Читать книгу DANCING WITH THE ICE LADY - Ken Salter - Страница 10

I WOKE UP WITH A HEADACHE AND MILD HANGOVER. NOT the ideal way to start the day, but the memory of last night’s frolic in the back seat of my Impala was worth the price and more. After showering and loading up on strong coffee, toasted bagels slathered with butter and heaped with jam, I sat down to read the mortuary’s active litigation file.

The complaint alleged negligent handling of a corpse. It claimed the Simmons Family Mortuary failed in a timely way to ship the body of a fifty-six year-old man named Johnnie Carpenter to Atlanta, Georgia where his relatives awaited its arrival for burial; they’d shipped it to Las Vegas, Nevada instead.

Mr. Carpenter’s wife and daughter claimed the body had been shipped to the Lone Pine Mortuary in Las Vegas where it had been “improperly and negligently maintained so as to accelerate the decomposition of Mr. Carpenter’s remains.” They further alleged that the six-day delay to send their loved one to Atlanta, with no embalming, deprived the plaintiffs and their relatives the opportunity to bury the decedent in an open casket and delayed the funeral and burial. They contended that the sight and smell of their loved one in such a deplorable condition caused them “extreme emotional grief that should be compensated in an amount in excess of Twenty-Five Thousand Dollars.”

The mortuary answered the complaint by denying “each and every allegation.” The mortuary was represented by the local Oakland law firm of Bronson and Bronson, a father and son team. Willard Bronson had served as Judge of the Superior Court, but had to resign his judgeship and return to private practice. There had been allegations of sweetheart investment deals with litigants and unprofessional leaks of information, He’d been pressured by members of the local bar to resign quietly and let the dirty business molder under the rug. It was either that or a grand jury investigation and complaint to the state bar association which could result in disbarment. Judge Bronson had served his stint on the bench long enough to solidify his social standing with the movers and shakers in the African-American community and pave the way for him and his son to mount a very lucrative law practice.

Royce Bronson was a suave ladies’ man and cool cat who frequented the local late night club scene. He was the type of attorney I thought Gloria Simmons would choose to handle her business. I’d seen Royce on many occasions around the courthouse. He was tall, dark and handsome and knew it.

I made a note to check out both Bronsons with my legal contacts. To my knowledge, Nate had never had any dealings with either the father or son. I hoped to get some feedback on whether the complaint against the mortuary was merely a nuisance suit designed to get a quick insurance settlement or really had some merit that warranted compensation.

The complaint had been filed by a big-name San Francisco law firm. They wouldn’t give me the time of day. But if Jeff Banes could track the adjuster handling the claim, I might get an inside look at the claim records through Jeff’s good offices. Insurance pros will share info on a tit-for-tat basis.

It was time to visit the mortuary. As I weaved through the afternoon traffic, I pondered whether Oakland would ever recover from the double whammy of the prolonged recession and the devastating effects of the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake. Many of the older brick buildings downtown were damaged so severely they remained boarded up. I’d heard through the grapevine that a lot of black merchants grumbled that members of the ever-expanding Chinese community were using Hong Kong money to buy the quake-damaged buildings at fire sale prices.

My sister Tiffany claimed she’d heard of investors arriving from Hong Kong with suitcases stuffed with hundred dollar bills to invest in Bay Area real estate. As San Francisco real estate cost top dollar, smart investors gobbled up Oakland’s cheaper properties on spec. The cash might be buying title, but it wasn’t doing much rebuilding as far as I could see.

Everywhere I looked, I saw only hard-luck black folks shuffling along in front of boarded up or heavily grilled storefronts. At each corner liquor store, young blacks with no work or prospects waited for a handout, a slug of “gorilla juice” from a malt liquor bottle in a brown-paper bag, or a mark to hit on. Things were not much improved when I arrived at the mortuary at Twenty-Second and Broadway.

The Simmons Family Mortuary stood out from its surroundings primarily because it was nicely landscaped. It was a little oasis in a desert of early twentieth century wood, brick and stucco buildings. The mortuary was situated on a small rise of land and could have been mistaken for one of the many churches sprinkled through the neighborhood if its signs had not been so garish.

The roof of the funeral home looked like a large A-frame structure. The row of French windows upstairs on the left side probably housed the administrative offices. The roof on the right side sloped into a covered breezeway to allow the mortuary’s fleet of Cadillac limos and hearses to turn around the building to pick up the casket and the decedent’s family from the side door of the chapel.

I parked in the lot to the left near the crematorium and walked back to the front of the building and along the curved brick walkway leading to the front door. I had slipped on a tatty tweed jacket I keep in my car to upgrade my jeans, polo shirt and sneakers. I was wearing my darkest shades to hide my eyes and my role as an aggrieved relative I would play to learn how the mortuary operated.

I was just about to pull the handle of the front door when it suddenly opened as if on command. The dude on the other side must have seen me coming. He was tall, coal-black and slick looking in his double-breasted sharkskin suit. His Fifties’-style threads must have set him back a bundle of C-notes. His designer shades were darker than mine.

“My name’s Brother Thomas. What can we do for you in your time of sorrow, Little Brother?”

His sudden appearance caught me off guard and I stammered something unintelligible while I stalled for time. My confusion didn’t seem to faze him. He must have been used to soft-pitching scared relatives in the midst of personal grief who were faced with funeral expenses they most likely couldn’t afford. Brother Thomas looked more like someone’s bodyguard than an undertaker.

“Uh, it’s about my Auntie. She’s had a bad stroke and the doctor says she ain’t about to make it much longer. I gotta see about making some preparations for when she passes. Could be any day now.”

“Not to worry, Little Brother. You definitely come to the right place. We gonna take care of all your Auntie’s needs in a way she be proud of you. Y’all don’t need to do nothin’ ’cept decide on which plan you want for yo’ special Auntie. We a full service funeral home an’ we gotta credit plan for every budget. Juss follow me into the office an’ we gonna check out how ta make your Auntie’s limited time on earth peaceful an’ serene while she waitin’ for the Lord to claim her for His own.”

I dutifully followed Brother Thomas into a spacious reception room. He sat down behind a big mahogany desk and motioned me to one of several matching blue velour chairs facing him. The chairs looked liked they belonged in a rich man’s mansion. They were big, plush and designed to let even the biggest fanny settle right in.

I caught the glint of light from overhead spotlights on the fancy hardware on a row of caskets raised on a special platform encircling the room. The one behind Brother Thomas looked like it had been customized in an auto body shop. It was metallic silver with gold trim; it only needed wheels and some detailing to pass for a street rod. You’d probably need one of those suitcases stuffed with cash to buy one of these boxes.

I could feel Brother Thomas’ eyes behind his shades sizing up my reaction to my new surroundings. He’d probably seen me arrive in my old Chevy and knew I couldn’t afford anything more than a simple pine box. That wouldn’t stop him from trying to sell me a box beyond my means. His next move surprised me.

“Why don’t you juss take yo’ time, Little Brother. Have a look at our fine selection of caskets and think hard ‘bout which one your dear Auntie’d choose for her trip to the Promised Lan’. This here book gotta summary of all our different burial plans and fun’ral services,” he said pointing to a large folio on his desk. “An’ if yo’ Auntie ain’t got no burial plot, they’s a list of real estate prices at the cemeteries at the end.”

I picked up the large, loose-leaf bound book and quickly skimmed through it while Brother Thomas excused himself to let me absorb the shocking cost of being buried in style. “Be back in a few minutes to discuss how we gonna take care of yo’ Auntie.”

The overhead spots now reflected the glimmer of Brother Thomas’ big gold pinkie ring off his spit-and-polish black patent leather shoes as he exited. He must have pressed a hidden button because speakers somewhere in the ceiling now softly murmured the sound of Bobby Bland singing, “Feel So Bad.”

As soon as he was gone, I got up and checked the price tags on several of the customized coffins. Prices ranged from $1,500.00 for the simplest one which wasn’t much more than the proverbial pine box to twenty-two grand for the most ornate model with gold-plated hardware. A quick glance through the book revealed that the basic plan included pick up at the hospital or morgue, embalming, dressing for the memorial service in the mortuary’s chapel, and a trip to a local cemetery. The coffin was extra; so were the services of a preacher for the chapel and graveside service. The mortuary could hire a preacher for a hundred bucks a hit and even provide a church choir to sing your favorite spirituals for an extra grand.

It would take at least $6,000.00 to get my fictional Auntie in and out of the doors of the Simmons Family Mortuary with no extras and a cheap coffin a couple of grades above a pine box; it would have removable handles and cheap velveteen lining. What did poor folks do? Most folks would be shamed into buying a coffin and services well beyond their means. For ten percent down, the mortuary would finance your burial provided you could put up a house, had other valuable collateral, or an acceptable guarantor for the loan. Finance charges were at the going rates for major credit cards.

Up to now, no one had ever clued me in on how expensive dying was going to be. As soon as I got the figures straight, I marked them on a pad and then snuck a look outside the room. Another door not far down the hall was open, so I scampered down the corridor and copped a look. It was a carbon copy of the one I’d just left. They probably watched the newspapers for drive-by shootings and had two salesmen working during busy periods. From my vantage point I saw stairs leading up to another level; a side door to the parking lot, and another door leading to the chapel I’d glimpsed on the way in.

I was tempted to hop up the stairs to confirm where they kept their business records, but knew it would blow my cover. I ducked into the chapel instead.

The chapel was like most local churches except for a big double door on the right. By guessing at the distances to the choir seats and raised platform for the pastor’s lectern, I surmised that the cold storage and embalming facilities must be located behind the chapel on the right. That meant the business offices and records were up the stairs on the left overlooking the parking lot.

While I was trying devise a plausible ruse to sneak upstairs, Brother Thomas caught up to me in the chapel. “Sorry to keep you waitin’ so long, Little Brother. Had to do some call backs to arrange for this weekend’s services. How you comin’ along wid yo’ plannin’ fo’ yo’ Auntie?”

“I’m startin’ to get the big picture. I do got some questions.”

“That’s what I’m here for, Little Brother. What you need to know?”

“Well, my Auntie come from Louisiana an’ she really wanna be buried back home with her people when she pass.”

“Ain’t nothin’ simplier, Little Brother. When da’ time come, we gonna take care a’ all yo’ Auntie’s business juss like she want. Everything the same wid’ the basic plan ‘cept the graveside service an’ burial be done down home in Louisiana. She gonna have her memorial service here wid’ all her friends an’ family, then we gonna ship your Auntie back home first class. Gonna come ta ’bout the same money she buried here. You juss gonna need to order her a fine casket to make shore yo’ Auntie and her people back home be proud a’ the way you send her off. Where you say yo’ Auntie stayin’ now?”

I hadn’t said anything about where my Auntie was because I didn’t have one. Brother Thomas was trying to close a sale and probably had a big, fat commission to make at my expense. I needed to think of an escape without arousing suspicion I was playing him for a fool. I also needed to figure a way to access the mortuary’s business records and meet the Chinese bookkeeper.

“Shore is a relief to know y’all can take care of my Auntie when she pass. Uncle Paul shore gonna be relieved, too. He ain’t moving too good; he got a real bad problem with stiff joints, a bad ticker an’ all. That’s why he send me ‘round to do some checking. He ain’t got a lot of money and he mighty worried about what it all gonna cost. So, could you put down some numbers so maybe he can get some help with financing?”

“No problem, Little Brother. Juss take me minute to do yo’ figures. What name you want on yo’ papers?”

He caught me by surprise. “Uh, might as well put ‘em down in my name; I’m probably gonna have to help Uncle Paul with a credit card. They call me Reggie Jones.” I lied hoping the dude wasn’t going demand to verify my credit on the spot.

“Then Brother Jones it is.” He dropped his jiving when his fingers hit the calculator keys. It was frightening to see how fast he could add up a bunch of figures that would set me back just under $7,000.00 and put me on a fast track to the poor house.

“Say, uh, you think it would be OK if I could bring Uncle Paul down here to one of your chapel services? He be too sickly to go back home when Auntie do pass. Would ease his mind a plenty to know he gonna have a memorial service right here for all they friends.”

“No problem, Brother Jones. We havin’ special ’morial services Friday an’ Saturday evenings. The one on Friday gonna have a full gospel choir from the Ebenezer Church of God. You bring yo’ Uncle Paul on down on Friday and he gonna be real happy he doin’ business wid’ Simmons Family Mortuary.”

“Sounds like a winner! See you on Friday.”

Brother Thomas gave me a big gold-toothy smile and pumped my hand vigorously. He shoved a sample contract he’d filled out and a credit application in my hand for me to return on Friday. I could almost hear the click, click, click as he mentally rang up his commission from another sucker.

It was just after four thirty in the afternoon as I crossed the parking lot to my car. I decided to pick up an order of barbecued ribs and a six-pack of Bud Light before doubling back to observe the mortuary staff leave for the day. I jotted down the makes and license numbers of all the cars in the lot. I wanted to match faces with each vehicle. I especially wanted to get a good look at the new bookkeeper, Jennifer Wong.