“Black people are the abused housewives of America. Make the Beatles sing that.”
My mood took over the music. Put on Jay-Z. “The Story of OJ.” Bumped that shit.
Jake Ellis said, “Thought you weren’t bothered.”
“Never said I wasn’t. It’s a struggle, but I just didn’t let the situation control me.”
“This time. I’ve seen you beat that word out of many men’s vocabulary.”
“When I was younger.”
Maybe I felt older today. A man’s daughter telling him he was going to be a grandfather had that effect. Jake Ellis sped down Colorado Boulevard, then got on the Glendale Freeway.
As we came up on unforgivable traffic I reached for his phone.
He said, “Bruv, you know I don’t like people using my phone.”
“Give me the damn phone. I need your Twitter, Instagram, and Facebook so I can do a search.”
“You want to invade my social media. You’re pushing it.”
“Put in your password.”
While traffic was at a crawl, he hit his password, one that had uppercase letters, numbers, and a haiku using Ghanaian words, then handed it over, the page to Firefox and his last search opened.
I asked, “Who is this naked woman on this website?”
“What naked woman? Oh, her. She’s a Ghanaian-Nigerian actress. Christabel Ekeh. Someone tried to blackmail her with nudes, so she jumped the gun and released them herself.”
“These naked pictures are mild.”
“Not in Ghana. Not for a woman who is a celebrity there.”
That made me wonder if my daughter had the same issue.
I closed that, then tapped the app for Facebook, went to his account, searched for Margaux. This time I used her Ethiopian name. I searched for Tsigereda. Her name was a common name. I scrolled down the page. Her new complexion stood out from the rest. She had used her first name and her mother’s maiden name. Again I was insulted.
I said, “I found Margaux on Facebook.”
* * *
—
I CREPT HER page. Saw her relationship status was listed as IT’S COMPLICATED. She had pictures of her as a little girl in Ethiopia. A brown-skinned child in a sea of brown-skinned East African women and girls. That was the daughter I remembered, only she had dressed American when she was under my roof. Other pictures were post-bleaching, images of her standing in the lot at Griffith Park, Hollywood sign in the background. No one would know the little brown girl and the adult were the same. It was a safe page, the kind you had when you worked a real job and didn’t want to have your employer creep it, then have a reason to fire you for some political comment that was a bit too honest. She was in groups, with men of many cultures, but I didn’t see any pictures of her and anyone who looked like a boyfriend. Didn’t see what I was really looking for, pictures of her mother. I had no idea what my ex-wife looked like now. The last image I had of her was when her husband banged on my door, of how her pretty brown eyes widened and she panicked, of her nakedness as she rushed to get dressed. My last image of her was sheer terror, fear of Yohanes.
Jake Ellis asked, “Anything good?”
“Still checking.”
“What you got?”
“She checked in at the Grove.”
“Where?”
“Starbucks.”
“When?”
“Two minutes ago. Head that way and maybe we can be there in thirty minutes.”
“We have to meet someone from San Bernardino.”
“We can swoop by and still make the meet.”
“If your daughter checked in, she wants someone to know she’s there.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“Somebody she didn’t want to message.”
“She didn’t check in at TGIF.”
“She didn’t want anyone to know where she was.”
“She didn’t want them to know she was with me.”
“What else you got, Sherlock?”
I went down Margaux’s page, saw other places she had checked in. Crept her friends list. She had fewer than one hundred. Tried to see who she was, understand her life. She frequented other mom-and-pop coffee shops in Hollywood: Javista Organic, Groundwork, Verve. She checked in late evenings at spots hopping with hipsters until the wee hours. She went to one over and over, 101 Coffee Shop on Franklin, and didn’t check in there until after midnight, so I assumed she was restless and that spot was near her six-thousand-a-month rental house. She checked in at the studio called the Lot yesterday morning around ten, then at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre yesterday afternoon around three. She was either on vacation or taking sick days from her job. She checked in at JPL in Pasadena a lot, but not in more than a week; she had checked in a few times at Kaiser on Sunset. All of those announced check-ins added up to nothing in my brain. I wanted to see my daughter, but not with Jake Ellis at my side. Enemy or not, she was still my daughter, and if Lite Brite was in trouble, love me or not, it was my job to fix it.
* * *
—
THE STARBUCKS WAS at the Third Street / Fairfax section of the Grove, connected to the historical Farmers Market. A lot of exotic mom-and-pop eateries were side by side with fruit and vegetable vendors in that section. It was at the far western end of the six-hundred-thousand-square-foot outdoor shopping plaza, the opposite end from Nordstrom, Banana Republic, the movie theater, and a large fountain with Las Vegas flair. It was acres of shopping for the moneyed, but it was a diverse crowd. Having pale skin covered in tats wouldn’t make Margaux stand out, not this close to Melrose. We hopped on the trolley, Jake Ellis on the left, me seated on the right, and we searched for Margaux. Was impossible to see inside the stores. East Indians. Pakistanis. Jews. Whites. Asians. Blacks. Latinos. It was like that old Coke commercial from the seventies, where they wanted to teach the world to sing in perfect harmony, except in this reality every tenth person was a celebrity and every second person thought they were more important than a celebrity.
I said, “Could be a waste of time. Would be different if she had checked in at Macy’s or the Apple Store. If she was just getting a cup of coffee, she would be gone before we got here.”
“We are here. This is important. We will look for her a moment.”
“How are we on time?”
“Short.”
I nodded. “They have at least fifty shops and just as many kiosks, most for women.”
“You used to bring Margaux here when she was a little girl.”
“Yeah. I used to bring her here when she was a little girl. Brought her here and bought her expensive American Girl dolls, the ones with the brown skin.” That memory flashed as we passed that store, and that recollection lasted as long as a curt exhale and a frustrated grunt. Then I went on, saw the bookstore coming up on our right. “Took her to Barnes and Noble once or twice. She was four or five when we did that. She would ride on my back the whole time.”
Jake Ellis searched the crowd. “She could be anywhere.”
“My child might see me first and hide. Or get spooked and call for the cops. Everyone has to pay to park in the lot, so I’d bet she would be in and out before the parking fee kicks in.”
“First hour free. Next hour two bucks, but free if you get it validated at the movies.”
“Lite Brite made it sound like every dollar mattered.”
“Lite Brite?”
“Don’t tell her I called her that.”
“I’m sure she’s called you worse.”
“No doubt. She called me worse a few hours ago. When she demanded that money.”
“What if she’s meeting with someone and it has to do with that fifty thousand?”
“I don’t want to cause a scene, not like we did at TGIF.”
“I do. If someone else knows about Florida, I want
to meet them, and meet them good.”
“I know you do. And that meeting will end with a shallow grave being filled.”
“We’ll ride the trolley to Nordstrom and walk back and look in the shops.”
“And we could still miss her.” I motioned at the crowd filing into the high-priced Pacific Theatres. “Especially if she went to a movie.”
He hit his complicated password, handed me his phone before I could ask for it again.
I said, “Good idea. Let me see if she checked in anyplace else.”
“What else you see on her social media? Look for her momma. See if she checked in at the same place. If she did, then they might be in this blackmail on a black male together.”
I searched to see if Jimi Lee had a Facebook page, searched for her birth name, then tried her nickname, searched for East African women named Jimi Lee, found nothing.
The trolley left without us and I moved into the heat, head down, trying to not bump into other people while I stalked Margaux’s Twitter. Her page was private. I searched for her on Instagram. Another private page. That was a dead end.
I gave Jake Ellis back his phone. He wiped it off, got rid of my germs.
He said, “You’re sweating.”
“It’s fucking hot and I’m carrying heat.”
Walking back, I saw her. I saw Margaux. She was outside, near a restaurant, in a section that led to five or six levels of parking on this end of the Grove, feet away from the large fountain.
She was with a guy, a well-built young man who was about six feet tall, had to be in his midthirties, definitely older than Margaux, and she was arguing with him the same way Mrs. Garrett had been arguing with Mr. Garrett when they had entered their mansion, only this was a lovers’ spat being performed in public, around many people. The confrontation was intense, but contained. The guy had on shorts, sandals, tank top, dark shades. He rocked a three-hundred-dollar haircut. He had a movie star look, but a lot of losers down here had the same barber.
Jake Ellis said, “What’s the move, bruv?”
“Give it a second.”
“Looks like he’s about to hit her.”
“I wish a motherfucker would.”
Jake Ellis fell back and I moved forward, went toward Margaux, easy steps, like I was approaching a wild horse, didn’t want to scare her and make her go wild. Her argument was frustrated whispers. I couldn’t tell if the guy she was in conflict with was black or white. It had to be her boyfriend, the baby daddy, maybe not too happy to hear she was having his baby. The closer I got, as I moved by women dressed in Lululemon yoga pants, as I moved by women walking with their nannies as their nannies pushed their employers’ baby strollers, as I passed by hipster and yuppie fathers carrying their newborn babies, as I stepped by families who didn’t mind the heat as they moved from air-conditioned business to air-conditioned business, the boy with my daughter looked more Arab, the kind from the Horn of Africa, mixed with the African nations in that region. I counted up from zero, and by the time I was at twenty, Margaux turned, felt my energy invading her space, shifted like she knew someone was staring at her, turned to curse the intruder out the way she had cursed out that girl at TGIF, but saw it was me, blinked, and shock covered her face. She said something to the guy, and he looked at me, saw my hard expression, and he turned around, mixed with the mainstream crowd, headed for the escalators. I went to where Margaux was. She was wide-eyed, expression incredulous.
“You followed me?”
“Who was that guy?”
She shivered, wiped away more tears. “I don’t believe this.”
“Believe it.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“We have the same DNA.”
Jake Ellis passed by us. Margaux didn’t notice him. I don’t think she had had a good look at him back at TGI Fridays, not when he was in the bar, not when he was driving. Her mind was too focused on me to see that my partner in crime was following the boy she was arguing with.
“Who was that guy?”
“My ex.”
“What do you mean your ex? Not your boyfriend? You broke up with him?”
“Why are you following me?”
“Answer me.”
“He’s my ex. Not my boyfriend. I used to date him . . . not long ago.”
“You’re seeing two men?”
“Not your business.”
“Don’t cheat on your present with your past and expect it to last.”
“How long have you been stalking me?”
“What does he have to do with you calling me all of a sudden?”
“Do you have the money?”
“I’m here to see what’s going on.”
“Don’t follow me. Not unless you have the money.”
“I’m your dad.”
“You’re my father, not my dad.”
“You have to trust me.”
“Ken Swift, I don’t know you.”
“You were worried about USC winning.”
“So what?”
“Gambling debt? Is that what this is all about?”
She walked away from me.
I followed her. “Where are you going?”
“Leave me alone, Ken Swift.”
“You have to trust me.”
“I have to meet my boyfriend. He’s the one I trust. He’s the one I’m hurting.”
“How are you hurting him?”
“Not your business.”
“Are you juggling two guys?”
“Fuck off.”
“K’ebet’i.”
“Call me a spoiled brat. At least I’m not a murderer.”
I snapped, “Tsigereda.”
“Don’t call me that name.”
“Tsigereda.”
She shouted, “Balthazar Walkowiak, Balthazar Walkowiak, Balthazar Walkowiak!”
People stared at us. Security looked our way, concerned, hands on guns. They didn’t see a father arguing with a daughter. They saw a hip black man bothering a white Goth woman.
Margaux said, “The price is now seventy thousand.”
“If I don’t have fifty, how the hell you think I have seventy?”
“Follow me again, and I swear . . . I’ll mention that name to the police.”
“Sure.”
“And I’ll need that money in two days.”
“What happens in two days?”
“You heard me. I need that money in forty-eight hours.”
“And if I don’t have it in forty-eight hours?”
Desperation lines rose and aged her before my eyes. “I need that money.”
“Margaux.”
“Balthazar Walkowiak, Balthazar Walkowiak, Balthazar Walkowiak.”
My daughter walked away, headed back toward the Farmers Market part of the Grove. I waited where I was. Jake Ellis was back in five minutes. By then Margaux had vanished.
I asked, “What you get on that pretty boy with the Hollywood muscles?”
“Got the plates from his whip. He’s driving a two-seater BMW.”
“Balling.”
“Cherry red. Last year’s model. That’s the guy who knocked her up?”
“She said that’s her ex-boyfriend. Not the sperm donor.”
“He left in a hurry. Like a sperm donor.”
“He got spooked.”
“That was guilt.”
“Guilt like a motherfucker.”
“Well, he had a hot number waiting in the car for him to get back.”
“Player.”
“Big-time.”
I took a breath, mind on Margaux. “If there are two guys, maybe she’s in a situation.”
“He saw you, then left like he was scared too.”
“Like he thought I was a hit man.”
“Or worse. An undercover cop.”
“He make you?”
“Nah. He was busy looking back like he was checking for you. I followed him up the escalators until he got to his level, then let him move on before I walked behind him.”
I looked at my hand, at my complexion. “He wouldn’t know I was her dad.”
“Depends on how long he’s been around. Pre-white or post-white.”
“Right now Jesus wouldn’t know I was her dad.”
“No fault of yours.”
“Maybe she is seeing two guys and don’t know who knocked her up.”
“I watch Lauren Lake’s Paternity Court. Lot of that don’t-know-who-the-daddy-is going around. It’s an epidemic. Don’t think your extorting daughter would be immune to such treachery.”
“And maybe this is tied to her needing the fifty large.”
“How would fifty thousand fix that? I could see it if the guy wanted that much to pay her, to coax the girl to get rid of it. Spend fifty grand now, save a few million in the long run. But this is the other way around. That’s if she is pregnant. Is this a con? Something else could be popping.”
“Something else. Regardless. She sees me as the cash cow.”
“What did she say to you?”
“Was furious I had found her. I shook her. She mentioned Florida.”
“Again.”
“She raised the amount to seventy.”
“She penalized you for tracking her.”
“Said she needed it in forty-eight hours.”
“She’s in a fix.”
“She is.” I nodded. “Dared me to follow her again. Told me to fuck off.”
“Yeah, you should have had a son. We would’ve beat his ass real good.”
Jake Ellis’s San Bernardino phone rang, stopped that conversation. He answered.
He looked up at the sky as if he saw the satellite that gave our coordinates, said, “We stopped at Barnes and Noble in the Grove to get a book on Ethiopia Ken Swift wanted. I know you don’t care about Ethiopia. Yes, I’m sure he knows too. We won’t be late. About that. Well, we had no idea what Garrett was going to say. Well, he was nicer to you than he was to us. I’m sorry. No, I wasn’t trying to be funny. I didn’t mean that in a disrespectful way. Apologies.”
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 9