Prudence Couldn't Swim (5 page)

“Yes, sir, five nights a week. Sometimes six. I'm Dave Johnston. That's with a ‘t,' not Johnson.”

“Another night manger works on your off days?”

“The other guy works two days a week but I have to fill in when he's sick. He gets migraines, at least that's what he says. I don't know. Doesn't exactly love to work, if you know what I mean.”

“Got you. People are different these days.”

The fast food business must be vicious. After talking to this guy for three minutes he was already backstabbing another manager. Johnston-with-a-t wouldn't last five minutes in prison. But then to me, working all night at Denny's five shifts a week was a form of self-incarceration.

I flipped through some sheets on my clipboard.

“My brief says there was a woman manager here.” I looked both ways. “A colored girl, if I'm not mistaken. One of those affirmative action things.”

“We've never had a black manager here,” he said, “at least not during my five years.”

“What about the other Denny's in the East Bay?” I asked. “The company insisted I review her performance. Apparently there were some problems. Top priority. I can't get anyone at the office at this hour to verify which store she's at.”

If Johnston-with-a-t would bad-mouth his relief manager, I figured he'd love to help me grind down a black female competitor. I can smell a hater. After Prudence, all that racial stuff seemed more twisted. For the sake of solving her murder, though, I'd play on Johnston-with-a-t's prejudice. No harm in that.

“I don't know about the other stores,” he said. “I've never been there.”

“Do you think you could do me a favor and call a couple of them? I don't want to look like a fool.”

“Sure, I can phone around and find out,” he replied. “Come on back to my office.”

His office was slightly larger than a broom closet. There wasn't a single piece of paper in his “in” or “out” tray. His desk was so small he had to keep the white computer tower on the floor. The screen and keyboard took up all the space on top.

He leaned back in his typing chair, lacing his hands behind his head, looking up like he was a CEO with a corner office. Feeding frustrated egos is a con man's bread and butter.

He dialed the phone ceremoniously, then asked for the night manager. His voice had dropped a few notches. He forgot to identify himself. He gave me a wink as he waited for the call to go through. I could hear Springsteen's “I'm on Fire” playing out of the receiver. At least Denny's didn't make people wait while listening to Barry Manilow.

After three minutes someone came on the line and told him the night manager was busy.

“By the way,” added Johnston-with-a-t, “could you tell me his name?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” he said, “I didn't mean it like that. Is she, uh, dark in complexion?” he asked giving me another wink.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” he said, “I meant no offense. I just met a manager from Denny's at one of our management training sessions. She was, uh, Afro-American. I wanted to see if it was the same person.”

Johnston-with-a-t listened to half a minute's sermon on racial terminology. At the end he rolled his eyes, thanked the woman on the other end and hung up.

“J-e-e-e-sus,” he said, “touchy, touchy, fuckin' touchy. Always think there's a plot against them. Get over it, honey.”

“Thanks very much for your trouble,” I said. “I gather the manager there wasn't a black woman.”

“No trouble at all. I can phone a couple of other stores if you want. I'm on a roll.”

If this was a “roll” for him, I'd hate to see what a bad day looked like.

“If it wouldn't be too much inconvenience,” I said. “I know you're a busy man.”

Johnston picked up the phone and went through the same routine three more times. Though he managed to say “Afro-American” instead of “dark in complexion,” none of the stores had a black woman night manger. Time to try IHOP.

I thanked Johnston for his assistance and shook his hand. He prolonged our grip, as if we'd traveled a long journey together.

“I'll be sure you get an excellent recommendation,” I said, “five stars not only for food and service but for the night manager's helpful attitude.”

“It comes with the territory,” he said, loosening his hold on my hand and regearing for another all-nighter of order forms and sales reports.

All my paperwork said I was a shopper for Denny's. I'd have to redo everything for IHOP. I didn't want to stagger in cold and take a chance. Besides, it was nearly 3:00 a.m. and the nearest IHOP was eight miles of the Oakland flatlands away. When you're an ex-felon nothing good can come from driving late at night in those neighborhoods. The
police may pull you over for the slightest infraction. Then they run your license and they're all over you like maple on syrup. I headed for the cop-free hills where I could sleep without sirens and gunfire. The noble residents of the hills viewed ex-felons as the invading enemy, not part of the natural landscape. As long as I didn't run into Carter or the Weasel, I could keep to my blending in act.

At least my sojourn with Johnston and his t had taken my mind off my problems for a few minutes. There's always excitement in running an effective con, no matter how small. And now, for the first time in my life, I was doing it for a good cause. I'd be off to IHOP the following night. In the meantime, Red Eye and I would pay a visit to Pearly Gates.

R
edeye and I showed up at the King and Queens just after lunch. They were holding tryouts for pole dancers. About a dozen parking meter thin blondes and a couple of Mexicans were eagerly lined up in skimpy outfits preparing to show their stuff. Normally I would have enjoyed the display but we were there on business.

The bartender was a big huge Samoan-looking guy whose King and Queens golf shirt had “Fetu” embroidered on it. He said everyone called him Fast Freddy.

“I'm looking for Prudence,” I said, putting on my best English accent. I pulled out the picture from Robson's party and showed it to him.

“We grew up together in East London,” I added. “She told me she was working here and that I should pop in sometime.”

“She's one of our favorites,” Fast Freddy said. “I'll find out if she's in.”

“She said a guy named Pearly would knew where she was,” I told him.

Fast Freddy got on the phone and said something in a language I didn't recognize. A few seconds later an offensive-tackle-sized Samoan wearing sunglasses and a Raider Nation T-shirt came out from what looked like the kitchen.

“G here will show you back to Pearly's office,” Fast Freddy told us. “Just follow him.”

G didn't say a word, just shook our hands and led us back through a dark hallway into a windowless office decorated with three oil paintings of someone who I assumed to be Pearly Gates about twenty years earlier. The man liked mustaches and gold jewelry.

“Just wait here,” G said, “Pearly will be with you in a minute.” G closed the door behind him, then I heard a key turn to lock us in.

“I should have packed some heat,” said Red Eye.

I nodded as I weighed up our chances against G and Fast Freddy. About the same as mine against George Foreman in his prime. I looked around for a way out. Unless there were secret panels or tunnels behind those portraits of Pearly Gates, we weren't going anywhere.

“Just let me do the talking,” I said.

“Wish I had a cell phone,” Red Eye replied.

“You'd need a hotline to God to get us out of this one.”

The key turned in the door. Sure enough G had returned with Fast Freddy. Before I could get a word in edgewise, G had me by the shirt collar and up against the wall, my feet about three inches off the ground. Fast Freddy had an automatic pointed at Red Eye's head.

“Okay, who the hell are you guys?” G asked.

“Just a couple of ex-cons trying to solve a murder,” said Red Eye.

Fast Freddy was sizing up the ink on Red Eye's arms.

“This motherfucker has an NLR tattoo,” said Freddy, “Nazi Low Rider punk bitch. I oughta do him now.”

“Stands for ‘no longer racist,'” said Red Eye. “I got the whole thing written out on my back.”

“You better not be bullshitting me,” said Fast Freddy.

I was keeping my mouth shut, trying to figure out if it was time to ditch the English accent. I knew Red Eye had the Harley Davidson logo and a bunch of naked women on his back. I wasn't sure about the “no longer racist” stuff.

Suddenly a guy I figured was Pearly Gates stood in the doorway, sniffling like he'd just hit about three lines of coke. He hadn't held onto much of the movie star good looks in the portraits. Dope and aging aren't kind to lowlifes. Still, a pinstriped suit, white straw hat, and a blazing diamond ring on each hand kept up a bit of the façade. Something close to the truth in an American accent was looking like our only way out.

“We're friends of Prudence's,” I said. “She's dead. No one came to claim the body and she left your business card in her room. We're trying to find her family to notify them.”

“Slow down there, Bud,” said Pearly, “what happened to her?”

“Not sure,” I said, “she just turned up dead.”

“So you come stumbling into my place like I had something to do
with it,” said Pearly, “disturbing my business. You think we go around killing young girls?”

“If we did, we wouldn't have come in here asking politely,” said Red Eye.

“We supposed to be grateful?” said Pearly. Freddy pulled the hammer back on the automatic.

“Let me do him, boss,” said Freddy. G pulled a little tighter on my collar. I gagged a couple times then managed to catch my breath.

“Hold on, hold on,” said Pearly, “let's back up here. I got no idea who these fools are but a young girl we all knew may be dead. We need to respect that, hear them out. They seem like they're doing the right thing by her, though it feels all wrong.”

Pearly stepped toward me and put his nose about three inches from my face.

“Talk to us like you're trying to save your life,” he told me.

“Can you get this gentleman to ease off?” I asked Pearly. G let me slide down the wall and moved his hand down to the middle of my chest. I couldn't move but the breathing was getting easier.

I quickly weighed up what version of the story would save our ass. I always figured I could talk my way out of anything, Red Eye had other specialties. None of it looked like it was going to give us the upper hand, especially if any of these guys actually had something to do with Prudence's death. If they did, our warrants of execution were already signed.

“Okay, okay. Here's the whole story,” I said, the sweat starting to pour down my cheeks. “Prudence was my wife. Arranged marriage. I came home found her face up in the swimming pool. She couldn't swim. I figure someone pushed her in, maybe drugged her first. I don't like people disrespecting my property like that. And she was a nice girl. Well, maybe not exactly nice but special. Whoever did this is scum.” I could feel that gigantic hand on my chest sag.

“That girl was a real queen,” G whispered. A solitary tear trailed out from behind his sunglasses and down his cheek.

“That bit about no one coming to claim the body and us trying to find her family is true,” said Red Eye.

“You got a swimming pool?” asked Pearly.

“Yeah, kidney-shaped,” I said.

Pearly waved Freddy and G off and went back to standing in the doorway.

“No one could make up a story that crazy,” he said, “and no one but a couple of ex-cons could do something as stupid as show up here asking questions. What'd you guys do, get out of the pen last week? Not even a dumbass cop would do that shit.”

Freddy laughed and put away the automatic. G took his hand off my chest and wiped the tear away on the sleeve of his T-shirt.

“You guys take the fuckin' cake,” said Pearly. He adjusted his hat, as if the perfect angle would make him look like a high-steppin' twenty-year-old again.

“Bring me a bottle of Jameson and three glasses,” Pearly said to Freddy. The two gigantic Samoans lumbered out the door. Suddenly there was room to breathe.

“I'm sorry to hear about Prudence,” said Pearly in a tone that gave away nothing. His wheels were still turning but at least we'd live to see another day.

“She worked here for a few months,” he added, “then she just disappeared. It happens in this business.”

He parked himself in a high-back leather chair behind a dark wooden desk. “She was what we call ‘Queen for the Day,' a hostess really. Showed people to their seats, encouraged them to buy drinks. We called her Deirdre sometimes. She said that was her official name. Everyone loved her accent.”

Freddy showed up with the Jameson and poured us each a double. Red Eye and I downed ours in one hit. Pearly swirled his around in the glass.

“Is that all she did?” I asked.

“One night we got to talking, just the two of us. She told me she did some accounting work in England. I could tell she knew her stuff. Smart and beautiful. What a combination. I told her we might give her a shot in the office. She seemed real excited. Too bad she never got the chance.”

Pearly wasn't the kind of man who gave a young woman a chance for nothing. I didn't want to think about it. His hands were a mass of wrinkles and bumps.

“Were there any men she met at the clubs that she saw, you know, socially?” asked Red Eye.

“You mean was she bangin' any of the customers?” asked Pearly.

“Yeah, that,” said Red Eye. He gave me a pitying look. Someone had to ask that question and it wasn't going to be me.

“Not that I know of,” said Pearly, “but these girls make their own arrangements. I don't want to know. I'm not a pimp. I'm a club owner. Legit entrepreneur.” He smiled. His teeth were a disaster area, even the gold front tooth didn't gleam.