DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY. Ken Salter

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      I MADE IT BACK TO THE MORTUARY WITH ONLY TEN minutes to spare before the first employees started to leave. I watched the door to the parking lot from my car parked across the street. Two middle-aged black men came out together. They were dressed casually and probably worked in embalming or maintenance. They chatted amiably for a bit and then headed for their modest cars and departed.

      The next group took its time to appear. It gave me time to wolf down most of my order of barbecued ribs and guzzle a can of Bud Light. I smudged my note book with greasy fingers as I didn’t have time to wipe them when three employees burst out in quick order – two black men and a middle-aged black woman in a white blouse and tan slacks. She got into a Honda Civic while the two nattily-dressed men headed for two late model Cadillac El Dorados. By the looks of their highly waxed cars, manner of dress and the ease with which they handled their expensive cars, I pegged them as chauffeurs or detail men in charge of the mortuary’s rolling stock.

      I had to wait a good twenty minutes for Brother Thomas and his clone to appear. I scrunched down in my seat and hoped Brother Thomas wouldn’t recognize my car or me peering over the steering wheel. The two salesmen were dressed alike right down to their designer shades and patent leather shoes. While Brother Thomas’s hair was jelled and slicked back in Fifties style, the other Brother wore his short, kinky hair with a part down the center.

      They laughed and jived with each other. I could imagine them programming the office CD player with lamenting blues songs sung by Bessie Smith, Muddy Waters and gospel songs by Marianne Anderson; renditions to move the spirit with tearful remembrances of loved ones lost. I marveled at such a cynical business: “Juss sign the contract, Little Brother, an’ we gonna take care of everything.”

      There wasn’t much action after Brother Thomas and his buddy left in identical, metallic-black BMW’s. I was bored waiting and debated popping the top of another Bud. If I did, I’d have to keep my legs crossed and hope the two remaining lights would be turned off real soon. I have a bladder with a ten-minute timer. What goes in starts pressing for relief ten minutes later. I had no business drinking beer or anything else on a stakeout. The longer I had to wait, the more urgent the need to pee.

      Trying to take a leak while parked on a street in Oakland is good way to get noticed fast. Local loungers and the eyes behind the second-storey tattered blinds don’t miss much going down on the street. Even if you weren’t spotted, you can be sure the moment you ducked behind a tall bush, the mark you’ve been tailing will choose that moment to slip by you. So, there’s really no choice if you’re foolish enough to drink on a stakeout; you’ve got to bake it.

      I was about to give in to temptation when a slim, attractive, modestly-dressed Asian woman rushed out the door, looked carefully around the parking lot and made her way quickly to a snazzy, black Toyota Celica at the far end of the lot. I assumed she was Jennifer Wong.

      As she quick-stepped to her car in medium heels, one of the two remaining lights upstairs turned off. Ms. Wong slid into the driver’s seat of her car just as a handsome black man appeared at the door of the mortuary, scanned the lot and street furtively in all directions before moving hastily to the woman’s Celica.

      I managed only a fleeting look at the man who had his back to me except for a brief instant when he glanced in my direction where I had ducked. He looked in his mid-thirties, was dressed in an expensive Italian-tailored suit, and had hands the color of the chocolate on a Mars bar that glinted with gold rings. The flash of heavy gold chains dangling from his neck together with the finger rings distracted my view. The man was a walking gold mine. It gave me the macabre thought that perhaps all that gold was custom-crafted from the teeth of his clients.

      He slid in beside Ms. Wong and I watched with binoculars as their heads bobbed together for a couple of minutes. As the man exited the car, it looked like he passed a small envelope to Ms. Wong but I couldn’t be sure. The man ran his forefinger down the woman’s face and her figure as she leaned to pull the door shut.

      It was a strange scene. What was an attractive Asian woman in her mid-twenties doing working in a black-owned mortuary? What was one of the mortuary’s kingpins doing with the woman in the parking lot? It didn’t make sense. Members of Oakland’s rival Chinese and Black communities don’t socialize or mingle. Was this an office romance – another taboo interracial meeting on the sly like the one responsible for bringing me into the world?

      I didn’t have long to contemplate the unexpected scene. The Celica’s motor revved and it raced out of the lot. I ducked my head as it came directly at me. By the time I bobbed back up, the Celica had roared around the corner of the lot and was gone in a flash. I was about to fire up my Chevy and give chase but stopped short. The man who’d met with her was now heading toward me in a shiny, black, late-model Mercedes. I ducked again. The man was probably Jimmy Simmons and I didn’t want to follow him home.

      I didn’t wait for the last person to leave. I’d know which brother I’d seen with Jennifer Wong when I checked license plate registrations with DMV.

      I made my way back to Berkeley. I wished now that I hadn’t been so quick to agree to provide Nate with a daily report of my activities. I decided not to mention my observations in the mortuary parking lot or my visit to the mortuary invoking my fictitious “Auntie” and plan to return with “Uncle Paul.” Nate wasn’t being objective about this case and if he shared my report with Mrs. Simmons and she alerted the mortuary, my investigation was dead on arrival.

      In addition to the cottage where I stay, I rent a studio apartment in Berkeley. It’s on the second floor of a building facing Haste Street. It was stuffy inside, so I opened two windows to coax a cross-breeze and lowered the Murphy bed. I typed out a report on a small PC I keep in the apartment and saved it to a floppy diskette, then erased the report.

      I’d print the report later at my cottage on an HP PC and Laser Jet printer. I don’t use my office computer for anything other than routine correspondence as Marcie and Saundra routinely access my computer to see what I’m up to.

      The red-eye on my answering machine blinked furiously the whole I time I was writing my report. While I’m tempted to retrieve my messages first thing, I’ve learned the hard way that it’s a sure way not to get reports written.

      The first message was from Tiffany saying she missed me at the cottage last night. She confirmed ownership of the mortuary was still in the name of the Nevada corporation and that she’d ordered credit reports. She’d call when she had more info.

      The second message was from Jeff Banes. He reported the mortuary was insured by All Risk Insurance Co. based in Las Vegas, Nevada. He’d call me again when he had more info. I was surprised at the mortuary’s choice of insurers. I’d never handled claims with All Risk, but I knew from other adjustors that they specialized in insuring very uncommon СКАЧАТЬ