by J. R. Rain
We stop in front of the house in Bell Gardens. It’s a little turquoise-walled place with a dingy roof that tries to be red. An air conditioner hangs out of the window left of the front door, sealed with Hefty bags and duct tape. There’s not much of a lawn to maintain; like most places around here, the grass is in a permanent state of mostly-brown.
No sooner do we get out of the car, than a local police unit rolls up behind us. Two cops walk over, a giant of an African-American on Chad’s side and a youngish white guy on mine.
“Agent,” says the taller man. “I’m Sergeant Wandabwa, and this is my partner, Mooney.”
Chad laughs.
Mooney’s face reddens. “Umm.”
I narrow my eyes at my partner. If he calls me ‘Moony,’ there will be blood.
“Oh.” Chad waves him off. “I’m not laughing at your name. Well, I am, but not for that.” He thumb-points over the roof at me. “My partner, Agent Samantha Moon.”
Sergeant Wandabwa grins. “There are no coincidences.”
“Oh, here he goes again with that mystic crap,” says Mooney.
“Thanks for meeting us here.” I shake Mooney’s hand and nod over the car at the giant, who nods back.
Chad and Wandabwa head around the nose end of our sedan and step up next to us onto the sidewalk.
“What’s the deal?” asks Mooney, jabbing a thumb at the house.
I explain the warrant to search the property for evidence of undeclared income or criminal activity. “Mostly, we’d appreciate it if you watched our backs, but if you find anything incriminating, call it out.”
“You got it,” says Wandabwa.
I look up at him. Good grief, the guy is… the top of my head isn’t even up to his shoulders.
Where were you when that kid shot me? The shooter would’ve taken one look at this guy and shit himself. Though the cop isn’t bulging with muscles, he’s just tall. Really tall. But that’s usually enough.
Great, everyone’s waiting. Guess I have lead. I open the gate in the quaint wrought-iron fence, cross the small front yard, and knock. Mooney ducks around the side of the house to watch the back. While waiting, I pull out my ID wallet, poised to hold it up.
After a few minutes of nothing, I knock again, louder.
“I ain’t want no damn cookies,” shouts a woman inside.
Chad bumps my arm. “You holding out on me? Save me some Thin Mints.”
I smirk at him before knocking again. “Shante Reed?”
Silence hangs awkward for about ten seconds before the door opens inward, revealing a young woman about two inches shorter than me with frizzy, unruly hair. Her file lists her age as twenty-one, but she could pass for eighteen. Shante squints at the sunlight. Between her frumpy shirt and backwards shorts, I’m sure I woke her up. Great, she’s some kind of vampire, sleeping in the middle of the day.
“Miss Reed.” I hold up my badge. “I’m Agent Moon; this is my partner, Agent Helling. We have a warrant to search the premises.”
Shante scratches her rear end, still squinting at me. “Y’all know what time it is?”
“It’s 11:49 a.m.,” says Chad.
“Please stand aside, miss.” I offer her a copy of the warrant. “This is a copy of the warrant for your records.”
She frowns at it, rolls her eyes, and wanders into the house.
It’s not the messiest place I’ve ever had to inspect, but it would drive Mary Lou nuts―especially the miniature alien forest diorama (a plate of mold on the coffee table). The main reason our childhood home got cleaned is because my sister couldn’t stand filth. Our parents were into that whole ‘entropy’ thing and stuff wound up where stuff wound up. And my brothers… well, little boys and mess are symbiotes. When I got old enough, I helped out… the two of us on a crusade to bring normality to hippieville.
Officer Wandabwa stays with Shante while Chad and I venture deeper into the home. Fortunately, the place is small, and it doesn’t take us long to search our way to the master bedroom. I raise an eyebrow at a set of teal scrubs hanging on the back of the door. To my left, a table packed with cosmetics, brushes, and hair-care products stands on one side of the bed. The other has a long, waist-high chest of drawers, covered in junk and drug paraphernalia. That draws my attention right away, so I approach, snugging my blue latex gloves a little tighter. While I’m hardly a narcotics expert, I get the feeling this stuff has been sitting a while untouched. Miss Reed didn’t look drug ravaged, seeming healthy, though she could play an extra in a zombie film. But then again, at 8:00 a.m. this morning, I could’ve said the same about myself.
“What’cha think?” asks Chad.
I peek through the drawers, finding more than a sleepover amount of men’s clothes. “I think TT was living here. He’s not listed in the documentation. This stuff is all his.”
Chad puts his hands on his hips. “I wish we had a sniffer dog.”
Conversation out in the living room between Miss Reed and Officer Wandabwa mostly involves her annoyance at being knocked out of bed early since she’s due on the evening shift at the store. I glance at the scrubs. Store? I check again over her paperwork, and note that she listed her primary occupation as a part time retail sales clerk at a men’s clothing place.
“Last time I checked, sales clerks don’t wear medical scrubs.” I point at the door.
Chad shakes his head and goes back to rummaging the surface clutter on the long cabinet.
On a whim, I check the scrubs out, going straight for the badge on the chest. It shows Shante’s face but it’s not a sales clerk nametag. She’s also a Certified Nursing Assistant at Meadow Grove Retirement Home.
“Hey Mooney,” says Chad to me.
“I know you’re not going to call me that again.” I give him a ‘sweet’ look. “What’s up?”
He holds up a couple of papers, three-folded like they came out of an envelope. “She has a second job. Found a pay stub.”
I nod. “Meadow Grove.”
He glances at the pay stub again and tilts his head at me, bewildered. “Yeah, how’d you read that from over there? Damn, you have some sharp eyes.”
I pull the ID off the scrubs and walk over, dangling the badge in front of him.
“You’re good,” he says.
“I’m observant. Anyway, I came here thinking she helped TT sell drugs, but I think I know why Miss Reed wasn’t so sorry to see him go.”
“You think she’s sneaking into a care facility to steal syringes, pills, and such?”
“Doubt it. She’s really working at the home. My guess is she reports her meager retail job on her application with us, and keeps the better one quiet.” I sigh. On one hand, I understand having a job where you make too much money to qualify for housing assistance but not enough to actually afford housing. From the look of that pay stub, she could probably swing a place without assistance, but it would be in a less nice area with a longer commute.
Chad shakes his head and drops the pay stub back where he found it. “Ugh.”
“Now for the ‘fun’ part,” I say.
We head back through the house toward the living room. While crossing the kitchen, a spot of white on the fridge glides by at the edge of my vision. It takes a second or two for my brain to catch up to what my eyes are telling it, and I have to step back to look again. She’s got a business card pinned to the freezer door with a magnet. The card bears the word ‘Marty’ in sharpie marker beneath a familiar printed phone number.
“Chad…” I point at it. “Check this out.”
“Huh?” He glances over.
“The raid. Rosa Melendez had the exact same card on her fridge. Tell me that’s not a weird coincidence.”
Chad grins, wagging his eyebrows. “There’s no such thing as coincidences.”
“The boy listens,” says Sergeant Wandabwa, peering into the kitchen. The deep timbre of his voice reverberates off the cabinets.
We step past Officer Wandabwa into the living room where Shante Reed sits
perched on the edge of the couch, her head in her hands, staring at the rug. That’s a guilty look if I’ve ever seen one… or she’s about to throw up.
“All that shit in there ain’t mine. It’s all Tommy’s.”
“So, Tommy was staying here?” I ask.
“Yeah,” says Shante as a reflex. Her head snaps up to stare at me. “I mean… not staying here like that. He visits a lot. Or used to ‘fore they picked him up. Tommy ain’t dealin’. He likes weed.”
“Weed? They picked him up for crystal,” I say.
Shante waves her hands back and forth. “I got nothin’ ta do with that crap. Weed’s his, but he kept a little meth to sell.”
“He get his meth from Costco?” asks Chad. “Heard they needed a truck to clear it out.”
The cops chuckle.
“Miss Reed, I’m afraid there’s a problem.” I hold up her ID from the nursing home. “You’ve been receiving income that you haven’t declared to HUD.”
She leans back, wide-eyed, like a little girl who’d been caught stealing. Shock gives way to fear in seconds, and her hands shake. “I just got that job. Swear. Only been there a couple months. I was gonna report it, but I’s ‘fraid’a gettin’ kicked outta here.”
“Defrauding the government can be a serious offense,” says Chad, trying to sound comforting. “We don’t have to go straight to prosecution. There are a number of options, including repayment of ineligible benefits.”
She bows her head, crying into her hands.
The woman’s upset, but I can’t help but feel she’s pouring it on a bit hard. “Your application at the time checked out. The violation would only encompass the period you worked for Meadow Grove without declaring that income to us. Honestly, it would’ve come back to us eventually via the IRS. What can you tell us about Tommy and his enterprise? Was he selling drugs out of your house?”
Shante sniffles and shakes her head. “Naw. Like I said, the boy loves his weed. That herb was all for him. The crystal he kept somewheres else.”
“You abstain?” Chad asks, smiling.
“Gotta.” She nods at the ID. “They do tests. My ass is strung out on account’a workin’ two jobs, not no drugs. I can’t lose the Grove. It’s my ticket to bein’ real. I didn’t even―”
I tilt my head. “Go on.”
She fidgets for a few seconds before looking up again. “I didn’t even think it’s that big a deal and all. Ain’t like I’m makin’ that much.”
And again, I think someone’s not being completely honest. “What are you leaving out?”
“I, umm, don’t even know where my paperwork at. For the house and shit. I gotta hunt for it. I’ll fill out whatever I gotta fill out. Please don’t charge me with some fraud shit. I’ll get fired, an’ I’ll be right back nowhere all over again.”
“Should’a thought of that before committing fraud,” says Officer Mooney.
Chad, Sergeant Wandabwa, and I give him the look. Really? He’s one of those.
Shante bows her head.
“Who’s Marty?” I ask.
“Huh? I ain’t know no Marty.”
“For a guy you don’t know, why do you have his card on your fridge?” I point over my shoulder.
“Oh.” She wipes her eyes. “That Marty. I ain’t know him. He’s some dude who fixes shit that breaks. Toilet plugged up, crack in the wall, that sorta business.”
I pull out my notepad to jot down her employee ID number from the pay stub, as well as the address of the care home and a contact phone number. “How did you find Marty?”
“Guy came to the door and gave me the card,” says Shante.
Chad pulls me aside, lowers his voice. “What’s this guy do? Run down a list of HUD-managed properties or something?” He scratches his head. “Crazy odds of finding his card here, too.”
“Yeah. This woman is hiding something. I’m sure of it.” After I’m back in front of Shante, I say, “Are you sure there’s nothing more to this Marty than a simple handyman?”
“Sure, yeah.” She nods at the coffee table. “I ain’t even barely call him. Tommy fix a lot of crap when he’s visiting. ‘Til y’all bust his ass for that weed. Why they gotta give him a hard time over a damn plant. Booze messes people’s shit up way worse.”
I raise a hand. “That’s not a debate I’m here to make, and I think the police were more upset over the meth thing than the pot. All right, Miss Reed. Is there anything else you need to tell us? Other income, undisclosed occupants of the property, anything illegal going on here?”
She shakes her head. “Naw. Just the good job you fixin’ ta take away from me.”
That depends on how much she wants to keep secrets. “All right. After we finish here, I’m going to verify your employment over at Meadow Grove. We’ll be back in a couple days. If your new income level alters your eligibility for benefits, the best option for you would be that we believe you didn’t intend to defraud the government and made a simple mistake at not filing your paperwork. You’d be liable to repay the government for any benefits you’ve collected in excess of your approved amount.”
“Y’all ain’t gonna kick me out?” Shante stares back and forth between us. “What if I quit the boutique? Ain’t makin’ all that much there. Barely worth the hours I ain’t sleepin’.”
Chad looks around the room. “Well, turning the place into a drug den is probably not the best thing to help keep you in here. It works in your favor that TT’s out of the picture. We’ll need a few days to update your file. After we crunch the numbers, we’ll be better able to answer those questions.”
“This Marty… he have anything to do with Tommy’s habit?” I ask.
Shante shakes her head. “Naw. He’s just a guy to call if somethin’ round the place stops workin’.”
I glance at Chad. He’s not leaning toward her, which tells me he’s missed that she’s hiding something. Or, maybe I’m starting to see shadows where there aren’t any―like last night. I fish one of my business cards out and offer it to Shante. “This is my number. If you think of anything else you’d like to share with us, please call. The more cooperative you are, the better things work out for everyone involved.”
Shante takes the card and holds it in her lap, staring at it. “All right.”
We make another inspection pass around the place, but other than the bongs and pipes in the bedroom, nothing stands out as significant. Good for us, making the housing assistance program more honest one underemployed person at a time. Drat. I really thought going in here, I was going to unearth some major fraud that hurt truly needy people. Instead, we scared the hell out of a somewhat-needy woman. By the time we’ve thanked the cops for their assistance and gotten back in our car, I decide I’m not going to pursue charges here as long as she accepts a restitution agreement.
“So…?” asks Chad. “Thoughts?”
“I’m sure she’s hiding something, but I don’t even know where to look.”
He starts the car and pulls away from the curb. “You said the same thing about Rosa.”
“Yeah.”
“And she had the same ‘Marty card.’” Chad shoots me a meaningful look. “Maybe they’re covering for this guy. I mean, I guess it could be a simple coincidence, but it is kinda odd.”
I groan and rub my eyes. “A full night’s sleep has to happen before I can process this. I’m going to do a workup on Miss Reed and see how deep she’s stepped in it. Part of me wants to cut her a break, but maybe if we toss around what she might be charged with, she’ll open up that last little bit of the puzzle box.”
“If you ask me, she’s just freaked out by cops, and losing her house, and job. That would make anyone seem on edge. Before you hit her with the thumbscrews, I’d prefer we make sure she deserves it.”
“Right. Big difference between gaming the system and making poor life choices.”
“Lunch?” Chad smiles. “Super Burger?”
I laugh. “Speaking of poor life choices.”
He
scoffs. “Oh, come on! That place is awesome. Best fries within a fifty-mile radius.”
“I know. They’re not exactly the healthiest thing.”
“We only go around once. You can’t spend your time here stumbling through existence like a dead woman.” Chad winks. “Live a little.”
It has been a while since I had a burger, and I’ve been so stressed lately I’m even below my weight goal. “Ehh… Sure, why not. A little grease won’t kill me.”
Chapter Eleven
Six and Zero
Nick’s Super Burger is one of those places that no tourist would ever dare approach.
The small coral-blue adobe restaurant covered in neon paisley looks like something that would’ve happened around 1900s Mexico if LSD occurred naturally in the water supply. I think it started off as this psychedelic taco stand, but that went under about ten years ago, or so I heard. Nick (at least I assume a man named Nick owns it) hasn’t done much to improve the building―it’s still covered with cracks, though he did get rid of the graffiti. The burger joint sits on the far left side of an otherwise open lot by a sharp bend in the road, with a scattering of metal tables and chairs out front.
Aside from it having the appearance of a dive only poor people would go near, the food is amazing. I guess the guy who runs it throws all his money at ingredients and hiring decent cooks rather than developing the property. I’ve always had a love/hate relationship with food. I love it, but hate what it does to my ass.
A pair of high-school kids, probably on a date, look over at us as we pull in and park. On the far left, closest to the building, sits a middle-aged woman with one of those super-wide-brimmed hats and a scarf around her head. Wow… guess she has some kind of sun allergy or something. Damn, that’s gotta suck to have to wear all that stuff to go outside―especially in this heat. We pass a trio of power company men on our way to the entrance, who all stop eating to check us out, probably staring at our badges more than my boobs. Chad pulls the door open and blasts me with the smell of French fries and seared beef.