Betrayers

5

TAMARA

Vonda’s brother James was a partner in a construction company called Three Brothers. Specialized in home repair for black home owners and landlords in Bayview-Hunters Point, the Fillmore, and other parts of the city. In the last couple of years Three Brothers Construction had expanded their operation, moved to a bigger location, and started bidding on small developments of new houses both inside and outside the city. James was the smartest of the three, the driving force behind the expansion. Natural-born hustler and promoter, so he ran the white-collar end of the business while his two partners did the blue-collar work.

Back in his high school days in Redwood City, James had run with a bunch of local gangbangers hooked in with an even tougher crowd in East Palo Alto. Got into heavy stuff for a while-drugs, using and selling both, and Tamara had heard rumors of weapons dealing and strong-arm robberies. What had straightened him up was watching a shotgun blast blow off most of his best friend’s face during a drug deal gone sour. Standing right next to the dude when it went down, took some of the blast himself and spent a week in the hospital. There hadn’t been enough evidence to charge him with anything, so he came out free and clear-with a whole new attitude. Changed his life around. Found some new, nonviolent friends to hang with, got himself a construction job, learned the trade, then hooked up with his two partners and started Three Brothers Construction with a loan from a minority small-business packager.

Funny how things turned out sometimes. Good and bad both. Tamara and Vonda had both been pretty wild themselves, chasing with some rough homies, experimenting with weed and sex, all cornrowed and grunge dressed and party ready. Done the racist thing, too, hating and cussing the white man’s world same as James did. And now here they were ten years later, all three of them living in San Francisco and holding down jobs they would’ve sneered at in their bad-ass days. Tamara partnered with a white man in a detective agency, Vonda a sales rep at the S.F. Design Center, James a damn-near executive in a successful construction outfit. Solid members of the establishment they’d once scorned-a world that still belonged to the white man but that had opened up and changed and was still changing. Any damn thing was possible for an African American or any other minority now. A half-black man being elected president proved that.

Tamara and Vonda had shed the racist bullshit, learned how to get along with people of any color or no color. Not James. He’d escaped the gang jungle and built a good life for himself, but when it came to white folks, the best he’d learned to do was tolerate them. Went off like a rocket when Vonda announced she was pregnant and going to marry Ben Sherman, who was not only white but Jewish besides. Showed up at Ben’s apartment on Tel Hill and got right in his face and tried to warn him off. No way that was gonna happen, a real love match there between those two. Ben had been cool and stayed cool with James. Made a real effort to turn him around. Hadn’t worked, but Ben had gotten further than any other white guy had. James still didn’t approve of the marriage, but he’d shaken Ben’s hand at the wedding and toasted him with a glass of champagne at the reception.

James had had a thing for Tamara in their bad-ass days, but she hadn’t given him any encouragement. Just not her type. He still resented her for the rejection, and the fact that she’d gone into the investigation business hadn’t made him like her any better. She was fuzz to him, not much different from her old man-a detective on the Redwood City PD who’d given James and his gangbangers plenty of grief. Sellouts, the way he saw the Corbins. Oppressors of their own people. And nothing she or Vonda or anybody else said or did was ever likely to change his mind.

So she had to be as cool with James as Ben had been. Not let him goad her into losing her temper. Last time she’d seen him was at the wedding and reception, and he hadn’t said ten words to her that day. Looked right through her most of the time. Well, this wasn’t a social event; this was business-important business. She was a professional, and professionals could get information out of anybody if they handled it right.

Three Brothers Construction’s new home was on Industrial Street, near the 280 and 101 freeway interchange. Tamara closed up the agency early and drove over there, calling first to make sure James would be in. But she didn’t make an appointment or give her name, just told the woman who answered that she was a friend. If James knew she was coming, be just like him to refuse to see her or duck out early himself.

She’d never been to the new place before and she had to admit it was steps up from the old one on 3rd in Hunters Point. Offices at one end of a big warehouse that the brothers had renovated themselves, and an equipment and storage yard that took up half a block. Fifteen full-time employees and twenty more part-timers, plus a handful of subcontractors on the bigger jobs. Mr. James McGee, contractor. Mr. James McGee, capitalist. She’d never have believed it possible, down in Redwood City. Neither would Vonda. And Pop least of all. He’d figured James would end up dead or in prison like so many others.

The business offices were plain and functional; so was Nancy, the office manager. Tamara said she was the friend who’d called and if James wasn’t busy, she’d just go on into his private office and surprise him. He wasn’t busy and Nancy didn’t offer any objections, so in she walked.

James was behind a big messy desk with a batch of blueprints spread out in front of him. He glanced up, then fixed her with a long scowly stare. “Shit,” he said.

“Good to see you, too.”

“I got no time for you. Or any other Oreo.”

“I’m no more white inside than you are.”

“Partner’s a white man, isn’t he? Clients mostly white?”

“None of your disrespect, okay? You work for whites yourself.”

“The hell I do.”

“The hell you don’t. Who you think runs the Franchise Tax Board in Sacramento, the IRS in Washington? Black men?”

Right thing to say. It wiped away the glare and brought a wry little chuckle out of him. He leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head. Handsome dude, she had to admit, much better looking than he’d been in his grunge days. Lean and mean, thick beard trimmed short, skin smooth as brown silk. Those bushy-browed black eyes had once burned like fire; the heat was still there, but the fire had been banked by time and success. He cleaned up pretty well, too. She remembered his wedding outfit: pin-striped charcoal suit, saffron-colored shirt, pink tie. Dressed more conservatively here on the job-tan sports jacket, open-necked blue shirt-and none of it showed a wrinkle or rumple. No question the new James was a big improvement on the old one.

He said, “So what the hell you doing here?”

“Vonda didn’t tell you about me and Lucas Zeller?”

“We don’t talk much since she married her white Jew.”

“Yeah, well, Lucas and I had a thing a couple of weeks ago.”

“Uh-huh.” James scratched one long finger through his beard, looking at her narrow eyed. “Why’d you hook up with that ugly dude anyway? You that hard up for a man?”

Tamara said between her teeth, “Wasn’t nobody else asking.”

“No surprise there.” But his eyes were on her body, roaming. “Lost some fat around your middle, looks like.”

“That’s right.”

“Stand to lose some more.”

She bit off a sharp comeback, said instead, “You’re not exactly buff yourself, my man.”

“I’m not your man, and damn glad of it.” Lopsided grin. “You may be hard up, but I’m not. Saw the fox I was with at the wedding, right? She gives me all the lovin’ I can handle.”

Fox? “Cat” was a better word-sleek black cat with claws and a big red tongue in a big red mouth. “I’ll bet she does,” Tamara said.

“So what you want from me?”

“I’m looking for him.”

“Who? Zeller?”

“His name’s not Zeller.”

“No? Well, I could give a shit less.”

“I know that.”

“Then what you doing here, bugging me?”

“Answers to a few questions, James, that’s all I want.”

“Yeah? What’d you ever do for me?”

“Been a good friend to Vonda, helped her out a couple of times when she needed it. How about that?”

Now the scowl was back. But then he said, “What’d the dude do, throw you over for some guy?”

“No.”

“Vonda tell you he’s on the down low?”

“You know she did.”

“He give you a disease?”

“No. I had myself tested.”

“So?”

“The man’s more than just on the down low,” Tamara said. “He’s a thief and maybe worse. Stole the real Lucas Zeller’s briefcase, wallet, identity, and some cash from his checking account. Stole his identity.”

James took that in, not saying anything. The look he gave her then was a little less hostile. “You sure about all that?”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, you know that much, how come you can’t find him? Hot-shit de-tective like you.”

“Not enough information yet.”

“Who you working for, the real Zeller?”

“No. For myself.”

“Uh-huh, I get it. The woman-scorned bit.”

“Let’s cut out the bullshit, James, all right? I need some help and I’m not ashamed to ask for it. Even from you. You gonna talk straight to me or you just gonna go on dissing me?”

For a few seconds she thought she’d pushed him too hard, that he’d go off on her and chase her out. But he didn’t. Stared at her for half a minute, then let loose a grunting sound, leaned back in his chair, and said, “All right, sweet cheeks, do your thing. But don’t take too long. I got work to do.”

Sweet cheeks. She hated that name, even more than she hated Pop calling her Sweetness, and James knew it. But she knew better than to call him on it. Stay cool, Tamara.

“Where’d you meet him?” she asked. “Some sort of event at Moscone Center, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. Sports memorabilia show.”

James was into sports in a big way. Football, basketball, baseball, golf… you name it, he followed it, and sometimes bet on games and matches. Liked rubbing elbows with black players for local teams, current and retired, and not just out of hero worship. Business reasons, too. He was always looking to connect with somebody who might do him and Three Brothers Construction some good.

“So what happened?” she asked. “He approach you or the other way around?”

“He did. Real friendly. Too fuckin’ friendly.”

“But you didn’t figure it that way at first.”

James didn’t say anything. His silence was answer enough.

“He say what his business was?”

“Investments.”

“That’s all? Just investments?”

“That’s all.”

“Try to hustle you?”

“No.”

“Say anything about the sports club he wanted you to join?”

“Not then. But that friend of his brought it up.”

Tamara jumped on that. “Friend? What friend?”

“Dude that brought him to the show.” The scowl darkened. “I should’ve known they were queers right then. Little guy kept giving me looks like I was a hunk of raw meat and he was a junkyard dog.”

“What was his name?”

“Hell, I don’t remember.”

“Come on, James; it’s important. Think about it, try to remember.”

“… Easy.”

“What’s easy?”

“Told me to call him Doctor Easy, everybody did.”

“He didn’t give you his real name?”

“Dawkins, Hawkins, something like that.”

“Doctor Easy Dawkins? Doesn’t sound right-Wait. Initials? E.Z.?”

“Whatever.”

“You remember what kind of doctor?”

“One of those spine snappers.”

“Chiropractor? Here in the city?”

Shrug. “Gave me a business card, but I didn’t look at it.”

“You still have it?”

“Threw it away on my way out.”

“I don’t suppose Zeller had a business card?”

“No. Asked for one of mine and I gave it to him. Didn’t see any reason not to.”

Tamara asked, “What’d they tell you about the club?”

“Brought it up real casual. Said they were big sports fans, got together once or twice a month with some other guys to kick back, have a few drinks, watch videos and films. Five of them now, was I interested in being number six?”

“And you said?”

“No. Fan clubs ain’t my thing.”

“So then what happened with Zeller? After the sports show, I mean.”

“Christ, woman, how many questions you gonna ask? I told you, I got work to do.”

“Just a few more. Zeller call you up or what?”

“Or what. Showed up here a couple days later. Walked right in without an appointment, same as you did.”

Scoping out the place, she thought, to get an idea of how much James was worth.

“Said he was in the neighborhood, thought he’d stop by. Said he’d enjoyed meeting me at the show, figured maybe we could have a few drinks, get to know each other better. Tried to get me to change my mind about joining that goddamn club.”

“Hint around that it was a switch-hitters thing?”

“Not that time,” James said. “I told him I still wasn’t interested. He didn’t push it and I figured that was the end of it. And then bam, next week he shows up at the wedding reception.”

“How’d he know about it?”

“I don’t know, saw Nancy’s invitation, maybe-she had it on her desk. Dude’s got more balls than a basketball team, showing up the way he did, claiming I invited him. I never saw him come in. Must’ve been there awhile before I spotted him and threw him out.”

“Saw him one more time, right?”

“Couple of days later. Showed up here again like nothing ever happened. Walked right in-Nancy was out to lunch.”

“One last try to hook you into the club.”

“Yeah.” Some of the old fierce burn had come into James’s eyes. “Invited me to a meeting that weekend. Said the other guys were professional people or businessmen, all married men and none of ’em judgmental. Then he laughed like something was funny. Said, well, except one man who was but wouldn’t be.”

“Was but wouldn’t be what? Judgmental?”

“Fuckin’ double-talk.”

“ All married men? Including himself?”

“What he said.”

“Give you any of their names?”

“No.”

“Tell you where the meeting was?”

“SoMa loft belongs to one of ’em. Said we’d watch some rare Super Bowl film one of ’em had, have a few drinks, have a good time-maybe experiment if we felt like it, but only one-on-one and strictly in private. All very discreet. That was the word he used, ‘discreet.’ We were standing over there by the door and he starts telling me all this and leaning up close, putting his hand on my arm and looking at me the way the little bugger did at the show. Plain as hell then where he was coming from.”

“You accuse him of being on the down low?”

“Damn right. Him and his buddies. He just shrugged, said did it matter if they were? I told him yeah, damn straight it mattered, and then I threw his ass out. I should’ve busted his head for him.”

“Too bad you didn’t.”

“You know the last thing the fucker said? Said he guessed he’d misread me. Misread me! All along he thought I was a switch-hitter like him!”

James had worked himself into a brooding rage by then, glowering all over his face. She wouldn’t get anything more out of him-lucky she’d gotten as much as she had. She slipped on out of there herself before he started venting his rage on her. The way he was sitting, rigid, staring back into his bitter memory, he didn’t even see her go.