Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  A flurry of action followed on the steps of City Hall as reporters jostled for position, hands and production mikes waving in the air. They called out his name all at once, like unruly grade schoolers, eager for face time and a sound bite they could play on the evening news. He chose a waving hand.

  Debbie Macklin, a toothpick-thin blonde, waved her hand in front of the podium with a self-satisfied smirk. I’d worked with her a number of times when the program manager at Channel Four wanted to air a free professional opinion on a breaking news story that involved mental illness or a case that contained psycho-dynamics considered to be of public interest. She’d interviewed me on topics ranging from Munchausen’s by Proxy to prostitution to the psychological dynamics of what drives a woman to cut the fetus from her best friend’s belly with a pair of scissors and claim it as her own, a la a grisly Metro East murder case that created headlines a few years back. The ham in me used to enjoy the free publicity, the challenge to compress complex issues into easy-to-understand sound bites for the general population.

  That person is gone now. Will he return?

  “Good guys one, bad guys nothing. Mr. Maynard, you said these criminals are sophisticated and dangerous. Can you describe the scope of this counterfeiting ring?”

  Maynard grinned down at the anorexic reporter, showing at least a hundred perfectly capped white teeth. “Glad you asked, Debbie. These men shot and nearly killed a pregnant security guard and her unborn baby when they stole a large quantity of paper and ink the federal government uses to print money. The man we have in custody engraved duplicate plates of the latest United States hundred-dollar bill while working in a printing company on the city’s north side. They had the ability and resources to print a great number of bills, but the good news is that the copies are not able to pass for real currency by someone accustomed to handling money. The three men who remain at large are considered to be extremely armed and dangerous.” He scanned the steps looking to field another question.

  Eager reporters pushed forward a second time. Maynard scanned the group until his winning smile landed on another woman. “Yes, Virginia.”

  Another blonde reporter spoke up, even more energetic and perky than Debbie. “Chief Prosecutor, how long were these criminals operating and how much counterfeit money entered circulation before our police shut them down?”

  He smirked, as if he’d anticipated the question. “Virginia, the stolen paper bundle had the capacity to print a little over twenty-five million dollars of illegal hundred-dollar bills. We have already recovered over twenty-four point five million—”

  Maynard paused long enough for the cameras to record the oohs and aahs and whistles from the fourth estate.

  “We also seized their master plates, printing press, various related counterfeiting equipment, and an impressive arsenal of unregistered and illegal weapons that included AK-47s and hand grenades. We also confiscated significant quantities of crack cocaine, China White heroin, and methamphetamine.”

  “Can you tell us about the man who’s been charged? Is he the ringleader?” another reporter called out.

  “The man in custody is Lonnie Washington, a loner from a broken home on the near north side, a man behavioral experts from the Secret Service have profiled as a loose cannon, perfect human fodder for a life of crime. We believe he was the brains behind the production of the counterfeit plates and bills.”

  “What about the others?” Virginia asked.

  “Three men fled the scene during the raid on the printing company and are wanted for questioning. Their physical descriptions match the other three company employees. They failed to return to their known residences and may be in hiding. They have not been charged at this time, but it is essential they step forward now and talk, given the gravity of the crime. We want to verify that the entire counterfeit product has been contained. Chief among them is Earl Mooney. Mr. Mooney owns the store where the bills were produced and, if involved, may be the money and front man behind the operation.”

  “Why is the Secret Service involved?” a male reporter called out.

  “Stopping counterfeiters is why the Secret Service was created.”

  “Can you give us the name of the printing company?” another reporter asked.

  “My office is preparing a statement with profiles and pictures of the known suspects. That should be available within the hour.”

  “Who are the other two employees?” Debbie shouted.

  “We want to question Benny Blades and Tyrone Sparks, two apprentice printers at the company. Given the unique nature of this crime, APBs have been issued on these men and, I remind everyone, they are considered armed and dangerous. We believe these are the principle players, but there may be others. There will be more to this story, and we’ll update you as the situation develops. Thank you for your time.”

  The collection of reporters shouted questions as some followed Maynard, who orchestrated a controlled exit stage right. The two beefcake security men shadowed him while the little man greeted Maynard with a smile and handshake, resuming their private dialogue. The four men disappeared inside the glistening black limousine that immediately pulled away from its illegal parking spot and sped west on Market.

  Maynard was smooth. He was smart.

  He was the first-born son of a former US president.

  He also sounded like the first man I’d heard whisper in the bathroom.

  chapter three

  the referral kiss of death

  That night I settled deep into my safe, comfortable living room couch to watch the news. I heated pot stickers and egg drop soup for one while I drank a Tsingtao, the last remaining beer in the house. I was feeling sorry for myself and acted like I didn’t know why.

  Kris had been a die-hard foodie, and we’d spent a lot of time in the kitchen as she patiently taught me how to cook more than canned soup and frozen pizza. I’d remodeled the whole thing and upgraded the appliances with an eye to the future with her. Now my Sub-Zero contains a bachelor’s supply of the four basic food groups along with my standard OJ, soy milk, beer, Tanqueray, and Bitter Lemon. Before Kris, my old stove served as a towel rack; now, most days the new one’s a much more expensive towel rack.

  Her ghost still lingers here—she makes cameo appearances sitting at the kitchen bar stool, on the sofa, in front of the fireplace, on a chaise lounge deckchair that fronts the common ground, and, of course, the bedroom.…

  I watched the replay of Maynard’s speech with no particular interest until he mentioned Lonnie’s name. The screen showed front and side mug shots of a small, thin, clean-shaven, black man in his late thirties with a closely cropped Afro, slightly receding hairline, and trimmed sideburns that ended short of his earlobes. His dark, almond-shaped eyes seemed to stare beyond the camera to some distant place of immense sorrow. He had a wide-sloped nose, prominent cheekbones, and flared nostrils. His jaw rigid, he held his chin up as he displayed his prison number board in front of himself with thin, oddly tattooed hands. The distant look on his face reminded me of a POW or soldier deep in-country, someone who’s seen too much of another world, too much of what man is capable of, and has little hope of returning home in one piece.

  Déjà vu, brother.

  At mention of Earl Mooney’s name, a family Polaroid (I thought the self-developing film had gone the way of cassettes and eight-tracks) filled the screen. In it, a gaunt, grinning black man in his eighties stood unsteadily in a postage-stamp sized backyard bathed in bright sunshine. A fat cigar protruded from his thin lips, and one scrawny hand gripped a portable oxygen tank while a blue nasal cannula snaked its way up to his sunken face; his other arm draped contentedly around a tiny black woman dressed in a multicolored dashiki and purple turban, her face intentionally blurred for confidentiality purposes. She appeared to be helping him stand. The cachectic man’s face and head tilted toward the diminutive woman as if in deference or tribute.

  I’ve done that, too.

  The name Benny Blades produced
a Glamour Shots close-up on the screen of a handsome young black man, smiling, mid-twenties at most, with high cheekbones accentuating flawless ebony skin. His curly, gelled Afro reached the top of his ears. He wore a coral necklace and form-fitting black tee-shirt. The photo could have been ripped from an Ebony magazine. He mugged directly into the camera lens while he flashed the peace sign. The photo screamed ‘ladies’ man.’

  Been there, done that, too.

  The last photo was a grainy close-up of a Missouri driver’s license. An intimidating, rough-looking black man with a sloping forehead and angry expression dominated the screen. His full cheeks and long face covered most of the sky blue backdrop. The typed information at the left indicated Tyrone Sparks was six feet six, weighed 280 pounds, and was thirty-two years old. He looked like a bouncer outside a seedy nightclub or a pissed off leg-breaker for the mob.

  I nodded at this photo. This dude fit the bill of scary-looking bogeyman. But the others? Lonnie Washington, Earl Mooney, and Benny Blades didn’t look like criminal masterminds or diabolical members of anything, let alone a major counterfeiting ring. I’d seen my share of hardcore antisocial personalities and psychotics while working in the state mental health system. They didn’t fit that mold, either. But, as a social worker, I’d be the first to admit looks can be deceiving. I replayed the photos on my DVR over and over, trying to pry my way into the souls of the four alleged criminals. I got nowhere. The pictures perplexed me. They—whoever “they” is—say a picture’s worth a thousand words. Seemed like I’d need a million to understand what motivated these men to become criminals.

  I don’t like disconnects and didn’t need a mirror to know I was frowning. Containment. Cutting off heads. Counterfeiting. What was going on with Maynard, his friend from the crapper, and these four alleged criminals?

  Good guys one, bad guys nothing.

  I recalled my early days providing therapy in a state-funded drug program. It was curious how often the conspiratorial whispers from one junkie on parole to another made it to my ears while I sat minding my own business in a stall. It made for lively group sessions and life lessons.

  We already cut off the head.

  Think about what’s still out there. The big top is the key.

  When I drifted off to a restless sleep well past midnight, I knew two things for certain: the full force of the civilized world was about to crash land on Lonnie Washington’s slight frame, and tomorrow was destined to be another lousy day.

  $ $ $

  It took immense effort to get out of bed and dress every morning. To complete even the most mundane activities required an iron will. The way I felt this morning, nothing on earth could get me moving. All I wanted to do was pull the covers over my head and pretend the outside world had evaporated away, poof, into thin air.

  Instead, I drove in to the Missouri Botanical Garden bearing a small bouquet of white roses.

  Kris had been buried back east, in her native Bronx. But for whatever crazy reason, I needed a place, a piece of ground to claim, to feel a connection to her. So I’d adopted a secluded spot in the English Woodland Garden. She liked to walk the Garden, and we often sat on the same shaded bench to get out of the sun and talk. Friends and family of Joyce Duane, a social worker I’d known who’d also died too soon, donated money for the memorial bench. Now it sat weathered gray and often unused. Today was no different.

  I walked past the bench and followed the stepping stones down to where a small stream cut through a wooded thicket of giant Hostas plants, ferns, flowering ground cover, and lush green bushes, hidden under a dense canopy of mature shade trees. The damp ground smelled of cypress mulch while the fresh scent of wintergreen filled the air.

  Standing at the edge of the brook, I watched the water swirl and cascade over rocks and around roots, heading down toward a small pond in the distance. One by one, I peeled the flowers from the bouquet and tossed them into the stream, watching them spin and dance on the surface and move on.

  “I miss you,” I whispered.

  I stood there for I don’t know how long, as birds twittered and chirped and delicate-fingered ferns dipped and swayed in the breeze. Time hadn’t healed the pain; but still there was a serenity about our spot that gave me comfort, refuge. I sighed, turned to head back to sit on our bench, and froze.

  Wearing that parrot green sports coat, Detective Baker stood quietly near the bench, watching. He was stalking me, just like last year. He threw the ubiquitous toothpick to the ground.

  “Figured you’d be here,” Baker said.

  “You followed me.”

  “Hard to believe it’s been a year today.”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun,” I replied.

  I made it to the bench and sat down. Baker folded himself in two and lowered his bulk beside me.

  “Never had the pleasure of meetin’ her, but I came to know she was a special lady. I’m sorry, Cool Breeze.” Then: “For what I said yesterday, too.”

  “Look, if you’re here about—”

  “Please take the case.” His voice thick with desperation.

  “Why?”

  His coal eyes hardened for a moment. “I can’t tell you.”

  “Sorry. Not good enough.”

  In one fluid motion another toothpick materialized in his mouth. “He needs an experienced professional to talk to. He needs you.”

  “Bullshit. The city’s crawling with therapists.”

  We sat in silence. A couple pushing a stroller walked by. The shadow of a plane passed over us.

  “Who does he get when I say no again?”

  I thought I saw the faint birth of a smile. “Some pimply-faced counselor from the Entitlement Generation who don’ know shit ’bout the real world but think he or she do ’cause they sat in a stuffy classroom and shit out term papers, or maybe he’ll get Sister Thomas with her cross and rosary beads. Either way, he shuts down and probably kills hisself.”

  “Sister Thomas, how old is she now?”

  “Cake I saw last month had a hundred and sixty candles on it. Set off the smoke detectors, I hear.”

  Baker rolled the toothpick between his white teeth and waited.

  I sighed, leaned back against the bench, and stared up through the trees to the pale gray beyond. No sign from above. Do I continue on this way?

  “Why me? You know as well as I that no one can prevent him from going ape shit in a place like city jail.”

  “You’ve seen it all. You’ve been there. You’re smart, hard to intimidate, and think fast on your feet. You remind me in some ways,” Baker added, “of me.”

  “Nice try, but don’t bullshit a bullshitter. Cut to the chase or I’m walking.”

  Baker’s jaw tensed. “I’m tryin’ to stop a crime here.”

  “Are you saying he’s innocent?”

  “No. Like I said, he a counterfeiter all right, but if this case isn’t handled just so, a lot more bad shit gonna happen.”

  “But you can’t tell me. Why?”

  “I just can’t, that’s why.”

  The Garden suddenly seemed desecrated and I felt it, or me, spinning. I closed my eyes to shut out Baker and all things Baker—the murder, being framed, held prisoner, and almost killed.

  “Cool Breeze, I’m not askin’, I’m beggin’. Please don’t walk away from this. I need you.”

  “Tyrone Sparks aside, the rest of these guys look like they’d have a hard time organizing a poker game. Benny Blades looks like a ladies’ man and Earl Mooney looks like he belongs in hospice. He’d have needed a rocket powered wheelchair to flee the scene of a highly organized police sting. Give me a break.”

  Baker’s eyes widened. “See? That’s why I need you. You see through that kind of shit.”

  I stood up and looked down at Baker. “One thing. Tell me what crime you’re trying to prevent or I walk.”

  Baker remained silent; brow furrowed, his eyes pained.

  I turned and walked away. Ten yards, fifteen, twenty—

/>   “Wait!”

  I stopped and turned. He was right behind me.

  “Good to see there’s some fight left in you,” he said, working his toothpick. “I got no proof. The wrong ears hear this, I’m suspended. We—I—need help to find hard evidence. I gotta find out how much the big fish know before I can say more. It’s for your own good, mine, and the little brother's.

  “We?”

  “Slip of the tongue. Dude like Maynard got his own Secret Service protection.” His voice lowered: “I think the little brother’s talents are the hidden prize.”

  “Does ‘the big top is the key’ make any sense in your cop world?”

  “Not a lick.”

  This time I believed him.

  “Why?” Baker asked.

  I shook my head. “It’s not important for now.”

  “I’m a homicide dick. I can’t get directly involved in the case.”

  “Not without drawing attention to yourself.”

  He didn't respond.

  “Surely you have friends in the department who can help behind the scenes,” I said.

  I watched his calculating smile spread. “That’s another reason I need you.”