That was a question for which I had no complete answer.
“Baker asked me for a favor, and I like Lonnie.”
I could tell Skinny didn’t believe me. “Give me your hands,” she said.
Confused, I held them out. She leaned forward, so close I felt her breath on my face. Strong, bony fingers turned my hands over while her relentless, unblinking gaze assessed me. Her dry palms felt like sandpaper and her fingers like talons digging into my skin. Tyra and Shirley closed their eyes and swayed behind Skinny who muttered strange words under her breath. I heard Mambo, Loas, and Petros more than once, but the rest was unintelligible.
“You don’t work with your hands as much as you should, boy.” She closed her eyes and swayed rhythmically. She began mumbling to herself as sorrow filled her lined face. “Doubt is your brother, and a great shadow shrouds you. But your light is strong; follow it. You are here for the right reasons; you just don’t know them yet.” Her penciled-on eyebrows knitted together as a look of anguish spread across her leathery face. Spasms racked her slight body as she said, “He will change you, and you will betray him. One of you will die and one will be reviled.”
Skinny Yolanda opened her yellowed eyes, exhausted. Tyra and Shirley gently laid their hands on her shoulders.
I retracted my hands, fighting the urge to wipe them on my slacks.
If this was a test, I think I just failed. I was prepared to be shown the door.
Yolanda stood up straight as a post. “The dark days are upon us, and we will all be challenged. I will tell the neighborhood brothers you and your shiny new car are off-limits, at Lonnie’s request. They in turn will pass the word to the gangs, but I warn you that does not guarantee your safety. Maintain your business arrangement with DeAndre and Ty,” she said with a wry smile. “The responsibility will do them good.”
“Sounds like Lonnie’s will carries great weight with gangs in the neighborhood.”
The smile evaporated and the callousness returned to her voice. “You may be book-smart, but here you are a babe in the woods. The truth you seek is found in the lives of those on the streets. Open your eyes and ears to this abandoned world. We are a largely forgotten people, but many in number and strength. Your world should never forget that, boy. Listen to the spoken and unspoken words of those you meet on your journey. Talk with the beggar in the street; do not look the other way and pretend he does not exist. Experience the world as he does. Only then will you learn the truth instead of what you expect to find.” She nodded toward the door. “Remember my warning. Leave us.”
I had a strange feeling I was Macbeth exiting the lair of the Weird Sisters, portending the future with a touch of their hands. I recalled the play’s ending.
Fair is foul, and foul is fair.
My couch called to me like a true friend. Baker’s hands were tied and he wouldn’t say why. What was I getting myself into?
I returned home and Googled those chanted words. Great. I’d just had a Haitian voodoo priestess warn me that the arcane truth about a crippled counterfeiter waited for me somewhere on the streets in the ’hood—and that one of us would die.
How I longed to speak with Kris, draw strength from her. In bed, wide-awake, I looked to the sky but clouds hid the stars. I closed my eyes, imagined her next to me, listening, suggesting. Her words cut in and out like a blocked radio signal and disappeared. Had the light gone out? I longed for my best friend and lover so much I feared I’d split in two.
I’d caught brief flashes of the old me. Taking the hard road, doing the right thing. If I was the one to die, at least we’d be reunited.
BOOK TWO
TRUTH ON THE STREETS
What is done out of love always takes place
between good and evil.
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
chapter eight
to be honest
When Kris wrestled with a problem, she’d bake some elaborately sinful treat or cook a gourmet meal foreign to her. Taking a step back to do something new freed her mind.
Tonight I made my first pizza from scratch. While the aromas of sliced garlic, fresh basil, and feta cheese mingled in my kitchen, I read archived articles about the fairy-tale-famous Maynard family. Great-grandfather and grandfather were resolute men of iron and steel with little education who built their companies from the bottom, transforming them into industry leaders in steel and shipping. John Maynard Senior was the first to attend college, graduating with a law degree and earning a reputation as the most feared prosecuting attorney east of the Mississippi. His wife Catherine, a former beauty queen, stood as sole heiress to her father’s beer empire. Business connections convinced Senior to make a run for the Senate; he won and served five terms. With a formidable power base established, he ran for president, won again, and served two terms. By the time Junior was born, the Maynard name conveyed power and old money in a state renowned for it. Born on the fourth of July, news of the delivery spread like the word of an army returning victorious from the battlefield. Junior rode home from the hospital in a Bentley and grew up at Dogwood Farms, nine hundred acres of lush blue-green rolling hills where stallions covered brood mares and thoroughbreds trained to be stakes winners. Junior had national name recognition from his White House years. His pedigree, good looks, and charm garnered him the moniker Golden Boy.
I ended by reading recent news articles. The St. Louis Post-Dispatch dubbed Junior a “PARAGON OF VIRTUE,” the New York Times labeled him a “CRIME CRUSADER,” and in the article “THE FUTURE KING?” the Wall Street Journal asked when, not if, the first-born to the throne of one of the nation’s most powerful and successful families would parlay “his business connections, his family’s political legacy, and his brilliant legal mind” into another two-term Maynard presidency. In a country without royalty, he was indeed The Boy King.
Enough Camelot.
Back to the streets. Where to start? Do I wander aimlessly down the streets of the north city corridor with a lantern like Diogenes looking for an honest man? Do I squeeze Baker again for information he won’t give? Do I press Tony about a former client of his who may be missing and somehow involved in a doctored police report and, if so, how do I broach the subject? The oven timer dinged and, instead of heralding a brilliant and insightful idea, I salivated. I pulled the pizza out of the oven, poured a glass of wine, and decided to invite Debbie Macklin to lunch.
Our paths had crossed for years, and we’d always been more alike than I cared to admit—competitive, driven, opinionated, cynical, and full of ourselves. She ached to join the national media, and I enjoyed the spotlight when she interviewed me as an on-air expert. We’d had a falling out last year after a schizophrenic client of mine made the news when he was severely beaten and left for dead outside a Jefferson County “massage parlor” that served as a front for prostitution. I convinced her to do a timely piece on massage parlors versus licensed massage therapy businesses. My ulterior motive was to exert enough legal pressure and public outrage over his attack to shut the parlor down.
Sensing a media opportunity, she scheduled the filming of my slot to overlap with the interview of the massage parlor boss, a pimp named DeLuca. Emotions ran high in the studio and I lost my cool. She got what she wanted. Ratings soared for days as the heated exchange and my right punch to the pimp’s jaw were replayed three days running. The massage parlor wasn’t shut down, but it was driven out of Jefferson County and my client recovered. After Kris's murder, she’d knocked on my door with condolences and a giant fruit basket. A few weeks later, she asked me out, in a nice way, and I declined, in a nice way.
Debbie’s crew was filming out in West County the next morning, so I met her at 54th Street Grill in Chesterfield Valley. She walked through the door twenty minutes late wearing an oversized red cashmere sweater and white stonewashed jeans with matching red tennis shoes. Since her elfin feet were never on camera, she wore tennies for comfort. As she sat, I caught a generous splash of Euphoria perfume. Her blonde hair was pu
lled back in a ponytail held in place with a matching red band. A misbehaving bang occasionally fell in front of her slender face, which she’d brush back with a quick flick of her hand.
“Sorry I’m late. We ran over at Chesterfield City Hall with one of our state representatives. She kept us waiting, and then insisted on getting her rant just right about Missouri’s illegal immigration problem. That issue’s older than Benghazi. Move on to a new topic. I’d love to check the citizenship status of the kitchen workers in her husband’s restaurant and the gardeners on their estate. Hopefully the piece will remain in the can. I thought we’d moved on to more important issues since the last election, but, after all, this is Missouri.”
Still the same Deb, yearning to land a national news gig on a bigger, brighter stage.
She noticed me looking at her oversized sweater. The temperature gauge on my dashboard had read 84.
“I’m always cold, sue me.”
“Because you have no meat on your bones.”
Our bright-eyed young waitress introduced herself as Tiffany and took our order. Debbie asked for a garden salad with fat free balsamic vinaigrette on the side and water with a lemon wedge while I chose a blackened Cajun burger and a second Corona. Tiffany happily bounced toward the kitchen.
“Good to see you again, Mitch. I hope you’re doing as well as you look.” She sat leaning forward, smiling, her voice flush with anticipation. “I’ve missed you at the station.”
Oh, no. She’s trying too hard. She thinks this is a date.
“I always choose you when I watch the news. I saw you question John Maynard the other day. What do you know about him, off the record?”
She stiffened and blotted her ruby red lips with a napkin. “‘Off the record,’ that’s my line. What’s your interest in Maynard?”
“Curiosity. He’s a local personality from a famous family. He’s about to try a big case. His star is rising.”
Her eyes narrowed to suspicious slits. “I’m here for this?”
She quickly painted me in a corner. I held her stare and leaned forward. “To be honest, I also wanted to see you.”
Never trust anyone who starts a sentence that way, Deb.
Perky Tiffany arrived with my charred burger and Debbie’s hamster food, then sped away to her next table. I saw other patrons begin to take notice of Debbie, the local news personality. A few simply looked over while several young men ogled her.
“That’s more like it.” Her smile returned. “Okay, Maynard. He’s brilliant in court and waits for the perfect time to go for the jugular. I’ve met him off camera and he’s the real deal—articulate, charming, witty. He’s a patriot and a family man. His lofty pedigree and ruggedly handsome good looks don’t hurt, either.”
“And ‘off camera’ means?”
She nibbled a lettuce tip and her eyes gleamed. “After a shoot with Missouri politicians in Jeff City, I was invited to a party that lasted into the morning. One with lots of drinking and loose lips. For me, those soirees are like blood in the water to a shark. John was there and the movers and shakers kept talking about how they want him to make a run for the vacant Senate seat in the fall.”
“That would be exciting,” I said, trying my best to mirror her intensity level without overselling it. I sipped my beer. “He sounds like someone I’d like to meet.”
She blotted her lips again and sat evaluating me. Sizing me up, trying to figure out my angle? She smiled and said, “I think that can be arranged. Be my escort to a private campaign party at the Haller estate and you can meet him Saturday night.”
She handed me a card with her home address and phone number already on the back. “It’s formal. The station owner has reserved a table. Don’t worry, you aren’t obligated to make a contribution.”
I hid my surprise. “I’m always ready for an excuse to get my tux out of mothballs.”
“Great. Pick me up at seven. Drinks at eight. My building has a doorman. Park out front and have Maurice call up for me.” She looked at her watch and said, “Damn, I wish I had more time, but I have to meet my crew to turn a live shot for five.”
As she got up, she squeezed my shoulder and whispered, “I’m glad you called.” Her breath was warm in my ear, and I caught a stronger whiff of her perfume.
Déjà vu all over again. We all have our uses, and Type-A Debbie and I had been down this road before. I took some of Debbie’s uneaten lettuce and placed it on what remained of my burger as she rushed to her silver Jeep Cherokee, climbed in, and drove away like she’d just robbed the place. Her personalized plates read: 4 4ALL.
Tiffany ambled by and placed the bill on our table with a bubbly ‘Thank you for coming.’ She spelled her name in large loopy letters, the i dotted with a big heart. A smiley face decorated the bottom of the bill. I sighed and hoped the world would never take that away from her, and that no man would use her the way I planned to use Debbie.
chapter nine
summer in the city
I’d made plenty of home visits in the city back when I worked for the state and was well aware of the Department of Justice statistics that mental health workers who make home visits are six times more likely to be victims of non-fatal violent crimes than the general population.
If the truth is to be found in the lives of those on the streets, I headed back to the north corridor in search of it.
Not knowing where to start, I returned to Hebert Street to confer with my diminutive, neophyte employees DeAndre and Ty. I found DeAndre perched up a tree, lighting firecrackers and tossing them at a set of plastic toy soldiers he’d arranged in the dirt below. The remains of a model tank in the center of the green infantrymen lay melting in flames, a casualty of model glue and a lighter, a small plume of smoke billowing out of its sunken turret from a well-placed cherry bomb. Nearby, Ty launched bottle rocket after bottle rocket into the vacant lot next to LaKeesha’s building.
They had a battle plan and were sticking to it until all their ammo was gone. I hire only the very best.
I parked a safe distance from the tree, thankful the snarling German Shepherd was nowhere in sight.
As I walked toward DeAndre’s tree, an exploding firecracker sent a bazooka-wielding soldier tumbling end over end down a dirt slope. “Nice shot,” I said.
DeAndre scrambled down from his bomber’s perch while Ty dashed across the street toward me, yelling, “Want us to watch your car again, Dr. Mitch?”
The older DeAndre shouted as he jumped from the lowest branch: “Ten dollars this time, each.”
I reached for my wallet. “I have a deal for you.…”
DeAndre said, “We hear you a social worker. You gonna put LaKeesha in a nursing home?”
It’s a hard-to-kill stereotype promulgated by television. Locking the elderly and disabled in nursing homes and taking babies away from their parents is de rigueur for social workers on the boob tube.
I waved two ten dollar bills in the air. “Nope, I’m trying to help her son. You guys know Lonnie?”
Ty started to answer but DeAndre silenced him with a slap on top of the head. The older boy said, “He rich. Ever’body in the neighborhood know him.”
“There’s a ten for each of you—if you watch my car and give me the name of a grown up nearby who will talk to me about Lonnie.”
Ty began to talk again when DeAndre punched him hard on the arm and said, “Wait your turn, chump.” DeAndre ignored Ty’s grimace of pain and turned back to me. “Next block, the house on the corner? Dude name of Terrell Barnett live there, goes by T-Bone. He cool. He knows Lonnie. Maybe he talk to you. Gimme my money, please.”
“Here you go. What about you, Ty?”
The smaller, younger Ty scratched his head and dropped his remaining bottle rockets. Picking them up awkwardly, he pointed down Hebert. “See that house with the green door at the end of the block? Old Miss Givens live there. The doorbell works, but you gotta wait.” He paused to nod his head and grin. “She move real slow.”
�
��You the man, Ty. Here you go.” I handed him his ten.
My hyperactive little minions ran off to continue their pyrotechnic fun, once again oblivious to my shiny red Solstice.
T-Bone or old Miss Givens? I flipped a coin and it landed tails for T-Bone.
Terrell Barnett lived on Sullivan Avenue off Grand, in a small run-down brick bungalow with a full front porch and no swing. Bars protected the windows and both shades were drawn and discolored by the sun. Flattened Pampers cardboard boxes taped to the inside of the front windows blocked any view of the front room. I saw no doorbell so I knocked. Nothing. I banged louder on the door. Still nothing. I tried one final time, fitting my hand between the steel bars and rapping on a glass pane.
I heard shuffling inside and a minute later the door opened enough for coal-colored eyes with muddy scleras to peer at me. The unmistakable pungent aroma of marijuana wafted my way while muffled rap music beat rhythmically from a back room. The person behind the door didn’t move or say a word.
“Mr. Barnett? Sorry to disturb you. My name’s Mitchell Adams. I’m talking to people in your neighborhood today—”
“You a census taker? I’m the only one livin’ here, tha’s all I gotta tell you.” He started to close the door.
“I’m not with the census bureau, T-Bone. I’m talking to people in the neighborhood about Lonnie Washington. Have you—”
The droopy red slits widened, the door slammed shut, and the chain behind the door slid open in its track.
The weathered door creaked open and a huge young tattooed black male built like a refrigerator stepped onto the porch. He wore a tight-fitting wife-beater shirt and baggy L.A. Lakers sweats. He’d put on dark shades against the bright sun. The end of a roach dangled in a hemostat held between two meaty fingers.
Frowning, he stared down at me and said, “Why you want to know?”
“I’m here to learn how he’s viewed in the community—”
Counterfeit Page 6