THE POLICE FILE
You can clutch the past so tightly to your chest that it leaves your arms too full to embrace the present.
Jan Glidewell
Shane was in his home office, having returned from the clinic the day before. He wore a tailored robe and pajamas. His brother, Chief Bubba Simba’s bulk lurked large as it stood over him. Shane sat at his desk examining the file Bubba had presented at his request.
“He got busted by Ralph for tearing up an old lion. He was trying to rip off his pride,” intoned Bubba. “Ralph kicked his ass out of Kenya. That old lion died at that there nursing home named for that crazy old ex-wife of Roy Lee’s – you know the one - Sylvia Cougar’s crazy mom.”
“Yes, I know the one. This is him alright,” stated Shane, starring at the accompanying mug shot.
“And there’s another thing,” proclaimed Bubba drawing up to his full height and attempting to suck in his increasing girth. “We think he could have been that man-eating lion that killed all them people near Samburu. Me and my deputies is still investigating them murders. They was rough, Shane. Them folks’ innards was eaten and ripped out. Their guts was all over the ground and bloody…..”
Shane held up a paw to end his brother’s revolting description of the killings. Bubba liked nothing better than impressing his kid brother whenever possible. It wasn’t often he had the opportunity.
“So his real name is Jack, not Tarzan,” mumbled Shane, more to himself than Bubba.
Sunday dawned bright and hot. The birds stilled in the trees, escaping the escalating temperatures of midmorning. Betty had taken a cooling swim in the lake, something rare for her. Her hair was still damp and swept into a loose knot on top of her head. She smoked with one hand and fanned with a palmetto frond in the other. Sunday was a day the fishermen bowed to the concept of time off, probably the lingering results of Tanzania having been colonized by Germany, a Christian nation. She heard a racket below. She leaned over to see Tarzan’s jalopy pull in front of her house. He stepped out, wearing loose trousers rolled to mid-calf and a cotton shirt – still no sign of shoes.
“I thought I’d pay you back for your hospitality,” he said. “Want to go to get something to eat with me? Bearing in mind that I don’t have a pot to pea in, it will be a very simple meal. Thought we’d go to Ujiji where I collect old newspapers to wrap my fish in. There’s an old geezer who is scared shitless of me but still let’s me have the papers. I pay him a few a few shillings of course.”
“I’d like that; I’ll be down in a minute.”
On the drive to Ujiji, Tarzan’s ramshackle jeep groaned, made grinding noises and sputtered, at times spewing great clouds of oil smoke and fumes in its wake. In Ujiji, he pulled under a tree and parked the car. Across the primitive dirt road was the Wakwetu Tea Room. Inside was cool and extremely Spartan. Aged heavily scarred wooden tables were spaced about with plastic chairs. A rusty ceiling fan made weary circles producing weak and sporadic gusts of air as it passed over their designated table. Apparently Tarzan was a regular customer. The waitress smiled sweetly at him. Only one other table was occupied by an elderly chap and a youngster who appeared to be his grandson. Tarzan ordered for them from the limited menu. He also asked for two beers. Several people popped in the door only to make a hasty retreat at the sight of a male lion sitting at a table. Betty and Tarzan drank the local beer, Tarzan’s being graced with a dead fly floating inside the bottle. The food was very simple but very good. Later, they passed by a small crudely built stand manned by a very old man, who gave Tarzan a stack of newspapers tied with cord. He paid the man and they chugged off, heading for the lake. The newspapers were sitting on the floor under her feet. Betty took a look at a copy of the Kenya Post of a few days past. She saw Shane’s picture on the front page with an article stating he was doing very well from a flare up of his ulcers. Tarzan glanced away from the road and spotted the picture of Betty’s husband.
“What’s the big banana up to now?” he asked.
“He’s had an attack of his ulcers but this wasn’t a critical one, apparently.”
“Ulcers?” snorted Tarzan. “No lions ever got ulcers before. This is all part and parcel of fucked up Kenya and living like humans.”
When they reached her house, Tarzan got out and went with her to the shore’s edge. There they stood gazing at the water which was once again traced with deep colors from the descending sun. He declined her offer to come upstairs and have another beer. She thanked him for the outing and watched as he jumped in his Jeep and headed out, the engine wheezing as he topped the hill leading to the road.
Tarzan and Betty in front of the tea room in Ujiji......
Shane was stuck between the mansion and brief visits to the State House upon orders from his doctors who wanted him to rest and heal. Johanna was in seventh heaven at his mandatory confinement. He would phone Betty but quickly hang up, realizing the message he wanted to impart needed to be delivered face to face. Jane was not answering her private cell phone. His bright spots of the day were when Staci would visit or Solly would return from his activities and relate his adventures to his father. The twins would be brought in and bounce about before being taken by their nannies. One presence that was always assured him was Johanna’s. She hovered near, her heavy perfume beginning to annoy him. Her cleavage was always abundant and ever present, frequently in his face.
“Oh Shane, the Pussycat Dolls are coming to the Masai Mara. They will be in concert one night only at the civic center. Can we go?”
Johanna was an aficionado of global pop culture; Shane, on the other hand, wouldn’t have recognized the Pussycat Dolls if they had sat in his lap. Johanna had read about the American hip hop group and owned some of their videos. Shane’s ongoing guilt at not caring more, kicked in and he told her he would get the tickets through his office. As far as Shane was concerned they might be feline as their name suggested or some exotic form of North American rodent --- he could have cared less. If attending their concert would keep Johanna happy and out of his mane, it would work in his favor. The only time the lion leader was remotely content was at night when Johanna would disrobe and present her body for the taking. He certainly relished that aspect of his human lover. They would make love until lingering weakness from his hospital stay would overcome him. He would wake in the morning to her hair splayed across his chest, her lips heading south. The action would begin again until the inevitable servant knocked on the door with their breakfast trays.
Shane in the spot he enjoys most during the night....
Leah Simba, accustomed to her divorced husband, Ashley Lyon’s extreme sportsmanship on the sea and in the air, expected no less of Trevor Tau. When the lion doctor’s expression was one of consternation that they go to her dad’s home in Mombasa and engage in water sports of which Leah was also more than proficient, he made a shocking announcement.
“I hate water. I use it for drinking purposes and showers only,” he declared.
“I thought you lived on the river because you loved being near water, Trevor.”
“I live on the river because it’s just down the road from my work place, Leah.”
Leah was so taken aback she was literally at a loss for further words.
On the other end, when Ashley tried to teach Simone Serval the mechanics of windsurfing, she fell from the board and sunk beneath the waves. He hauled her to the surface gasping for air. She cowered in the house for the remainder of their stay, only emerging when he promised he would cease and desist from taking her near the ocean.
On a Saturday, Leah stayed at her parent’s beach home alone and went wave running. On that early morning, she met up with Ashley who was sailing one of his smaller skiffs. They waved at each other and joined forces. Far offshore, they decided to windsurf together. The sea breezes were stiff over the Indian Ocean, the day felt wondrously alive. The divorced couple laughed and raced along on separate boards, as closely as that sport allows. The wind gathered in their sails and sped them forward. In the evening, tired but happy, they went to Roy Lee’s where Leah made an omelet and they drank wine from the superstar's elite selection. In addition to the light, but satisfying meal, they ended up in bed, enjoying the merging of their athletic bodies once more.
Leah and Ashley wind sail in unison.....
Trevor Tau, sensing Leah’s supreme disappointment when he didn’t accompany her to Mombasa and having her go alone the next weekend, read the handwriting on the wall. His take on the situation might have been too subjective, but it deeply disturbed the doctor. In sorrow at the thought of a breach in his relationship with Leah, he created his own version. Lucy Cougar, his adoring assistant nurse-in-training, had been nipping at his heels and coming on to him since she her hiring. Lucy was pert, bosomy and aggressive. The cosseted great-granddaughter of the multibillionaire leopardess, Lucretia Leoparde, she was accustomed to living off the fat of the land and getting her way. The disheartened lion, who had kept her at bay, finally relented. He took her to his river home and bedded her. The next morning, Leah came to call. She entered the house, which Trevor had forgotten to lock in his horny condition of the previous night. She walked to the bedroom where she found Trevor, the covers thrown off his naked body, with Lucy snoring happily at his side. Quick tears almost blinded her and she ran from the house, stumbling to her car and driving off. Trevor failed to hear her and slept on unaware that the one he loved had found him almost in flagrante delicto.
Trevor beds Lucy Cougar......
Betty, due to the intense heat and humidity in the Lake Tanganyika region, began to swim regularly in the late afternoons. She was looking great, being fit as a fiddle walking the steep paths in the Gombe Stream Park where she was researching her relatives. She cut through the water in smooth strokes, occasionally treading water and enjoying the majestic scenery surrounding the lake. She was on the beach again, towel drying when Tarzan pulled his boat to shore.
“I guess sleeping with lions has made you so fearless you don’t care about crocodiles,” he said, looking down at her from his great height.
“Crocodiles?” she squealed, recoiling in horror.
“Yeah, this lake is full of them and they’re not the kind that live in Kenya and join book clubs,” he laughed.
“Oh my God, I’ve been swimming almost every day.”
“You’ve lucked out then.”
“Leah, where have you been lately, aside from Mombasa?” asked Trevor Tau. He was at home and missing her after work visits.
“I never want to see you again, Trevor,” she said, beginning to weep.
“Why, are you reunited with Ashley Lyon?”
“No, but you’re sleeping with Lucy Cougar. I saw her in your bed the other morning.”
She gave a great sob and slammed down the phone.
“Oh shit,” groaned Trevor, slowly replacing the receiver.
Caroline Cheetah Simba was attempting to spend a cozy evening with her husband, Sloane. Her son, Sunny, was on the floor napping after a day of play. Caroline had dutifully taken Sunny and her stepdaughter, Georgy Simba, to the lower school to register them for the coming term which was to begin very shortly. Georgy was on Sloane's lap trying to gain his full attention. Sloane, as was his habit, was glued to the evening newscast on WMM-TV. She got closer to her father’s face and began licking it.
“Sloane, that’s revolting,” snarled Caroline, referring to his daughter’s current activity.
“Georgy has done this to me since she was a tiny cub. It’s a little cat ritual we do and enjoy,” proclaimed Sloane, patting Georgy with his huge paw.
He returned his attention to the television. Georgy continued her role in that ‘little cat ritual we do and enjoy’ while Caroline fumed. From time to time, Georgy would cut her bright blue eyes in her hated stepmother’s direction, enjoying every second of Caroline’s displeasure