Prudence Couldn't Swim (25 page)

Once I hung up, I remembered that the article I'd found under Prudence's mattress said something about evictions. I dug it out and read it again.

The white farmers in the picture were being evicted. Something about the government taking over all the white-owned farms and giving them to blacks. The article also said the army had driven off ten thousand workers on these farms. Most of them were sleeping “in the bush,” wherever that was.

The farmer in the picture was a Francis McGuinn. He said he and his wife would be leaving the country, that there was no longer “a place for white people here.” Sounded like some wild stuff. My dear old Oakland was tame by comparison

When I caught Mandisa in her office that night, she told me again that she could take care of herself and how she wasn't scared. People who tell you how they aren't scared too often are the ones who are secretly terrified. She kept up a good front.

“You a fourth-dan black belt or something?” I asked. “No offense but you're no giant and Newman is a half-crazed body builder. He could break you in half.”

“At home my twin sister was raped. She got HIV. I vowed it would never happen to me.”

“What does that have to do with Newman?”

“When I came to this country, I went for shooting lessons. I've got a Smith and Wesson 9 mm. All legal. I can put your eye out at fifty meters.”

“Please don't try,” I said. “Is your sister all right?”

“Alive and well. My salary pays for her medication. It's too expensive there.”

“Does she look like you?”

“We are identical. She's thinner than I am. When we were little no one could tell us apart.”

“So you're real good with that Smith and Wesson?”

“I keep it under my pillow. I can hit any man who comes into my room and I'm a very light sleeper.”

Apart from our friendship with Prudence and the fact that we both told the occasional lie, Mandisa and I had something else in common—we both slept with 9 mm pistols under our pillows. It's a weird world.

“What if they get you when you're awake and away from your pillow?” I asked.

She patted under her left shoulder.

“I've got a license to carry it,” she said. “I'm protected outside the bedroom as well.”

The conversation died there. She picked it up by telling me a few more things about South Africa that I didn't want to know. Apparently the president there thought AIDS didn't exist, that it was all made up by the Americans and the British to destroy poor people in Africa.

“He's a big problem,” she said.

I told her I'd had enough of African politics for one day.

“None of it makes sense,” I said.

“I guess you have to want to learn,” she said and handed me the letter from Garikai.

Another aerogram, the blue paper no thicker than a Zig-Zag. His printing was scrupulously neat, like he used a ruler to keep the lines straight. The i's had the same clear circles for dots—just like Prudence's. Eerie.

Garikai wrote of how happy they were that Prudence had become such a “successful architect” in the United States.

“She was the pride of our family,” he wrote. The last paragraph tore me apart.

“Please, madam, if you know someone who can help us we request your kind assistance. We have lost our two sisters so we now have six orphans to look after in our house. Our parents have been thrown off Mr. McGuinn's farm where they have worked for so many years. Prudence's money was keeping us all alive. We don't know where to turn and our dear sister lies buried overseas, thousands of kilometers from home. What can we do? It seems that God wants us to suffer here in our country. I don't know why. Please give us some advice.”

“What did you tell him?” I asked.

“I haven't responded yet,” she said. “What is there to say?”

“Do you know anything about her sisters?”

“They died from AIDS,” she replied. “In southern Africa we all have relatives who died or are dying. It has become our way of life.”

“Why doesn't someone do something?”

“I already told you about that. What can we do?”

“I don't know. Someone must send some medicine or something. Isn't there a vaccine?”

“Just expensive pills from overseas.”

“Prudence had so many responsibilities,” I said. “I had no idea. If I had known …”

“If you had known, what? Responsibilities make you strong or drive you mad.”

“Prudence was strong and crazy at the same time,” I said. For all I knew, I was probably talking about Mandisa as well. Like Fast Freddy said we all have a darker side. Some people just hide it better than others.

If I was a good Samaritan, a Mother Teresa or something, I would have written back to this Garikai and told him that he and all his orphans and parents could just come and live with me in Oakland. My house was probably bigger than all the huts in their village or wherever it was they lived.

But Mother Teresa I wasn't. I couldn't even recall the last time I prayed, let alone went to church. I don't think our memorial for Prudence counted as full-fledged church in the eyes of God.

The best I could do would be to send a few bucks to these Mukombachotos and find out who killed their sister though maybe they'd rather believe she died in a car crash driving her new BMW. A car crash was neat, clean, and kept their fantasy alive. They probably needed that more than the gory details of her death. The truth doesn't always bring what the police like to call “closure.”

For some reason, just as I left, Mandisa handed me a key to her apartment.

“So you won't have to break in again,” she said, “and if I ever need you, at least I know you can get in. Desperation breeds desperate measures.”

I wasn't sure who was desperate, me or her. All I knew was that no woman had ever given me a key to her apartment before. Normally
that meant something. But I guess it just meant me and Mandisa were up against the wall together. I guess that made us friends, though I really didn't know how to be friends with a woman. Of course, she could have given me the key to set me up for something. A con man never accepts anything at face value. It's the kiss of death.

I just put the key in my pocket and rubbed it for a few seconds with my fingers. I decided for the moment I had to let my paranoias rest. If you don't trust anyone, all the screws come loose.

“Thanks,” I said, “we'll always be there for you, me and Red Eye. Watch out though, we may not be that much help. We're used to carrying guns but neither one of us can hit the broad side of barn.”

She smiled and said she understood.

I exited the IHOP and headed home in the Volvo, thinking about this strange woman from South Africa. She'd given me a tiny glimpse into her life. That was fine but I didn't want to know any more. Some things are just too complicated for a harelip coyote to understand. I thought about that key in my pocket. As usual, I needed a shot of Wild Turkey.

I turned onto International Boulevard and tried to pick up the pace. A classic gold Jaguar with tinted windows pulled up next to me on the left. Unusual car in this neck of the woods. The driver confirmed my suspicions by sliding down the passenger side window and motioning me over to the side of the road. Newman was clad in the silver and black T-shirt of our nation but somehow I was sure we were on different teams here. He pointed a second time toward the sidewalk. I gunned it.

My escape effort didn't go well. The Volvo was no match for his Jag. Plus, half a block down a truck and trailer was blocking both lanes on our side of the road, trying to squeeze down an alley to get at some loading dock. Why did he have to be doing this at eleven o'clock at night? I thought about jumping the island, but the traffic coming the other way was too heavy to dodge. And I'd left the Walther at home. I was at Newman's mercy and I figured he didn't have too much mercy on offer.

As I ground to a halt, the Jaguar pulled up next to me. Newman almost tore the door off getting out and streaked toward my car like
Marcus Allen heading for pay dirt. I locked the door but I knew that wouldn't do much. Within a few seconds he was standing next to my car waving a long-barreled .45, telling me if I didn't open the door and get out, my brains would end up splattered against the passenger-side door. I doubted he'd have the nerve to do all that right out in front of all these people, but the look in his eye told me I'd better not take the chance.

As soon as I unlocked the door, he yanked it open, grabbed my arm, and slammed me to the pavement. He'd shed his businessman's demeanor. This was all about brute strength, never my forte. He set his foot right in the middle of my back and started screaming stuff about motherfuckin' con men being the lowest form of life, that no one ever conned a Newman and he wasn't going to let me be the first.

“You tryin' to set me up for this murder, boy?” he asked. “Well you'll be takin' the fall, not me, bitch. If I ever see your lame ass around my house again, I'll blow your face off.”

He stomped his foot a couple times in between my shoulder blades just to emphasize his points. I was getting the power of the message, I just wasn't too sure why he was bothering to do this. On stomp number three I felt a shooting pain in my side. All of a sudden every breath felt like a spear through my chest.

“You come talkin' shit about millions of dollars, make me almost lose my wife. Con men are some sick-ass people. Sick as hell.”

“What do you want?” I asked. Each word brought a new jab of that spear to my chest.

“The girl is dead,” he shouted. “Let her rest in peace or you'll be resting with her.” A few horns started honking, then it became a chorus. His foot came off my back. I looked up. The truck and trailer had disappeared down the alley. Newman's Jaguar and my Volvo were blocking the way.

Newman rushed back to his car while I struggled to my feet. I couldn't make it. The pain was growing with every breath. I crawled the few feet back to the driver's side and lifted myself up to the seat. For some reason, I started laughing uncontrollably. Each laugh brought a new jab of pain. There was nothing funny. This was hysteria. I laughed all the way back to my house, with each giggle bringing another round of spears to my side. I was cracking up, becoming a j-cat myself.

I couldn't get out of bed the next day. I kept touching the bumps in my ribs. I should have gone to the doctor but he'd ask a lot of questions I wouldn't want to answer. Besides, I was pretty sure they couldn't do much for broken ribs except give you some painkillers so you could breathe. I phoned Red Eye for a little help. He was the only person in the world who knew where my stash was. I didn't even like him knowing but I had to get at that dope. With broken ribs, every breath is torture.

Though Red Eye wasn't in the best shape, he came right away. The first thing he told me was that I looked like shit.

“I had a hard night,” I said.

“She must have been a little rough in the rack.”

“I wish.”

I told him to just get that bottle of Demerol out of my stash and I'd tell him what happened. Before I got too high, I explained about Newman, the Jaguar, the truck blocking the road, and the foot on the back.

“The man is a lunatic,” I said. “I'd ruled him out, but if Prudence got on his wrong side, he could have thrown her in the pool.”

“Blackmailing a lunatic with sex tapes is definitely getting on his wrong side.”

The Demerol was kicking in. I could still feel the pain but it didn't really matter. I was carrying the load but the weight was on someone else's shoulders. I wasn't sure whose.

“How did he know you were visiting Mandisa?” Red Eye asked.

Something about the pain of broken ribs had kept my mind from asking the obvious question. Thank God for Red Eye.

“She set you up, homeboy. Had to be.”

“I don't think so.”

“Who else knew about you going there?”

“No one. The only other possibility is that he's listening to my phone conversations. He's a freak for spy stuff. His office is full of it.”

Red Eye wasn't convinced but in my Demerol madness I hatched a wild scheme to trap Newman if he was listening in. We'd put it into play the next day, once I'd slept off the Demerol. I never took hard dope more than once at a go. The perfect way to avoid addiction. By
the next day, I'd step it down to a handful of Motrin and just deal with the pain. Red Eye left me to sleep it all off.

Sometime in the afternoon I heard the doorbell rang. It took me a couple minutes to stumble out of bed. I found a big manila envelope with “Mr. Calvin Winter” written on the front sitting on the doorstep. Inside was that list of twenty-three names with Peter Margolis at the top. A series of post-its in Prudence's writing was attached to the backs of the pages. The post-its added names, addresses, and phone numbers of each of the twenty-three. There was also a “to whom it may concern” cover letter in her writing that said her “partner” had downloaded the names from Jeffcoat's laptop. I wondered what kind of partnership they had. Most likely, that partner was the one hitting her on tape number nine.

For each of the names, the post-its showed the amount Jeffcoat underpaid into their funds. The total was a little over $700,000. I wasn't sure if that was serious money to Jeffcoat or not. Only after I looked everything over for a few minutes did I shake the envelope one last time. A small piece of paper fell out. “Hope this helps, M” was all the note said. Why was Mandisa giving me this stuff now? She couldn't be doing this and setting me and Red Eye up at the same time. Maybe she was actually on our side.

As I tried to piece together a plan to get these lunatic millionaires off our backs, it suddenly dawned on me who that little kid was next to Washkowski in that football team picture. It wasn't anyone I knew in the joint. Those guys were teammates for life.