I gave up on the lottery scheme. We hadn’t really figured out where we were going with it anyway and now it was time to take it all to a higher level. I had everything I needed on Jeffcoat and Newman. I just had to figure out how to use the tapes.
“We can put them on the Internet,” said Red Eye. “People will pay. Interracial is big.”
“What the hell are you thinking, homeboy?” I asked.
“It’d be big bucks,” he said, “and we can watch those fat cats sweat.”
Red Eye assumed the tapes had shattered all my illusions and fantasies about Prudence. I wanted to hate her permanently but it wouldn’t come. My own hang-up. Putting her naked body out there for all the world to see? Never.
Anyway, before I did anything with those tapes, I needed another round with Olga. Guilt-free this time.
We did our expensive little sex and shopping number. She made me feel better. I don’t know why. Being a harelip I guess I’ve got issues with self-esteem. Kids used to tease me at school until I whacked Johnny Talbot with a baseball bat when he called me “hairy lips.” That shut them up.
After I dropped Olga off with her bag of shopping from Nordstrom, I went back to Red Eye. He had this idea about tape number nine.
“My friend Stretch can bring it back to life,” he said. “He’s a computer guy, knows all about this shit.”
I didn’t understand what a computer had to do with a video but I could always count on Red Eye. I dug the tape out of my stash and handed it over. “I’m not saying he’ll do it in a hurry,” he said, “but he’ll get it done.”
At least so far there was no indication that whoever killed Prudence was after me. But if word got out that we had the tapes, we’d end up on someone’s hit list. If they’d killed Prudence to protect their reputation and bank balance, they’d have no qualms about including me and Red Eye in the package. I wondered if Prudence had really sent these guys blackmail notes? Maybe she never got that far.
Mandisa had to know more about this. I phoned her and she actually seemed pleased to hear from me. Maybe the stress was getting to her. No matter how rough the place was where she grew up, I don’t imagine she expected a friend of hers in Oakland to wind up dead. She and Prudence had survived all those wars and famines in Africa, now one of them gets killed in America. Doesn’t make much sense.
I arranged to meet her at Lake Merritt, the centerpiece of Oakland’s natural beauty. It was once a sewage dump, a real black hole. Even the beautiful things in my city have a shady history.
Mandisa was relaxed, once again in jeans. For a plump woman, she was actually attractive even though she had pockmarks on her cheeks and a few teenage pimples still hanging around on her forehead. I liked the shape of her hands and the way she hugged me when we met, even if she was a little hesitant. Prudence never hugged unless she’d had at least half a dozen drinks.
I could see Jeffcoat’s office from the bench where we sat but we didn’t stay there long. We walked and talked. I’d forgotten how a white man and a black woman walking together attracted all kinds of judgmental stares. People assume that you’re doing something wrong.
“Since we met last time I’ve found out a lot of things,” I said.
“Like what?”
“Prudence met Jeffcoat and Newman at your house and had sex with them. More than once.”
“And … ?”
“It was taped and someone has copies of these sessions.”
“That can’t be right,” she said. “It never happened like that.”
“How did it happen then?”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I can’t imagine anyone making tapes. Prudence used my apartment a few times. I always worked nights. She was protecting you.”
“She didn’t want to bring men to your house.”
“Mighty white of her,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
“It’s just an expression we use. I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Right. Like when black people call each other niggers.”
I wasn’t going to put my foot in it again by responding to that one. We walked for a little while in silence. I hoped she’d realize it was just a slip of the tongue.
“There was a camera mounted somewhere in your apartment,” I said. “These guys weren’t trying to perform on film. They wanted to keep this all under the table.”
“Like good white gentlemen?” she said.
“Luckily,” I said, “that doesn’t offend me. I’m not a gentleman.”
I waited for a smartass reply but she just gazed off at some passing cars with what looked like a little smile on her face
“Prudence paid me rent for the room,” she said. “I didn’t go in there. I’m at work every night. Whatever she did was none of my business. As long as it wasn’t illegal.”
“So there’s a porn studio in your extra bedroom and you don’t want to know about it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Whoever is feeding you information better get it right.”
“What happened to the camera that was mounted above the closet door in that bedroom?” I asked.
“How would you know what was mounted above my closet door?”
“I saw it when we were going through her things.”
She stopped in her tracks.
“You shit,” she said. “You broke into my apartment. I thought there were footprints on the carpet. I should have called the police.”
“Go ahead,” I said, “call them. Your friend is dead and you want to worry about a little break-in.”
“You don’t understand any of this. You’re just a pimp feeding off desperate young girls. And I’m not desperate. Too bad.”
“At least I care enough to find out who murdered one of them,” I said. “If that makes me a pimp, bring it on.”
She started walking again, only much faster. She was trying to get away from me.
“Was she blackmailing these guys?” I asked. “Is that why she got killed?”
“I don’t know if she was whitemailing them or not. I told you I don’t know. I gave you the names—Jeffcoat, Newman, Margolis. Now just stay out of my life. I should have known better than to meet you here. Since when did I start hanging around with ex-convicts? America does weird things to you.”
She looked angry enough to hit me but she kept walking.
“I’m leaving,” she said. “If you follow me I’ll phone the police and say you’re a stalker. You’re nothing but trouble. I told Prudence that but she wouldn’t listen.”
“I’m a good pimp,” I said. “I look after my girls. A pimp with a heart.”
She strode quickly, almost breaking into a run. I trailed behind.
“Slow down,” I shouted.
“I’ve got nothing else to say to you,” she said. “Nothing.”
She kept up the pace for a while but after a couple hundred yards she was starting to wheeze. Apparently IHOP didn’t pay for gym membership, but then I was no triathlon master either. My chest was heaving, my throat on fire.
“I’m not trying to bring misery into your life,” I shouted in between pants. “Don’t you realize whoever did this to Prudence can strike again? Who do you think are the likely next targets?”
She stopped.
“You think I haven’t thought of that?” she said. “That’s why I want you to back off. If you leave it alone …”
“As long as that person thinks those tapes are out there, we’re in danger.”
“She did come upon a lot of money about two weeks before she died. She sent it home. That’s what she always did. For her daughter, her family.”
“Work with me on this,” I said. “It’s not just for Prudence. It’s for you, for our safety. Tell me what you know.”
“I already have.”
“I don’t think so. Who was Prudence? What was her real name?”
“Tarisai Mukombachoto,” Mandisa said. “She was a mother trying to look after her child. The world is not kind to African mothers. Sometimes we end up ten thousand miles away from our children just so we can pay their school fees, buy them shoes.”
“Is that your situation, too?”
“This isn’t about me” she replied. “Prudence and I were different women from different countries. I have my problems. She had hers. Different from Americans who worry about what SUV to buy, where to fly for a vacation. That was my common point with Prudence. We never knew the details of each other’s lives. We just understood.”
The sunglasses only partially hid Mandisa’s tears. She dug a tissue out of her pocket but kept talking as she wiped her cheeks.
“She didn’t deserve to die for trying to help her child,” she said. “She wasn’t even buried at home.”
“No one deserves that,” I said. I was tempted to tell her that Prudence wasn’t even buried, that her ashes sat somewhere in some urn. I decided this wasn’t the time.
“I’m scared,” she said. “Those two men are rich, powerful. If another African woman dies in Oakland the police won’t care anymore than they did about Prudence. Do you know about Amadou Diallo?”
“Who?”
“This African guy the police in New York shot forty-one times. He was just walking down the street. They found the police innocent. We are nothing here. Completely nothing. They don’t care about an African woman.”
“Or about a pimp,” I said.
We stood for a long time on a patch of grass by the lakeshore. A middle-aged white couple were rowing a blue boat across the water. The kind you could rent by the hour. The man dropped an oar. Their cackles carried across the lake as he tried to fish the thing out of the water. Each failure brought a new round of laughter. With every lunge the boat rocked. The woman shifted her weight to try and restore their balance. Finally the man got the oar, put it though the ring on the rim of the boat and they started off again. A pleasant respite from whatever might have been the slings and arrows of their lives. Maybe they’d bought the wrong SUV. Derogatory comments from the neighbors can be debilitating. Row your worries away. Life is but a dream.
Mandisa and I had lost both of our oars. I was trying to get mine back but she wasn’t helping balance the boat. The problem was, if I fell in, she came with me. She couldn’t swim and I couldn’t do much better than a dog paddle. I’d meant to take swimming lessons when I bought a house with a pool but I never got around to it.
There were a hundred reasons for an African woman and a hare-lipped white pimp to quarrel. But the reality was that we needed each other. We had to find a way to get our oars through those rings. I hoped she’d stay on board long enough to get it done.
We walked back toward the park bench.
“I think Newman did this,” she said. “He’s a psycho.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I said.
An old man sauntered past with a little Cairn terrier tied to his walker. I felt sorry for the old guy. Probably took him three hours to get around the lake. Then came a loud bang, followed by a couple more. The dog made a little yelp and the old man keeled over on the grass. More bangs. Definitely gunfire. I dove under the bench and looked up to see Mandisa on her knees next to the old man starting to pump on his heart. I was more worried about the bullets than this geezer’s cardiac arrest. Prudence’s killer was nearby and either a little off-target or issuing us a very scary warning.
“Phone 9-1-1,” Mandisa hollered at me in between pumps and breaths. I dialed, told them where we were. The gunshots stopped. I took off, leaving Mandisa with her lips on top of the old man’s. I wasn’t hanging around for the cops or Freckle Face and his crew.
I walked the half a block to my Volvo at a calm, orderly pace. I wanted to run but running always attracts attention and sometimes bullets as well. I heard someone shouting something about a drive-by, that a gangbanger got shot in the head. Too bad for him but I was relieved if this wasn’t about Prudence or me or Mandisa or any of that. Life on the streets had its own rhythms and worries.
As I got near my car I looked back and saw the old man start to sit up. Mandisa gently eased him back into a prone position as the sirens drew near. She’d saved that old codger’s life. That Katlehong where she came from must have been one helluva place.