DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY. Ken Salter

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СКАЧАТЬ either black or white kids at school. There were few half-breed blacks like me with a black father and white mother to provide a buffer from the insults and taunts from the cliques of both races that dominated high school. Despite my pale milk chocolate-colored skin and frizzy, rather than kinky hair, I was still a nigger to most of the white kids and a pariah to black kids who resented my white liberal mother with her dark, wavy hair and honey-olive skin inherited from her Sephardic ancestors.

      They especially resented my father’s café-au-lait coloring and Creole good looks. I think kids of both races resented dad most because they thought he’d humped his way into the white man’s world where he didn’t belong.

      I feel at home in Reggie’s Place. I come here often to write notes on cases and plan investigations. Reggie and I share first names and black skin. The last time anyone called me Reginald Charles instead of R.C., I was in some kind of trouble.

      Reggie tipped his green and white A’s baseball cap on my arrival. The lunch special was scrawled on a small chalk board behind the register in large letters, “Fish Gumbo with Corn Bread.” My stomach was already responding to the delicious smells coming from the big iron pots on the stove. I pointed to the chalk board and Reggie flashed me a knowing smile.

      When he’d finished chopping his veggies, he brought me a steaming mug of black coffee and plopped it down on the Formica table.

      “How you doin’, R.C.? Mista’ Charlie keepin’ you on the run?”

      “Same as always, Reggie. The Man likes to see his little darkie play step an’ fetch it. Otherwise, he don’t be too friendly when it’s time to cut my pay.”

      “Yeah, we all’s got the same mis’ry, R.C. Them white college folks like to come here an’ watch ol’ Reggie do some steppin’ and fetchin’ too. Be along wid’ yo’ gumbo shortly.”

      I pulled my daybook out of my backpack and started a list of things to do on the Simmons case. I needed to nose around the mortuary before anyone suspected what I was up to. I planned to pay a visit on my way back from the courthouse in downtown Oakland.

      I called my sister, Tiffany, on my cell phone and left her a message to order title, tax and credit reports for the mortuary on the “QT.” She’s a real estate broker. I signed off with “Catch you later, Miss Gator” which is our code to call me after ten at my cottage.

      My next call was to my old buddy, Jeff Banes, at All American Insurance where we used to work together. “Say, Jeff, how you been doin’?”

      “Hey, R.C., I was thinking about you, you lucky bastard. I’m commuting two hours a day to the City where I’m chained to my computer terminal while you’re running around on the loose spending clients’ money on God knows what monkey business. I’m jealous.”

      “Naw, you got it all wrong, Jeff. I’m the guy running around sweating how to pay the bills and risking his neck on a legal assistant’s pay as an independent contractor. You got the paid vacation, the health plan and the company car.” Jeff chuckled. We both knew he’d give his eyetooth to be out on his own, but couldn’t. He hated the office routine, but with a diabetic kid at home, he couldn’t afford to give up his generous medical benefits. If he quit, he’d never get coverage for his sick kid even though he worked in insurance.

      “What’s up?” Jeff asked.

      “I need some info on a case. Need to know who’s insuring a black mortuary in Oakland called the Simmons Family Mortuary. I’m especially interested in their liability and malpractice coverage. You know, policy limits and whether they’ve been nailed for any big claims in the last four years.”

      “You’re not thinking of investing in one of the most lucrative businesses known to man without cutting in your old buddy Jeff, are you?”

      “Wish it were so, Jeff. I’m just doing a routine background on a marital property evaluation. I figure there can’t be many underwriters for such a specialized business.”

      “Should be no problem to get the coverage, but it may take a couple of days to track claim records since we don’t do this type of underwriting.”

      “No problem on the time frame. Get me everything you can. Give my love to Polly and the kids.”

      I had the rest of my plan of attack organized when Reggie whisked a steaming plate of gumbo under my nose and set it on the table. The savory smell of the gumbo along with the three freshly baked pieces of cornbread excited my stomach juices; I couldn’t wait to sop up the gumbo with the cornbread. The meal was probably going to be the highlight of my day. I wolfed it down just as fast as I could shovel it in my craw without burning a hole in my throat.

      My first stop on my way to the courthouse was at Sharon Miller’s apartment in the University Village where Cal houses its married students in dilapidated four-plexes built for military personnel during WW II.

      Sharon was thrilled to sign her divorce agreement which gave her four years of alimony support in addition to child support to complete her undergraduate B.A. degree and earn a Master’s degree in business administration. Sharon hugged me and pleaded for me to celebrate her victory over her ex by taking her to dinner. Sharon put her ex through grad school; he rewarded her sacrifices by dumping her and their two kids to start his new career in public planning with a younger wife he’d romanced on Sharon’s earnings as a secretary.

      I should have said “No” nicely and begged off the temptation. Sharon’s a lovely woman with a trim figure, flaming-red hair and an engaging smile. I felt bad to let her down on her moment of triumph which she attributed to my snooping and nailing her ex. I rationalized that a night out dining and dancing would take my mind off Gloria Simmons.

      After agreeing to pick up Sharon later, I made my way down San Pablo Avenue to Oakland. The further I penetrated the inner city, the bleaker the tableau became; I passed rundown tenements alongside long-neglected Victorians, their weather-bleached boards raw and screaming for a coat of paint, their windows without glass or papered with cardboard. Bandit liquor stores on most corners had windows barred and mean-looking brothers leaning against doorways, watching who was buying what.

      The old courthouse across from the more modern Oakland Museum had barely survived the ’89 earthquake. I shuddered to think of the problems if the building had burned. Most of the official records I consult are housed in this antiquated structure.

      I stopped first at the Recorder’s office. It took twenty minutes working with microfiche to learn that the mortuary’s real property was not owned by the Simmons brothers, but by a Nevada corporation called TJS Enterprises, Inc. The deed had been recorded eighteen months earlier. The deed to the Nevada corporation was signed by the Simmons brothers who had gained title from a deed from the probate court at their father’s death. I paid to get copies I could pick up before leaving the courthouse.

      I stopped next at the “bullpen” where legal actions are filed and stored. While a surly clerk begrudgingly searched for the probate case in the inactive files, I ran the index listing lawsuits filed to see if any were against the mortuary. I was rewarded with one active and two inactive litigation files. When the clerk handed me the probate file, I handed her the requisition slips for the lawsuits and my order and check for copying them. I scooted off to the Vital Records office before the clerk could start bitching and throwing me nasty looks.

      I wanted to see if Jimmy Simmons had taken out a marriage license; he hadn’t. I had better luck checking the filings for fictitious business name statements. Booker T. Simmons had filed a statement six years ago stating he owned the mortuary as a СКАЧАТЬ