From Cape Town with Love (31 page)

“Nice neighborhood,” I said.

“I'm not surprised,” Marsha said. “Africans are this country's most highly educated group of immigrants. As a group, they do very well. Simon's brother has an accounting office about five miles from here. His wife is Kenyan, too. She's a dentist. They earn six figures, and she pulls in most of it. They're not hurting.”

“Grandma told you all this?” I said.

“Pretty sharp for an old lady.”

We waited for Simon to get out of his car, but he didn't. He and the kid seemed to be arguing. When the kid jumped out of the passenger seat to walk to the porch steps, Simon screeched out of the driveway. If he had turned left instead of right, he might have made us.

Next time, I definitely wouldn't try tailing anyone in a Corvette. Careful to keep out of his mirrors, I began following Simon again. Even his speed was predictable—never above the speed limit. Simon felt more and more like a dead end.

“What's Grandma saying about Nandi's birth father?” I prodded Marsha.

“Not much,” Marsha said. “No arrest record in South Africa. Works
as a mechanic in San Diego. If there's anything worth finding, the FBI has him in a nice, cozy interrogation room, and he's not going anywhere. Let me know if you want me to drive.”

Marsha had been itching to take over the wheel, second-guessing my tactics all afternoon. I flashed my sweetest
Papa's-got-it-handled
smile in her direction.

“I got this, precious,” I said. “Don't worry your pretty little head.”

Marsha smiled, too, giving me the finger. I remembered where that finger had been.

If Marsha was CIA or NSA, or something else, no matter what, she could probably make people disappear if they got on her bad side. But Marsha's wild-card factor turned me on. Her body emitted a signal that made me constantly check the car's AC.

“Déjà vu, Ten,” Marsha said. “For a second, you sounded exactly like my father.”

“How's that rebellion going?” I said.

“It's a work of art, thanks. Too bad he never lived to see it.” Her voice was quiet.

I almost mentioned how my mother had died when I was a baby; it was rolling around in my mouth, but I stopped myself.
Don't start swapping sob stories. Like Marsha said, don't make it personal.
Marsha was my partner, and an exquisite adventure in bed, but Nandi was my priority. If I faced a choice between grabbing Nandi or helping Marsha, I had to choose Nandi—and Marsha probably would, too. Or, she might just save herself. I might find out later.

I would be a fool to count on it.

Simon exited Highway 134 to drive into Pasadena, where traffic was still in rush-hour mode. After inching along, he stopped at Guitar Center, where the parking lot was jammed with the usual crowd of musicians, parents indulging their kids, and middle-aged yuppies with expendable income after their kids had moved out. A music habit is expensive to feed.

We decided to go in and blend. Even if he spotted us, we had a reason to be there.

Inside, we were met by the cacophony of shoppers testing the guitars, drums, and keyboards. I saw Simon's back as he walked into the keyboards section, not stopping to notice the guitars displayed at the front of
the store. A half dozen Hendrix wannabes were strumming guitars they couldn't afford.

So far that day, everything about Simon had been consistent and bland. My heart perked up when Simon left the keyboard section and headed for the percussion alcove. It was a long shot, but he might meet Spider there before the show. My imagination was desperate.

I almost charged after him, but Marsha held my hand to slow me down. We strolled. I hoped to see a black guy about five-seven, possibly with a shaved head.

In percussion, drummers of every age sat on the drum thrones of drum sets both synthesized and real, the heavy bass beats bouncing against the walls. Shoppers in the room blended rock, hip-hop, and Latin styles, all of the rhythms crashing into one another.

Simon was standing in front of the Latin section, admiring the sets of
djembes,
congas, and timbales. My junior high school music teacher's voice came back to me as she tried to entice me to practice:
The piano is a PERCUSSION instrument, remember.
Simon picked up two shiny cowbells, one in each hand, and seemed to weigh them. After a time, he put one away and kept the other one to buy.

As he walked to the cash register, I looked at my watch: 6:35. The day was gone. Nandi still wasn't at home. I was in a Guitar Center watching a man buy a fucking cowbell.

We should have gone to San Diego,
I thought.

Marsha shrugged, as if she'd heard my mind's complaint.

“Sometimes you just need more cowbell,” she said.

Great. A comedian.

Showtime for Clarence Love couldn't come soon enough.

At least six men in the growing line at Club Skylight could have been Spider, every bald head catching my eye. I doubted that a band member would stand in line, but I studied them all while Marsha and I were parked at a dead meter down the street. Her mini binoculars gave me a close view that was nearly useless, since I'd never seen the man's face.

Spider was a phantom. During our day working our phones while we tailed Simon, I'd talked to a friend at the Musicians' Guild who knew of two musicians with the nickname, but one was an eighty-year-old jazz player with a bad hip and the other was a female harpist with the Los Angeles Philharmonic. So it all came down to Club Skylight.

The club looked like a warehouse, sandwiched between a thrift shop and a boating supply store on a drab, nondescript street in Culver City, near the NPR station. Although most of the neighboring businesses were closed, the street-side parking was full. According to Google the club had been open for only six months, but I counted three dozen clubbers already lined up at the closed door. Most looked African, but college-age patrons of every ethnicity were waiting.

Tuesdays were billed as Afrika Night, and it was a large draw in Los Angeles's pan-African community. On my iPhone, Google found me a write-up in a
Los Angeles Times
article from March.
MUSIC IS THE
COMMON LANGUAGE
, read the headline in an article touting how African immigrants citywide loved the eclectic but familiar musical mix, with an emphasis on music from South Africa, Senegal, and Nigeria.

In the first photo of the band identified as Diaspora Beat, the shot had been taken in such an artsy way that the lights washed out the drummer's face; two blurry hands on the drums, his face still a mystery. The internet story included several photos of patrons dancing, and there were two clear shots of Simon, but none of the drummer. In one photo, the man I thought was Spider had his face turned away from the camera.

I just BET he doesn't like having his photo taken,
I thought.

When the door opened to allow a well-dressed couple to walk inside, I saw the bouncer wave his magic wand.
Shit.

“Metal detectors,” I said, yanking my Beretta out of my pants. I slipped it into the glove compartment. “So much for the guns.”

“That's damn inconvenient.” Marsha occupied herself in the mirror, letting her hair down and taking off her jacket to show off her low-cut blouse. Marsha fussed endlessly with her earrings as she watched the crowd through the windshield. Did she think we were on a date?

I closed the glove compartment. “Let's scope the place, take a look in the . . .”

“. . . back,” she finished my sentence. “Then we knock on the door . . .”

“. . . say we've got an appointment with Simon,” I said. “Good. I hate lines.”

Marsha laughed suddenly, still playing with her earring. “Remember how you wouldn't eat in the high school cafeteria? You said, ‘Lines are for suckers.'”

I stared at Marsha, jolted. She had uncovered a memory I'd forgotten. Except for my father, no one in my circle had known me as long as she had. But it was a hell of a time for a high school reunion.

“Same plan,” I said, trying to keep her focused. “We don't let Spider out of our sight. We'll follow him after the show.”

“We also need his name so we can send Grandma up his ass, find out where he lives, who his friends are,” she said, and smiled. “This should be fun.”

Fun
wasn't the word I was looking for.

“Watch out for this guy, Marsha,” I said. “He'll cut you open a dozen ways.”

“Brains trump blades. Let's see where he goes.”

We pretended to head for the back of the line, but Marsha whipped out a pack of cigarettes, and we drifted toward the alley and six-foot fence along the side of the building. We lit up and chatted loudly about nothing, taking in the club's perimeter. In the rear, I heard the bright peal of a trumpet inside, and my heart raced. The band was warming up.

A young white woman dressed in a bartender's white shirt was smoking on the steps of the club's exit at the far rear, alongside a row of six parked cars. Marsha collected the tag numbers while we pretended to smoke. We leaned against an Expedition to hug and gaze deeply at each other for the bartender's entertainment. It was the first time I'd felt Marsha's body against mine without a hint of arousal.

“You seen Spider?” I called out casually to the smoking woman.

“Who?” she said, her face blank in the solar lamplight.

“Drummer with the band? Skinny guy, about five-seven?”

She shrugged and shook her head. No Spider, so we headed back to the front of the club.

Curious glances and a few glares followed us as we walked up to the front of the line to the closed door beside the empty ticket window. The entrance was locked, and there was no answer to our first knock. Marsha rapped on the window with a wooden bracelet I hadn't seen her put on. The bracelet did the job.

A huge, flat-faced young man in his midtwenties appeared at the window, probably a bouncer. He might be a great visual deterrent, but in a long fight, his mass would feel like wearing a raincoat made out of wet sandbags.

“Just the bar's open!” the man bellowed to be heard through the slot. “Invitation only.”

I flashed my driver's license like it was a police badge. “I'm wit' da band!” I said, laying on my accent a bit thicker. “Simon said to meet him for mic check!”

Luckily, the bouncer barely glanced at my license. He nodded at the mention of Simon's name. “Okay, yeah, okay . . . ,” he said. He lumbered
away from the window, and the door opened with a blast of too-cool air and the smell of stale beer.

“She's with me, mon—my wife,” I said, wrapping my arm around Marsha's waist.

The bouncer wasn't interested in introductions. He waved his wand lazily up and down while I raised my car keys high. He let us pass when we didn't beep.

That was the last time I was glad I didn't have my gun.

The bar was confined to a small alcove in front, with a bar counter and several tables draped in blood-colored tablecloths, lighted by fake flickering candles. A handful of couples dressed in West African patterns and L.A. chic chatted quietly, enjoying glasses of wine and beer. The room was dark enough to make me tense up as we walked slowly past the tables.

One man was too broad, another too tall, another too short. No Spider.

We floated past the archway to the main dance floor.

The inner sanctum of Club Skylight was midsize, only one level, with a vast, empty floor and tables lining the walls. Once it was full, it might comfortably have room for four hundred people. The lighting inside was an odd blue that made my skin look purple. A large projection screen on one wall showed soundless film clips that looked like Nigerian Nolly-wood or Ghanaian productions in everyday African urban settings.

The musicians were on the stage in the back, but not even a bartender was in sight.

I counted seven musicians under the stage's lights: Simon on keyboards, two trumpets, two trombones, an electric bass, and an electric guitar. The large percussion set had both a standard drum kit and hand drums, but no drummer yet. The wooden
djembe
drums stood like giant goblets. The brass section was playing alone, rehearsing an intricate salsa riff that sounded like a wall of sound, sharp as a knife.

The band
was
good. And I was supposed to pass myself off as a singer?

“Just remember what Mrs. Davis told us—project from the diaphragm,” Marsha said. Any other time, the reference to our high school drama teacher would have made me smile.

The music stopped abruptly as Simon signaled.
“Yes!
We do it like that!”

I clapped my hands loudly as we approached the stage. “Hey, mon, that's sweet!”

Simon shaded his eyes from a footlight so he could see me. “Clarence Love!” he said. “This is the
real
band, not the one you saw at lunch.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

The brass players were middle aged with various stages of paunch. The guitarist and bassist were younger—the guitarist was the same man I'd seen earlier that day—but it was impossible to tell if any of them had been on the football field.

Simon motioned for me to come to the stage. “He didn't like Ray's singing,” Simon said, and the band members chuckled. “He wants to audition for the lunch gig, so let's run through . . . what?” He looked at me for guidance.

“You said Marley, yeah?” I said. “Let's do ‘One Love.'” It was the simplest Marley song I could think of, and I still wasn't sure I knew the lyrics.

The band groaned. To them, it was like playing “Chopsticks.”

“No, no, it's fine . . . ,” Simon said. “Clarence Love—‘One Love.' Singer's choice.”

Marsha beamed at me like a wife in front of the stage.
You can do it,
she mouthed.

I went to the mic stand. “Where's my drummer?” I tried to sound like it was a joke.