Prudence Couldn't Swim (9 page)

The apple tart was much better with the sugar on it. I went for a third piece. Mandisa looked pleased.

“I found this in one of her pockets,” said Mandisa. She handed me a business card. Johnny's Camera Shop.

“I'll phone them,” I said, taking my cell out of my pocket.

“What are you going to say?”

“I'll figure something out,” I said. “I'm a con man. We have an answer to everything.”

“Wait,” she said, “it's better to plan.” English might have been her fifth language but she was no fool. I cut the phone.

“I know the place,” I said. “It's on College Avenue. Small shop. Upmarket. For the university crowd. If Prudence had any dealings with them, they'd remember her. No one else who looked or sounded like her would go there.”

“Stick to the truth,” she said. “You're a bereaved husband. That means something. Maybe you think she left some items to be printed there, films of your last night together.”

I liked the way she pronounced “film,” as in “fill ‘em up.”

“You said I should tell the truth,” I reminded her.

“It's close enough.”

I laughed and phoned the camera shop. Johnny answered.

“I'm so sorry, sir,” he said. “I remember the young woman. Charming thing. She bought a video camera from us. Old-style VHS. Don't sell many of those any more. Said she hadn't figured out this new technology yet. Wanted it for shooting her honeymoon in Yosemite. It was a couple of months ago. Let me bring it up on the system. Here it is. Mrs. D. Winter. That was her name. I remember it now. A Panasonic. Lovely woman. Elegant. I'm so sorry.”

I thanked him for his condolences and the information. I asked Mandisa about it. She'd never seen Prudence with a video camera. Neither had I. I'd check with Darlene. At least I had something to follow up on.

Mandisa promised to write to G. Mukombachoto and go through Prudence's clothes one more time.

“There may be a scrap of paper with a phone number or something,” she said. “If I find anything or think of anything, I'll call you.”

I gave her my number but I doubted I'd hear from her again. Mandisa was almost as mysterious as Prudence. She didn't need me poking around in her life.

T
he next morning Officer Carter showed up at my door. This time his partner was a short, stocky woman who looked like a possible candidate for the Olympic team in the shot put. Lovely creature. Their timing could have been better. It was Luisa's day to clean and I was on my way to a meeting with a young woman from Belarus. Red Eye told me she was tall, blonde, horny, and looking for a husband. With Prudence gone, I could call myself “available.” My heart wasn't really in it but at least I'd be thinking about something besides that look in Prudence's eyes when her head popped out of that rolled-up rug. Maybe poking a blonde would cure my insomnia. Something had to work.

“We have a couple more questions for you about the girl who drowned in your pool,” said Carter. As the two of them parked on my couch again without an invitation, I heard the bedroom window sliding open slowly. Luisa was making her escape. I coughed to cover up the noise. Though I never asked, I figured her chances of having a green card were about as good as those for me becoming lifelong friends with Officer Carter.

“What else do you need to know?” I asked. I could feel a noose tightening around my neck. I was about two questions from calling my lawyer. Maybe we could file a civil action to recover the costs of the Re-Nu.

“Do you have a marriage license?” he asked. “We want to verify the name of your so-called wife.”

“I'll get it for you,” I said. I went into my bedroom. Carter followed. A cool breeze wafted in through the open window.

“I'm a bit of a fresh air freak,” I told Carter. He didn't pay any
attention, just headed straight for my bed. I slid open the top drawer of my dresser. My marriage license had been there since the day Prudence moved in but I wasn't even thinking about the license. The top drawer of my nightstand contained my Walther—an automatic five years if Carter found it.

“The license is right here,” I said, “you can come and see for yourself.”

Carter didn't respond. He was too busy pulling the blankets and sheets off the bed. As I turned to take the license to him, he bent over the bed and took a deep breath.

“That's the smell of African pussy,” he said, “wet and wild. She must have been more than you could handle, Winter.”

I threw the license on the bed, right under his nose.

“She was my wife,” I reminded him, “for better or worse.”

He ignored the license, sat down on the bed and slid open the nightstand drawer. I thought about diving out the window but even as fat and slow as Carter was, he could probably get a bullet through me before I got away. I was already starting to taste that watery corn meal mush they doled out in the Feds' chow hall.

He scooped out a bunch of condoms and dropped them on the bed.

“You must have been planning to have a lot of fun with your Chocolate drop bride,” he said, “but you didn't want any jungle bunny babies running around, did you?”

He picked up one of the condoms and studied the packet.

“My mistake,” he added, “I got you all wrong, Winter. These things say ‘extra large'. Couldn't be yours. What'd you do, take pictures while someone else bonked your wife?”

I directed him again toward the marriage license on the bed. I wasn't going for his bait. I was just trying to figure out where the hell that Walther was. I knew I'd put it in that drawer but maybe I'd changed it up in one of my drunken stupors. Wild Turkey could do that to you.

Carter tossed the condom on the floor and examined the marriage certificate carefully, running his finger over the seal. Strange feeling to be handing a cop a document that was legit. Too bad Prudence wasn't.

“One of your buddies make this up for you?” he asked. “We've looked at your jacket. Forgery, fraud, trafficking. You're a fuckin' jack of all trades.”

“I've given all that up. I'm what they call rehabilitated.”

He stood up and hollered to his partner that it was time to go. “There's nothing here,” Carter shouted. “Besides, Winter's just told me he's rehabilitated.”

The woman waddled through the bedroom door.

“Yeah and I'm Meryl Streep, expecting another Oscar this year,” she replied. Carter led the way as the two headed for the front door, their keys bouncing against those pudgy hips as they moved away. He stopped halfway to the door to look at my collection of videos. He crouched down and pulled a copy of
Cool Hand Luke
off the shelf, popped the case open and looked at the cassette.

“I figure a guy like you's got a collection of kiddie porn sandwiched in with the Paul Newman.”

“Just Paul Newman plus all the Disney favorites. You wanna watch
Bambi?”

He put
Cool Hand Luke
back, then rummaged through a few more videos. I just wanted him to get the hell out.

“I was hopin' for some ebony porn in your collection, Winter, like your wife fuckin' the dog.”

“I'd appreciate it if you left now,” I said.

“We'll be back,” Carter assured me.

“I'll look forward to that. I'll bake chocolate chip cookies for the occasion.”

“Don't be a smartass, Winter. We could strike you out in a heartbeat.”

“While we wait for that heartbeat to finish, kindly make your exit.”

I stood in the front door and watched until they pulled away, then circled around to the backyard to hunt for Luisa. When I called out her name, I heard some bushes rustle in the corner of the yard and out she came, a bit of topsoil clinging to her uniform. She held the Walther in her right hand, pointing toward the sky.

“I thought maybe they shouldn't see this,” she said.

“You're a star,” I said, “a real
estrella.”

“You are a crazy man, Mr. Winter. Very loco.”

She gave me a hug. That had never happened before. When she pulled away, her sweaty hair left a stain on my shirt. Hopefully the spot remover would take it out. Re-Nu wasn't recommended for clothing.

“I wish I could help you more,” said Luisa. “Prudence was a very nice woman. She was always laughing, but inside I could see that she was sad. She never told me why. Her life was her secret. That's how it is with us
inmigrantes.”

“We all have our secrets,” I reminded her. She went quiet and started to weep. I gave her the rest of the day off and headed for Olga, the Belarus girl. I really needed a stress reliever. Hopefully she would fill the bill.

Olga was waiting for me in the Lighthouse, a dive in downtown San Leandro with lots of pictures of ships on the wall. She could have passed for Anna Kournikova and her bright blue mini skirt wasn't much longer than Anna's tennis togs. I battled to keep my eyes off those deep-tanned legs. We had a few drinks. She wasn't looking for a husband. She had one of those, though I suspected he didn't see much of her.

“My husband paid me $3,000 and I got a green card,” she said, “but our marriage isn't working out.” She opened her purse to show me her little plastic card with “Permanent Resident” printed across the top.

“I can do massage,” she said and proceeded to gently run her hand along the inside of my thigh under the table.

“I need a drivers' license in another name just in case. They tell me you've helped a lot of girls.”

“Who told you that?”

“A girlfriend.”

“I've helped a few get on their feet,” I said, “but I'm semiretired now.”

“I can do other things also,” she said as the massage relocated itself a little bit higher up my leg. Maybe Red Eye had told her I needed some cheering up.

After six drinks I'd agreed to get her a drivers' license and landed her in my bedroom. She did know how to do other things. I thought of Kournikova sliding across the clay courts in Paris to chase down a backhand as Olga's athleticism delivered me momentarily from the evil complexities of a dead wife, paranoid fears, and perverted cops. She insisted on a trip to Nordstrom the next morning, her way of collecting
a fee for services. I spent $763, which got Olga some enticing perfume, and two shiny, slinky blue dresses with no backs. The blue matched her Kournikova eyes.

I drove her to an apartment building in San Leandro where she said she was staying with several friends. Obviously none of them was hubby. She offered to meet me again in a few days, to get an update on job possibilities. I suppose Pearly was looking for a Queen for the Day, but I didn't offer. I said I'd let her know if anything came up. Then for some reason I told her my wife had just died. “Me and Red Eye are investigating what happened.”

“A husband in sorrow needs to lift his spirits,” she said. “Don't forget about Olga. I am there for you.”

“We had a nice time,” I said.

She kissed me on the cheek, then licked the inside of my ear for a long time, leaving me with my flag flying high to remember her by. Any other time in my life I'd have dropped everything to get my fill of Olga. She actually seemed to like me. Not every girl can get used to a cleft lip. They say we kiss funny.

As I approached my house an odd feeling came over me, one I hadn't experienced in a long time—guilt. I couldn't feel comfortable with another woman until I solved Prudence's murder. When she was alive and out of the house for days on end, I had no problem hooking up with whatever the wind blew my way. Now that she was gone, I was getting attacks of conscience. Go figure. A couple of shots of Wild Turkey succeeded in bringing me back toward level ground. Guilt never kept Calvin Winter down for long. If I could just score a good night's sleep, I'd be ready for real action.

M
andisa phoned at seven the next morning. I'd just nodded off. The Wild Turkey wasn't doing its job. She said she wanted to meet me at Denny's in Alameda in half an hour. “I might as well check out the competition's menu,” she said, “while we discuss our business.” I didn't know she had a sense of humor.

I got there five minutes late and resisted ordering the dollar size. All I needed was a bottomless cup of coffee. She ordered a root beer float.

“I've only discovered them recently,” she said. “They're terrible for the waistline but so delicious.”

Her outfit surprised me—ordinary blue jeans, a Nike T-shirt and matching cap. Totally casual and the red streak was gone. Wraparound sunglasses hid her greenish eyes.

She swirled the ice cream in the root beer with a long silver soda spoon.

“I found the names and phone numbers of a couple of men in one of her bags,” she said. “I remember her mentioning them before.”

“Business associates?” I asked.

“Social, but there may have been some sort of business as well. There was an element of desperation in Prudence's life.”