,
she called it.

“Carter knows about my meeting with Jeffcoat,” I told Red Eye. “Our little financial wizard must have called the cops.”

“Or maybe they're best buddies?” Red Eye suggested.

“Yeah, right. Cops and tycoons always hang together.” Red Eye was my homie but sometimes he just connected the wrong dots.

I kept looking for the Worcestershire, finally found it hiding behind a bottle of vinegar. The brown paper wrapper was still intact but the liquid at the bottom had dried out.

“How much did that broad mean to you?” he asked.

“I'm not sure,” I said. “Anyway, it's not about her, it's about me.”

He took the Worcestershire bottle and added a little hot water to the dregs at the bottom.

“It'll give you a taste anyway,” he said.

“Carter's a lame,” I said.

“He's a cop. What's new, homeboy?”

When Red Eye started using that “homeboy” stuff on me, things were getting serious. Prison slang was almost as hard for him to give up as his tattoos. He could try for a while but the minute the pressure came, Red Eye's convict self resurfaced. That's what made him a very special human being.