DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY. Ken Salter

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СКАЧАТЬ time. She assumed I was hers to command and I was.

      My little brother, L.C. Bean, had left a note pinned on the backside of the entry door requesting to use the studio later in the evening. He was a senior at Berkeley High School at a time when it was cool to be of mixed race. L.C. has Dad’s suave good looks and light skin. He was very popular with the ladies in high school and at the university. He got more than his share of high school and college girl nooky. As he lived at home, he often borrowed my studio to entertain his lady friends. In return, L.C. ran errands for me and provided me with access to a wide range of young, street-savvy intelligence gatherers from among his peers.

      My errands helped finance his expensive lifestyle and wardrobe. Some of his associates had part-time jobs after school, but they were always pressed to come up with enough greenbacks to buy the latest designer jeans, tee-shirts, Air Jordans and rapper cassettes for their ghetto blasters. They all liked working for me as the work was usually interesting, paid cash with no questions asked and gave them special status. L.C. liked it, too; like all contractors, he took his percentage and got to choose the assignments he wanted and farmed out the rest.

      Last year, I confided to L.C. that I needed to learn a skill that wasn’t included in the bar exam.

      L.C. introduced me to B.D., who supplied me with lock picks, pass keys and copies of manuals on makes and models of locks and tumblers.

      After a few technical sessions with B.D., whose real name could be Bad Dude for all I know, I could open most conventional doors and padlocks. Since my lessons, I’ve never felt safe behind a double-deadbolt-locked door. No wonder the flicks show New Yorkers cringing behind armor-plated doors with half a dozen or more locks attached; still, the bad guys get in! Most of the pick jobs I do involve opening locked file cabinets. With B.D.’s passkeys, it’s a piece of cake.

      I closed the studio and left a note for L.C. to call me at my cottage when he finished his loving business. I had a couple of little jobs for him and his friends. On the way to the cottage, I picked up a spicy pepperoni and sausage pizza. My body needed exercise and not more fatty food. It was too late to shoot buckets in the fading light. I could always run around a track, but I hate jogging.

      I was in a funky mood that sometimes occurs when I’m perplexed by a case. I used it as an excuse to pig out on pizza and polish off the six pack of Bud Light while I was at it. I’d have to pay for today’s excesses by eating some humble pie tomorrow on the basketball courts.

      I was halfway through my pizza when Tiffany called. “Say R.C., what’s goin’ down with the mortuary?”

      “Don’t know yet, Tiff, except to say something funny’s going on. I’m gonna need you to get me some banking info, too.”

      “No problem. What you need?”

      “I need a fix on the People’s Bank of Oakland. Try to find out who’s callin’ shots on loans and investment capital.”

      “Hey R.C., that bank is Chinese. What do they got to do with the mortuary business anyway?”

      “That’s what we got to find out. The mortuary has a new account with the Chinese bank and it doesn’t make sense.”

      “Yeah, you’re right about that; but where there’s smoke, bound to be some fire. But you know we don’t have anything to do with Chinese banks for home or commercial financing. The Chinese banks only finance Chinese ventures and mortgages far as I know.”

      “That’s what I thought. Must be a new strategy to penetrate black-owned businesses. Don’t you have some Chinese agents working for your firm in El Cerrito that you could ask?”

      “Now you mention it, we do have a couple of Chinese-speaking agents at our El Cerrito office. They’re selling homes to Chinese investors and parents of recent Chinese college graduates. They’re snapping up most of the reasonably priced real estate now that properties in San Francisco have become so expensive.”

      “Good, but we gotta keep it on the QT. Something really strange is goin’ on and we don’t want any tracks leading back to us.”

      “I hear you loud and clear, R.C. I’ll figure out a credible reason to stop by the El Cerrito office and soft peddle for info. But it’s probably gonna take some time. Those agents stick together like birds of a feather. They’re not going to give me the time of day if they think I’m tryin’ to horn in on their private domain. I’ll try to think of something that will fly.”

      “Thanks, Sis, I know I can count on you.”

      Tiffany and I are tight. We’ve been close since we were kids. I can trust her to use her intelligence and discretion to get me needed info in her realm. If that tack doesn’t work, she knows how to bat her big brown eyes and turn on the charm as attractive ladies of color know best. Tiff’s not shy to show some leg if that’s what it takes. She liked my investigating business as much or more than her real estate game. Problem was my business didn’t pay anything like what Tiff made in commissions.

      My little brother called shortly after I rang off with Tiffany. He planned to take his time romancing his girl tonight so he decided to check with me before taking care of his business.

      “What’s happenin,’ R. C.?”

      “Hey, little bro,’ I need some info. I want your buddies to put out some feelers with black and Chinese gangs in downtown Oakland. I got a hunch they might be getting together in some kind of joint venture. Just have ‘em sniff around. Get ‘em braggin’ about anything they doing together. May be nothing there, but I need to check it out. Also, put a couple guys watchin’ who’s coming and going at the Simmons Family Mortuary down on Broadway and 22^nd

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