Both Sides

by Gabino Iglesias

  7

  Terri and Katrina split their Jamaican takeout with me. Jerked chicken, plátanos fritos, red rice and beans, salad and ginger beer. I told them they didn’t have to share but damn, I’m glad they did. I was hungry as a horse. I didn’t get to finish my Cheerios that morning and it was already past noon.

  My mouth was burning afterward and the ginger beer made it worse. And they say Mexicans like to spice up our food. We ain’t got nothing on the Jamaicans.

  We ate scrunched up in a little seating area with a loveseat, two armchairs and a coffee table. On the other side was a computer on a stand and an L-shaped desk with office chairs on either side.

  Terri wiped her fingers and turned toward me. “So, tell me, Lalo. What’s this about a job?”

  “I heard you had your own detective agency and damn, cuz. I’m proud of you. Making bank and taking names! That’s what I’m talking about.”

  Terri tilted her head and gave me la mirada that said: flattery won’t get you shit.

  “So,” I hurried on, “I thought I might come see you about a job.”

  “Even if I ran a detective agency—which I don’t—there’s no way I could give you a job. A convicted felon can’t become a private investigator. It’s Illinois law.”

  “Aw, Terri,” Katrina begged. “Can’t we find something for Lalo to do? He’s family, after all.”

  “There isn’t any we. I don’t have money to hire staff, which is why I’m not paying you. Like you even need it with that rich husband of yours.”

  Katrina turned to me. “I’m interning with Terri to become a private eye.”

  “Digital investigator!” Terri hollered. “I’ve said it twice already. Am I talking to myself?”

  “I’ve heard about P.I.s,” I admitted, “but I didn’t know D.I.s were a thing.”

  I was shocked as shit to find out Terri had got shot. When she took a bullet on the job last year, her father begged her to quit. She had a Criminal Justice associates degree and went back for a Digital Forensics certificate. T. Robles & Associates was just getting off the ground.

  “I use technology to solve digital crimes.”

  “Digital crimes like what?”

  “Identity theft, cyber scams and harassment. I can get legal wire taps, analyze security footage and recover deleted data from computers and mobile devices. Although, right now I’m working on a simple case, your typical insurance fraud.”

  Terri was investigating a fishy workman’s compensation claim. She had to find out if the suspect was too disabled to work, like he claimed to be.

  “It’s not exactly my line of investigation,” she admitted. “But beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “And how’s it coming?” I asked.

  “Just following the digital trail. I need to plan a stake to get some physical evidence.”

  “So you need to find out whether old boy is illin’ or chillin’?” I asked. “Maybe I can help.”

  Terri sighed. “You just can’t come off the street and do a digital investigation. No way, Billy Ray.”

  I found myself grinning. “Who you calling Billy Ray?”

  As kids we decided the expression, “no way, José” was racist and kept coming up with changes. No way, Andre, Sister Fay, Sallie Mae.

  “But what if I could help you out? Then would you give me a job?”

  Katrina shot Terri la mirada. It said: he’s probably going to fuck it up, so just humor him until he flops.

  “What about ‘no way’ do you not understand, Lalo?” Terri took a file from her desk and shoved it into a drawer. “I’ve got a package to pick up at UPS. This is an ‘A’ matter so make like a ‘B’ and ‘C’ your way out. The door locks automatically. And there’s nothing of much value in here, just so you know.”

  ¡Ay, mi corazon! That hurt my heart like hell.

  “I’ll go with you,” Katrina jumped up. “We need some air freshener. That jerk chicken really lit the place up.”

  “What’s with you and all these odors?” Terri fussed as they left.

  “I’m sensitive to smells. It’s been like that since I got pregnant.”

  “Well, you ain’t pregnant no more.”

  The tiny office was left in silence. I opened the drawer, found the folder Terri put away and began to leaf through it.

  It got me to thinking about this old white dude I’d met in the joint. Donny Finklestein was his name. As city manager for some downstate town he’d been cooking the books for years and embezzled a shitload of money.

  Donny had covered his footsteps so nobody even suspected. It was his public behavior that gave him away. The man had a serious gambling habit and the racetrack was his drug of choice. He got so wrapped up in it that he decided to invest his ill-gotten gains.

  Donny bought a racehorse he named Patrician after his mistress. Nobody paid much attention until the year she took top prize at Arlington Park. The horse, not his side chick. Donny’s picture was on the news with a cigar in his mouth and the prize cup in his hand.

  That’s when people got to thinking. How can someone who barely makes 100 grand a year afford to buy a quarter million-dollar race horse? And what about that Porsche he drives and that mini-mansion he lives in?

  Donny would have gone to one of those country club prisons for white collar offenders, except when they came to arrest him, he shot it out with the cops. Donny didn’t hit anyone but he took a bullet himself. Still they managed to take him in alive. What do you bet a Tómas or Tyrone wouldn’t have lived to tell the story?

  Anyway, that’s how Donny wound up in the pen with chulos like me.

  I looked at pictures in the file. Terri’s insurance fraud suspect was White, fat, middle-aged and balding. The picture was posed to make him look as pitiful as possible. In a hospital gown and a neck brace, he was leaning on a cane.

  I started fiddling around my little technical know-how. Before my last stint in the pen I used to work with computers, hardware and software issues. I found the suspect’s social media but all his networks were private. Some online searching gave me details of his high school graduation.

  I didn’t have no credit card to sign up for a yearbook service. With some back and forth, I found a story on the Homecoming Queen from his senior year. Thirty years later she still was looking good.

  I made up a Facebook profile with her name and photo then sent him a friend request which he approved right away. I clicked into his online photo album. It showed him golfing last weekend at French Lick Springs, minus his cane and neck brace. He was even posed with his golf club pointing at a Donald Ross Golf Classics banner, the date and year printed on it as bold as day.

  When the girls got back to the office, I showed them what I’d found. “Your man ain’t looking that disabled to me.”

  Katrina grinned and patted my back, just like she hadn’t given her sister The Look twenty minutes ago. “Good work, Lalo! I knew you had it in you.”

  Terri frowned suspiciously. “How did you find this?”

  “I didn’t exactly break the law. I skirted it, familia.”

  Terri wasn’t down with the snooping and the fake Facebook profile. That didn’t stop her from downloading the photos pronto and dictating a report into the computer.

  I couldn’t resist gloating. “That saved you a little time, huh?”

  “Are you kidding me?” Terri groaned. “You’re congratulating yourself for breaking—excuse me—skirting the law, when I clearly told you to leave it alone?”

  “Glad I could help.”

  “You know you shouldn’t have done what you did. Those materials were confidential.”

  “Sorry about that, cuz.”

  “I would have gotten to the bottom of it eventually,” Terri continued, “but yeah, I guess you helped. I can pay you like, hm. Maybe, two fifty?”

  “Two hundred fifty bucks? Are you kidding me?” Holy shit, I’d hit the Lotto. First thing I was buying was a new pack o
f squares. Second thing, some flowers for Izzy.

  “Sorry, but it’s the best I can do,” Terri apologized. “I know I should offer you more but things are really tight.”

  Terri had so many of these contracts, she was thinking of changing her business name from T. Robles & Associates to Insurance Frauds ‘R Us. The cases weren’t much of a challenge and they didn’t pay that well. But she was in startup mode and she couldn’t afford to be picky.

  “At least I’ll be able to pay the rent on time this month.”

  Back in high school Terri would type kids’ homework for money. I know she could have done it herself. Katrina, the retired attorney and overqualified intern needed something to do. She listened to the recording and slowly typed it up with her two fingered keystrokes. Terri looked it over, made some edits and emailed it to the client along with the photos I’d found.

  Case closed.

  8

  I was still chilling at T. Robles when Izzy called. “Hola, mi amor. How’d the interview go?”

  Isabella Esposito was Sicilian but she grew up in a Puerto Rican ‘hood. Her peeps thought it was straight slumming when Izzy tried to pass. The girl couldn’t really speak much Spanish but would try to talk English with a boricua accent. It was kinda cute.

  “Hey, Izzy. Things went pretty good.”

  “Thank God. I was worried. You’ve been gone a long time.”

  “Yeah, something came up but I’m leaving now. I’ll tell you all about it when I get home.” I didn’t want to be all cháchara with my cousins sitting there.

  When I said my hasta luegos and opened the door to leave, I whispered “¿qué carajo?” What the fuck? Why was a mannequin standing there? He was frozen in the open doorway with a fist raised to knock. Dude must have done his shopping at Alcala’s Western Wear. He was decked out from neck to toe in high end cowboy gear.

  El dandi was a toasty tan with a high top copete on his head. I rock a pompadour myself, trying to make myself look taller. His ‘do swooped up way higher than mine, though he didn’t need the extra inches. From the top of his head to the tip of his leather cowboy boots, the man had charro written all over him. He looked like a Mexican cowboy on dress up day. Only thing missing was the sombrero.

  But why was the brother so guapo pero severo, good looking but grim? What problems could somebody have who had it going on like that?

  “Is this the Troubles agency?” he asked.

  “T. Robles,” I corrected. “Tee. ROE-blaze.”

  “I got this, Lalo,” Terri warned. “Step back and let him in.”

  I backed up to give him way, but he just stood there doing his mannequin act.

  “Entra, por favor,” Terri ordered.

  “No hablo español,” he answered in the worst gringo accent ever. He stepped to me and stuck out his hand. “The name is James Hill, no middle name. But you can call me Jimmy.”

  Katrina was on his culo before the words were out of his mouth. “Just because you see a man in a suit, don’t go making assumptions. Lalo doesn’t even work here, yet. He’s certainly not the boss.”

  “And neither are you,” Terri reminded her. She got up from the loveseat and went to sit behind her oversized desk. “What can I do for you, Mr. Hill?”

  “I told you, it’s Jimmy.”

  “So, Jimmy. What brings you to T. Robles?”

  Jimmy looked around the office with a frown on his face. His eyes skipped over me and Terri, lingering on Katrina. They jumped to the water cooler in the corner (empty), the artwork on the wall (posters) and Terri’s forensics investigation certificate (real, I’m assuming).

  “Troubles, right?” Jimmy asked again. “You’re an all-girl production?”

  Both twins answered at the same time. They’ve been doing that since they were little.

  “Why, yes. We are,” Katrina gushed.

  “You make it sound like lesbian porn,” Terri barked.

  “Porn?” Jimmy Hill squealed. You’d have thought the chupacabra himself had strolled across his grave. Jimmy looked over his shoulder at the open doorway, like he wanted to scurry through it. Instead he came in, shut the door and sat in the seat Terri had just vacated.

  Jimmy turned attention to the wrong person again. With Katrina’s polished perm and designer duds, she looked the female version of him. He clicked on his cell phone and thrust it toward her.

  “See,” he told her. “I got one of these.”

  Katrina took the phone and grinned. “I knew this would pay off.”

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Let me guess.” Terri sighed. “It’s that Groupon offer, right? A thirty-minute consultation for $50. A whopping $1.66 an hour for time I’ll never get back. And after Groupon takes its share, I’ll barely have enough left to buy myself a Happy Meal.”

  “Shall I redeem it?” Katrina smiled.

  “Go ahead. And you,” Terri pointed to Jimmy, then tapped her desk. “I’m yours for the next thirty minutes.”

  Jimmy rushed over, sat down and started talking fast. He was going to get his half-hour’s worth if it killed him. “So, here’s the thing. I’ve been Me Too-ed real bad.”

  “I bet you have,” Terri grimaced. “Just who did you harass?”

  “It wasn’t me,” Jimmy insisted, like the refrain to a Shaggy song. “I’m the one it was done to.”

  “How’d it happened?”

  Jimmy started sweating and his eyes got panicky. He looked back toward the door before answering. “Cindy McGhee, my agent? She books me for these modeling and acting gigs?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” Terri deadpanned.

  “Cindy won’t give me my money and she owes me twenty-five grand.”

  Terri shook her head. “Sounds like a contractual dispute. Where’s the Me Too angle?”

  Jimmy looked down at his twisting hands. If he hadn’t been brown he’d be blushing. “She said I’d have to put out.”

  “What!” I’d heard of all kinds of heinous shit but this was a new one on me. “And did you?”

  “I did,” Jimmy nodded sadly. “Or at least, I tried. According to her, it wasn’t good enough. And if I told the cops or anyone, she’ll see me go down for rape.”

  I got a sick, sinking feeling in my gut. “That’s not all, is it, Jimmy?”

  Katrina looked horrified. “What could be worse than that?”

  Jimmy looked at her helplessly. “On Friday she’s got me going up for a part in The Long Ranger.”

  “The old TV show?” Terri frowned. “Or a new movie remake?”

  Jimmy shook his head and clamped his mouth shut, looking miserable and ashamed.

  I answered for him. “He said, The Long Ranger. I think it’s probably porn.”

  9

  The office door closed on Jimmy at the end of his thirty minutes. Katrina got up and checked to make sure it was locked.

  “That guy was a real femme fatale, wasn’t he?”

  “Jesus Christ, Trina. You don’t know nada, do you?” Terri shook her head. “A femme fatale is the sexy, sinister broad in a hardboiled detective flick. Jimmy would be an homme fatale, if that actually was a thing.”

  “More like an homme pitoyable. What?” I asked defensively. They were looking at me like I’d grown an extra head. “I took French in high school. It means, ‘a pitiful man.’”

  “Pitiful and shifty.” Katrina added.

  “Definitely shifty,” Terri agreed. “He was tweaking like a cat with his tail on fire.”

  Katrina continued. “He claims his name is Jimmy Hill? Who does he think he’s fooling? My six-month-old could come up with a better alias. If that boy’s not Latino then I ain’t.”

  She was technically only fifty percent but I didn’t point that out.

  Terri wasn’t buying it. “You think he’s lying about his ethnicity? What would be the point?”

  “I don’t think it’s a lie,” I agreed. “He reminds me of th
is dude I met in prison. He hung out with La Raza, but he wasn’t one of us.”

  Terri tapped the desk impatiently. “I’m well aware of your gang affiliation, Lalo. What’s your point?”

  “Former gang affiliation,” I corrected. “Old girl wants to put him in a blue version of The Lone Ranger. What role do you think he’s up for? Probably not the masked crusader.”

  “And not his horse, Silver,” Terri added.

  “Tonto?” Katrina suggested.

  “’The faithful Indian companion.’ I’d say that Jimmy Hill is indigenous.”

  Terri steepled her hands thoughtfully. “Native American, huh? You might be onto something.”

  “I’d bet dollars to donuts he is.”

  We sat there mulling it over until Katrina broke the silence. “Damn, he sure was pretty though. Too bad I’m off the market. When this is all over, Terri, you ought to check him out.”

  Terri shook her head. “I don’t ever date clients, especially ones with pompadours. And anyway, I’m not trying to taste the rainbow.”

  “What makes you think he’s gay?” I’d been in the joint for six years. My gaydar was usually on point and nothing beeped when Jimmy showed up at the door.

  “Lalo Rodríguez, do you need glasses?” Terri hissed. “There was a damned rainbow flag on his lapel.”

  Katrina came to my defense. “No, that wasn’t a rainbow. It didn’t have all the colors, only black, gray, white and a stripe of purple.”

  “And just because he couldn’t get it up, doesn’t mean he’s gay,” I added. “Maybe the chick is hideous. Maybe she has halitosis.”

  “Maybe this is all a nightmare I’ll wake up from in the morning,” Terri complained. “That damn Groupon.”

  Katrina looked hurt. “What do you mean? I thought it would help drum up business. You told me I could try it.”

  “Sorry, Trina but this isn’t my kind of case. He got his thirty minutes. I told him to go to the police and find himself a lawyer. Let’s leave it at that. I doubt if Jimmy Hill could afford me anyway.”

  “Well, he does have twenty-five grand coming,” Katrina reminded her. “If he’s telling the truth.”