From Cape Town with Love

by Blair Underwood

  Clarence Love felt right at home.

  “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Clarence muttered.

  Marsha squeezed my hand. “Maybe we came to the right place,” she said. Her Jamaican accent was prim and high bred, emphasis on her t’s. Marsha had costumed herself in professional attire; hair efficiently pinned except for strands across her ears, wearing a gray pants suit that reminded me of Hillary Clinton on the campaign trail. Unlike Hillary, her white blouse was low cut, nestling a gold heart-shaped necklace in her cleavage. She could flash her flesh at the right angles.

  The hostess’s long blond hair was braided into cornrows; I wondered if she wore these every day. She grabbed two menus and motioned for us to follow, with no wait. “Hope you don’t mind sitting near the stage,” she said apologetically. “It’s a little loud for conversation.”

  “You can sit me on the stage,” I said, winking.

  Our table, as promised, was in a corner right beside a small raised stage with a four-man combo eking out an imitation of Baaba Maal’s “African Woman.” It’s salsa with a Senegalese flair, although the lead singer couldn’t touch the vocals of the original. Hell, I can probably sing as well as he can.

  The drummer looked shorter than me, about five-nine, in his twenties. Thin. My heart sped. He could have been the man I saw on the football field! Keeping my sunglasses on, I watched the drummer out of the corner of my eye, pretending to study the menu. The drummer’s hands were listless on the skins, keeping the rhythm without the dynamism or odd gestures Xolo Nyathi had described. Shit.

  “What looks good here, C.?” Marsha said.

  I leaned close to Marsha’s ear. “I don’t think it’s him.”

  She laughed, throwing her head back as if I’d told a joke. “Fuck.”

  “We’ll find out for sure at the break.”

  The band was on a budget, with only a keyboardist, drummer, guitarist, and singer. Instead of horns to fill out the sound, the song’s brass was performed on the keyboard. Big difference. Their cover of Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry” was more convincing, but it didn’t sound like a band Xolo Nyathi or anyone else would follow.

  “What’s the name of the band?” Marsha asked the waitress when she brought our jerk chicken wings, fried plantains, and black bean soup we’d ordered à la carte.

  “Uhm . . . Diaspora Beat, I think . . . ?” she said. “Something like that.”

  I gently laid a hand on the waitress’s shoulder as she leaned down to hear me. Marsha gave me a mock evil eye. “Who’s the man to talk to if I want to sing for them?” I said.

  “Oh, ask the guy on keyboard—it’s his band. Simon.” She leaned closer, intimacy inspired by my lingering touch. “Just between us? They could use the help. You should hear Simon’s regular guys. Would I know your singing from anywhere?”

  “No, not yet,” I said. “I’m just learning my way round. I’m a little shy.”

  “Awwww,” she said, as if I’d been transformed into a puppy.

  Marsha made a humphing sound. “Shy? Don’t believe a word he says. You’ll see how shy he is up on that stage. Remember his name: Clarence Love. His voice is triple platinum.”

  “Come on, Octavia . . . ,” I said, as if I was embarrassed. “She doesn’t have time to hear—”

  “She asked, didn’t she?”

  Our mock argument continued after the waitress smiled and excused herself, and Marsha and I shared a satisfied gaze. Marsha wasn’t an actress, but she was an easy liar who could read human psychology.

  I had eaten half the food on the plate when the keyboardist announced a ten-minute break. Recorded calypso music filled the restaurant. I was ready to introduce myself to Simon as he climbed down from the stage, but our waitress took his hand and led him to our table. “It’ll just take a minute . . . ,” I heard her tell him.

  Simon was tall, thin, and dark skinned. His hair, which he wore in long dreadlocks, was tinged red from either sun or dye. He stared at us warily.

  Marsha and I both got to our feet, conferring respect. I hoped he wasn’t Jamaican. The accent was one thing, but the Jamaican patois was another matter.

  “Simon, this is Clarence Love,” the waitress said.

  “Yeah, mon, hey,” I said, shaking his hand. When I introduced him to my “wife,” his eyes studied her blouse with appreciation.

  “We understand you could use a singer,” Marsha said.

  Simon looked puzzled. “I never put up any ads . . .”

  Marsha went on. “Sorry to be blunt, but we heard it with our own ears.”

  I groaned inwardly, but Simon only laughed, covering his mouth as he checked over his shoulder to see if the singer had heard. The rest of the band had headed straight for the bar, following the age-old musicians’ custom.

  Simon gave me a look, almost pitying. “I see this one speaks her mind.”

  “Ev’ry damn day,” I said, and he laughed again. Simon was African, I guessed. His accent sounded faintly English, with a dash of exoticism. But not South African. And he didn’t sound like the Englishman I’d heard at the football stadium.

  “Leave me a demo,” Simon said. “I’ll see what my ears say.”

  Shit. I’d forgotten to make a demo. Any singer looking for work would have one.

  “No, mon, sorry,” I said. “I give you a demo, it sits in your car. Let me sing for you. Give me an audition. Just five minutes.”

  Simon shrugged. “It’s not exactly big time, you know? We play at parties and restaurants now and then. I’ve already got a lead singer for the night gigs. The full band.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard good things about the band,” I said. “Heard you had a wicked drummer . . . Is that Spider?” I indicated the drummer, already knowing the answer to my question. My heart’s excited pumping made it hard to sound casual. Marsha’s fingers tightened around my kneecap under the table; maybe she thought I was pushing too fast, or maybe she was just saying Be careful.

  “No, not Spider. That kid’s new.”

  “Where can Clarence do that audition?” Marsha said.

  Simon glanced toward his bandmates again. Then he sighed and pulled out a business card. Before he gave it to me, he scribbled a word on the back. “Check us out at Skylight tonight. Spider’ll be there. We start playing at nine, but catch me at about eight thirty. I’ll let you sit in for a song during mic check.”

  Spider would be performing tonight!

  “Great!” I said, grinning. “But I don’t know the set list, yeah?”

  “We’ll keep it simple for you,” he said. “Some Marley, some Tosh. You’ll catch on.”

  Or YOU will, I thought, shaking his hand again. I would need to brush up on my Bob Marley and Peter Tosh lyrics. I hoped I hadn’t pushed my cover too far.

  “You just did a very smart thing,” Marsha assured Simon. “Mr. . . .?”

  “Simon Odembo,” he said. “I use Simon O. I like your name—Clarence Love. It’s catchy. Easy to remember.”

  I gave Marsha a smug look. “See? And she’s always hated my name.”

  “But I married him anyway,” Marsha said with a demure smile.

  Simon laughed again, amused by our private improv act.

  My mouth opened before I could stop myself. “Hey, mon, d’you know if Spider’s got—”

  A loud clink, and Marsha’s water glass tipped over, spilling ice water across our table. I scooted back to avoid cold water across my lap. “I’m so clumsy!” Marsha said. “Sorry, baby.”

  When I looked up again, Simon was joining his band at the bar. I grabbed paper napkins from the dispenser at our table to mop up the water. “I know,” I said quietly. “Too much.”

  “I saw something on his face,” Marsha said. “Too many questions. We don’t want to get ambushed. Just show up tonight and sing your ass off.” She paused. “You can sing, can’t you?”

  I read the business card he’d given me: his name, band logo, and an 818 number. On the back, he’d written Club Skyligh
t, Culver City. That nightclub hadn’t been on Xolo Nyathi’s list. I just wished we didn’t have to wait so long. We’ll follow him when he leaves, I decided. If he knows Spider, he might visit him.

  For show, I raised my water glass in a toast. “Here’s to tonight,” I said to Marsha.

  “Let’s hope it’s worth celebrating.”

  The memory of Spider’s knife and Roman’s screams brought to mind a few moves banned in the dojo that ended with crunch sounds. I couldn’t wait to try them on Spider.

  “I’ll drink to that,” I said.

  We clinked our glasses together, almost hard enough to crack them.

  NINETEEN

  2:35 P.M.

  The band was scheduled to play until three thirty, which meant we spent an hour baking in the car. The crowds had thinned out, and we didn’t want our stay inside the restaurant to be conspicuous. Parked at the end of a parking lot with mostly family friendly vehicles, I realized Marsha had a point about the Corvette. We were anything but covert. Admiring passersby grinned when they saw the gleaming car.

  I checked in with my father, but he didn’t have any better leads.

  While we waited for Simon O., my phone rang every ten or fifteen minutes. Anyone who’d ever met me tried to talk to me that day. I would have turned my phone off, but I wanted Maitlin to be able to reach me.

  PRIVATE CALLER, my phone read finally. That was the only ID I answered.

  Rachel Wentz started talking before I could greet her, and she hung up before I could respond. “Meet us at the corner of Melrose and West-bourne in thirty minutes,” she said.

  Then there was dead air on my phone. When I tried calling back, I got no answer.

  Dammit! Meeting Maitlin on that schedule would take me to West Hollywood before Simon O. was scheduled to stop playing! I would never make it back in time to follow him.

  “That’s it?” Marsha said when I briefed her on Rachel Wentz’s call.

  “Something’s definitely up, or she wouldn’t be leaving the house,” I said. “She never left Nandi’s room when I was there. She wants to say something she doesn’t want the FBI to hear.”

  “Could be anything,” Marsha said. “Maybe we should stay on Simon, Ten.”

  I suspected that Marsha might be right, but Maitlin’s call intrigued me. I hoped that Maitlin was ready to tell me what she’d been hiding.

  “I’ll go catch up to Maitlin,” I said. “You can stay on Simon.”

  “How? On foot? Don’t count on renting a car in the time we have.”

  She was right. We didn’t have time to split up.

  “Look, we’ll see Spider tonight,” I said. “This was always a long shot.”

  “Tonight could be bullshit. It’s a mistake to walk away from the bird in your hand.”

  I’d confirmed that Diaspora Beat was playing at Club Skylight that night, so it sounded like a solid lead. The employee on the phone had said Spider was expected to play, although he hadn’t known how to reach him before the show.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and Simon will still be hanging out at the bar when we get back,” I said. “Come with me and disappear into the store while I talk to Maitlin.”

  “What store?”

  “The Bodhi Tree,” I said. “It’s right on that intersection.”

  The Bodhi Tree is Los Angeles’s best-known New Age bookstore, a fixture in West Hollywood since 1970. I once saw Tupac browsing the shelves there years ago, but Sofia Maitlin wasn’t going to the Bodhi Tree to buy incense or Eckhart Tolle books.

  “Now it really sounds like horseshit,” Marsha said. “She probably wants to chant with you and buy crystals, or some crap like that. Don’t go for it, Ten.”

  Scanning the parking lot, I got an idea. “Simon’s car is the Acura, right?”

  Marsha nodded. We’d narrowed down the cars in the lot by location, and she’d run his plates through the contacts she refused to talk about. The car was registered in Simon Odembo’s name. We’d found a listing for his home address by using directory assistance. Glendale.

  “A flat tire might make him stick around,” I said.

  “I’ve got a better idea,” Marsha said, opening her car door. “But I need to make a call.”

  While I watched the clock, Marsha strolled to the other end of the parking lot, chatting on her phone. She was ducking me the way I’d ducked April.

  She was back in a couple of minutes, but it was hard to stomach more waiting. Marsha handed me a slip of paper with the numbers 674195. “You didn’t get that from me,” she said.

  “Lotto numbers?” I said.

  “Like any careful new car owner, Simon Odembo subscribes to CarAlert. One of the perks is that he can use a password if he gets locked out. Voilà.”

  Marsha was right. I called CarAlert, the new OnStar rival, and identified myself as Simon Odembo. I explained my dilemma and gave my password.

  Ten seconds later, I was climbing into Simon Odembo’s car. I popped the hood, fanning as if the engine had overheated. But my show was for nothing: I swear I don’t think a single person glanced my way. I knocked a fuse loose from the terminal on the car’s computer module. Hood back down. Done.

  One minute after I called CarAlert, Marsha and I were on the road.

  Finally—no waiting.

  The drive took thirty minutes, so we pulled up to the bookstore by three fifteen.

  The black Mercedes SUV identical to Roman’s was parked at a spot near the corner of the residential district that borders the Bodhi Tree. All of the SUV’s windows were tinted black and sealed up tight, but I saw Rachel Wentz in the driver’s seat. We drove past without slowing, and Rachel didn’t seem to notice me.

  “I see her,” I told Marsha. “I’ll jump out at the next corner. You can circle.”

  “Were those really her boobs in The Vintner, or did she use a body double?” Marsha said, and her joke irritated me. It was probably just her idea of graveyard humor, but it reminded me of the way the FBI agent had tried to minimize Roman’s humanity. As soon as I found a spot to pull over, I left Marsha in the car to ponder Maitlin’s breasts alone.

  “This better be good!” Marsha called after me.

  When I knocked on Rachel Wentz’s window, she gasped loudly. She stared at me, wide eyed, as her hand reached for the gear shift.

  “Hey, Rachel, it’s me—Ten,” I said, remembering my disguise.

  Rachel Wentz was so relieved that she closed her eyes. The doors clicked. I opened one of the rear doors to climb in.

  “You just scared the holy living shit out of me,” Rachel Wentz said. “Nice getup.”

  “Close the door, Ten.” A whisper from the rear passenger seat behind me.

  After I closed the door, I leaned over to find Sofia Maitlin lying prone. She sat up slowly, checking the windows to make sure we weren’t being watched. If I hadn’t dodged helicopters and a motorcycle to escape my own house, her behavior might have seemed extreme.

  The dark spots beneath her eyes were much worse, her skin impossibly paper thin. Her bright red nose looked chafed and raw. Sofia grabbed my hand and held on, hard. Her nails bit into my skin, but I squeezed back. Sometimes touch is the only mutual language.

  “Drive,” she told Rachel Wentz.

  The SUV bucked into the traffic lane with a screech. I had lost sight of Marsha, but I hoped she would stay on our tail. Sofia Maitlin held my hand during the whole drive.

  “What’s going on?” I said. “Did they call again?”

  She shook her head and held her cell phone up for me to see. “I’m always waiting,” she said. “That’s why I’m rushing right back. Nothing since we talked.”

  Then, nothing. Her long silence agitated me. “Sofia, whatever it is, just say it. Something about the gang from South Africa?” I rubbed the meat of her thumb with mine, gently. If we had been in bed, it might have been foreplay.

  “Paki,” she said. “The birth father. I didn’t tell you everything about him.”

  My heart thunder
ed. “What about him?” I said.

  “There was more to the story in South Africa . . . Not just what was on the news . . .”

  Rachel Wentz was noticeably silent. She obviously must know whatever Maitlin was about to say, but she didn’t try to run interference for her client.

  “What happened?” I said.

  Sofia’s face was wrenched with a bitter memory. “Everything was going fine with the adoption, the paperwork was almost finished . . . and then he came. I’ll never forget that phone call. I thought it would be good news from my lawyer, and instead she said, ‘Sofia, there’s a problem . . .’ Out of the blue, a man claiming to be the birth father showed up. Paki. He demanded that we help him come to America so he could be in his daughter’s life.”

  “You know he’s the father for sure?” he said. “You have proof?”

  “Yes, we’re positive, unfortunately,” she said. “We helped him get a job, in San Diego. Close enough to visit his daughter . . . occasionally. But far enough not to be intrusive.” Sofia brought her hands up to her mouth, as if she’d just made a horrible revelation. “Roman kept saying, ‘What do you really know about that guy?’ I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.”

  “What makes you believe it now?”

  Rachel Wentz spoke up. “He’s been real jumpy since the FBI showed up. Pacing. Nervous. He couldn’t wait to get home.”

  That didn’t prove anything. He might be nervous around authority figures, and Nandi was his biological daughter. I would have been pacing, too.

  “What else?” I said.

  Maitlin sounded breathless. “He knew a lot about the party. He was very interested in the planning—making suggestions. Alec didn’t like it, but I didn’t see the harm. He recommended that restaurant, South African Sun.”

  “The FBI has this, then,” I said. “They’re looking at the employee lists. Anything yet?”

  Maitlin shook her head. “They’re talking to Paki, but nobody’s said he’s a big lead.”

  They wouldn’t necessarily tell her if Paki had turned into a suspect. But with Spider’s trail to follow, I couldn’t get mired in a diversion fueled by Maitlin’s anger toward Paki. “What makes you think Paki might be tied to a criminal gang?”