Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  He needs an operation.…

  Lonnie had confided in me about the lung surgery, and now they have Earl Mooney.

  Sgt. Collins had tried to warn me with his eyes, but by then it was too late. He knew.

  They’d been doing more than watching.

  Her anguish transferred to me. Any response by me would be trite or stupid. Sometimes it’s best to keep your mouth shut and take your lumps.

  The clouds had thickened overhead and lightning flashed above the black stone faces looking down on me, judging.

  Skinny turned to me and grabbed my palms like she’d done in

  LaKeesha’s living room. She began to sway and her neck arched so far back I saw only the whites of her eyes. We were locked as one when she said, “Evil is coming for you on swift and silent wings. Run fast or it will destroy you. It may not be too late. Evil cannot hide its nature forever; that is its underbelly. To survive, you must be reborn from fire. To live, the spirit must cross over. Go now, boy. Talk to her.”

  She fell backward into a trance-like state. I caught her and gently placed her on the ground before her head hit the sidewalk. Shirley and Tyra nodded to several men who silently carried her to LaKeesha’s house. The men made it clear they did not want me to follow. DeAndre and Ty walked their bikes away from me without a word.

  $ $ $

  I needed to talk to a friendly face. I dialed Tony, but he didn’t pick up. I tried Marilyn, another therapist in my practice, but my call went straight to voice mail. I even tried Baker’s number, and when he didn't answer, it hit me—I'd become a circle of one since Kris’s murder, isolating myself from friends and co-workers. Though the sky looked about to open up, I drove south to talk to Kris. When I arrived, I had a half-hour at the Botanical Garden before closing time.

  I walked past couples and families with strollers hurrying to the parking lot to beat the rain. The temperature had dropped and gusty winds swirled since I’d left Hebert Street. Once inside the English Woodland Garden, the canopy of the mature shade trees muffled the howling wind. Our spot was vacant, for anyone with common sense had already left. I sat down on the Joyce Duane bench. In front of me, the small meandering stream gently burbled. This time no birds whistled songs in the trees; they’d all taken cover.

  I felt the first rain drops land on my arm and said, “I let a client down today, hon. He put his trust in me and now a sick old man may die in a jail infirmary because of me.”

  An ear-piercing clap of thunder rolled above and the rain intensified.

  “They used me. I never saw it coming. How can I face him again, face his mother? I’m lost. I don’t know what good I’m doing. They’ll never let him see the light of day again as a free man.”

  A crack as loud as cannon fire made me jump. I looked up to see a massive branch shear away from the trunk of a tall wide tree and plummet toward me, snapping smaller branches and scattering leaves in its path. I had no time to react. Just before it tore through the canopy and crushed my skull, the branch caught and lodged in the fork of another branch. The gaping hole that had suddenly been punched through the tree cover allowed the downpour to soak my clothes and run into my eyes. It was not cleansing. I shuddered, but didn’t move.

  I turned back to the stream and said, “I need to talk to you—to help me figure out what to do.” I sat waiting when two chipmunks appeared by the stream, followed by a thin red fox. The fox had them trapped. All three stood frozen as the rain beat down. The predator inched forward, when suddenly one chipmunk charged. The fox quickly broke the chipmunk’s neck, but by then the other had raced to the safety of its nearby hole in the ground. The emaciated fox trotted the way it had come, head held high to balance its prey in his narrow jaws.

  I heard a snap. Above, the heavy branch groaned and dropped another foot closer before snagging again. A horn blared and I saw weak lights flashing through the storm. An angry security guard in a golf cart yelled, “What’re you trying to do, get yourself killed?”

  “I’m trying to figure out which chipmunk I am,” I said.

  He stared at me, his mouth a perfect circle. “Get in, before you get killed!”

  I climbed in the cart, and the guard steered the golf cart down the path toward the main building. Behind us, the jagged branch crashed through the underbrush, gouging a deep hole in the soaked ground in front of our bench.

  It took the entire cart ride and then some, in horizontal rain, to convince the guard I wasn’t nuts. It wasn’t easy.

  $ $ $

  Once home I ran five miles on the treadmill and showered. It helped. Some.

  Baker called and said, “You heard?”

  I rubbed my jaw. “Skinny hit me with the news.”

  “Sweet Jesus. Still got your pair?”

  “Yeah, but my pride took a beating.”

  “The world don’ give a shit about that. I’m on my way.” He hung up, sounding sad and angry.

  The credits for the latest hit reality show about two teams of has-been celebrities doing whatever it takes to be the first to find all the bizarre and kinky items on their scavenger list were rolling as Detective Baker and I sat down on my leather sofa.

  And they say the Golden Age of television is over.

  Baker brought a twelve-pack and a bag of spicy pork rinds.

  I thanked him for the beer. “How’d you sneak pork rinds past the subdivision gates?”

  “Told ’em I was the Mexican pool man.”

  “Smart thinking. I have real food, if you don't mind leftover barbecue.”

  His ears perked up. “Pork steaks or ribs?” Grilled pork steaks smothered in Sweet Baby Ray’s homemade barbecue sauce ruled summers in St. Louis. I was more of a rib man.

  “Both, and brats.”

  “Gimme some cold pork steaks with hot sauce,” Baker said, devouring a pork rind while he twisted the cap off a beer. “Protein helps crime fightin’, too. Hurry back, your stalker’s about to come on.”

  From the kitchen, I told him about Stan Winston’s filmed segment with Deb, his take on the bills, and my test of him.

  “Huh,” he said, “He fancies himself the Dudley Do-Right of counterfeitin’. Got a plaque on his desk says, ‘The Buck Stops Here’ and pictures all over the walls of him with local movers and shakers. Flags behind his chair like he the ruler of a country.”

  I heard the first notes of the energetic, pulsing Channel Four theme music, carried two plates and habanera sauce and set them on tray tables in the living room. I sat down just as a close-up of Debbie Macklin’s thin face filled the screen. She stood in front of City Hospital near the Gateway Jail, an animated and serious look on her peaches-and-cream complexion. She turned toward the hospital ER entrance just as an ambulance crew wheeled in a stretcher carrying a cachectic-looking, elderly black man hooked up to IV drips, chest tubes, and an oxygen non-rebreather mask.

  Debbie turned back to the camera and announced, “Channel Four is the only news station with this exclusive live feed on the latest breaking developments concerning the local gang of counterfeiters. We have been closely monitoring this case and we learned that a third counterfeiter has just been apprehended, possibly their ringleader and financial kingpin. “Earl Mooney—” as the camera cut to the earlier photograph of him smiling for the camera while holding his portable oxygen device at his side, hugging the woman I now know as Skinny Yolanda, “—was captured without incident, under the alias of ‘John Goode,’ at a hospital in the Dallas-Fort Worth area, with SWAT backup. More on this breaking story is sure to follow. Chief Prosecutor Maynard Jr. had this to say about the latest arrest….”

  The screen cut to a close-up of Maynard in front of another podium, flashing those perfectly capped teeth. “Today marks another triumph for good over evil. I can’t say enough about our city police, working in conjunction with the Secret Service and their Texas counterparts. We located and arrested Earl Mooney, the leader of the counterfeiters, who fled the state to elude justice.” Maynard paused, unblinking, staring in
to the camera. “I want to comment now on the escalating tension in the city as a result of these arrests. If these men were white, Asian, or Hispanic, the weight of the law would come down equally on them. Instead of dwelling on the skin color of these criminals, these isolated pockets of unrest and anger should be grateful the integrity of their currency remains intact.” Maynard paused to point a finger at the camera. “If you are in possession of a counterfeit bill, it will be confiscated and you will be thoroughly questioned. You will be a victim of fraud.

  “Only one armed and dangerous counterfeiter remains at large and he is Benny Blades.” The screen cut to the same close-up of a smiling Benny giving the peace sign to the camera, looking every bit the ladies’ man in his tight black shirt. Maynard stared intensely into the camera and said, “The reward on this man’s head remains in place. We will find where he’s hiding and arrest him. It’s only a matter of time.”

  Debbie Macklin returned to the screen. “Channel Four now turns to a new consultant, Dr. Howard Davies, a clinical forensic psychologist in private practice who has been frequently called as an expert witness in several high-profile local trials. Dr. Davies, is this case dividing the city along racial lines?”

  Baker reached for the remote, but I grabbed it away from him.

  “Hired Gun” Howard’s wide body filled the screen, his porcine belly hanging over his belt and his trademark off-the-rack suit from Sears wrinkled as ever. Howard supplemented his considerable income by serving as an expert witness at trials, if the price was right. He adjusted his glasses and when he spoke his salt-and-pepper mustache went into motion in tandem with his chins.

  “Debbie, in certain sections of the metropolitan area, I think it has. I’ve noticed that the longer this manhunt drags on, the tougher and more authoritarian the language of the Chief Prosecutor becomes. Some people are questioning whether Mr. Maynard would be using hot button phrases like ‘dangerous gang of criminals’ and ‘triumph of good over evil’ if these alleged counterfeiters were white. The overwhelming majority of whites interviewed have no issue with Mr. Maynard’s tough talk or the police procedures used against these alleged counterfeiters. He is as advertised—tough on crime—in their opinion. The prosecutor and police chief are the two major symbols of authority, of law and order, in this city.

  “Some African-Americans view the police as an organization controlled by whites and perceive that the police detain and arrest a greater percentage of African-Americans. The case has sparked renewed interest in social issues such as the disparity of jailed African-Americans compared to whites and the absence of competent legal counsel to low-income people. A few in the community are raising questions of whether these men posed any real danger to the public. I see parallels that mimic the O.J. Simpson investigation and trial in Los Angeles—people rushing to judgment before the trial, increasing gun sales, tension in the streets and universities, fear of potential riots, and colleges debating the civil aspects of the upcoming trial. The prudent course is to give the alleged counterfeiters and Mr. Maynard the benefit of the doubt until all the facts are known. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty. The trial will reveal all.”

  I wish I had that kind of faith in our judicial system. Life would be so much easier wearing blinders.

  The camera moved from his chins to Debbie’s narrow-as-an-arrow face. Their size differential was so great she could have been a moon orbiting planet Howard.

  “Thank you for your insights, Dr. Davies. And now, here’s Dan Jenkins with other area news.…”

  I clicked off the television and noticed Baker had eaten a pork steak, and more rinds and had drained another beer. The big man could put it away.

  “Ain’t life a bitch,” he said as his eyes swung toward me and he reached for another bottle.

  “They—somebody, the city cops or the SS—eavesdropped on my sessions with Lonnie. I’m sure of it. Lonnie confided to me about Earl’s operation and the very next day they catch him. It’s too coincidental—they simply checked the hospital registers that perform the specialized surgery and used his age and physical description to locate him.”

  Baker sat up, all ears. “That visit room is monitored visually and with a guard posted outside the door. Listenin’ occurs only when family and friends visit, to make sure nobody plannin’ an escape. Warning signs are posted in all family visitin’ rooms and next to the phones. If someone listens in on a privileged doctor/prisoner or attorney/prisoner conversation, that's a violation of the little brother’s rights of privacy and they risk losin’ the case and their careers. Never heard it done all my years on the force, but there’s a first time for everythin’. You got proof?”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “Shit,” Baker said, sitting back down. “Golden Boy already claimin’ it was good old-fashioned police work that led to the collar. My only hope is to find Quinn, but I hit a dead end. He ain’t usin’ credit cards and his social security number hasn’t surfaced anywhere. He either in a hidey-hole or planted in pieces six feet under.”

  He noticed the cuts and scratches on my face and neck. For the first time tonight he smiled. “Cut yourself shavin’?”

  “I think you knew damn well what happened five minutes after the fact.”

  “Powerful things come in small packages.”

  “Does she think she’s a voodoo priestess?”

  Baker raised an eyebrow and opened another beer. “You a non-believer, Cool Breeze?”

  “Voodoo’s a religion?”

  Baker nodded, his eyes glassy and full of fatigue. “With many faces. Slaves on plantations in the Indies sometimes used slow-actin’ poisons when their masters beat them and treated them like animals. Since Whitey back then didn’t understand shit about the culture and showed no desire to learn, rumor spread that witchcraft, curses, or supernatural powers were at work. Voodoo went underground to survive. Skinny isn’t a witch doctor or voodoo priestess, but she has a connection to the beings that rule the spirit world, called the loa. She communicates with them; sometimes the signals are strong, other times not. She not gonna poison you or lay bad juju on you, but people in the ’hood pay close attention to her readings.”

  “Speaking of the neighborhood, I’m persona non grata there now. I’m flying east Saturday morning and plan to be back first thing Monday to see Lonnie.”

  This time Baker looked confused.

  “If Skinny has the spirit world covered, I’m going back to where this all began, in the world of the living.”

  chapter sixteen

  traffic accidents, house fires, puppy mills & meth lab busts

  The morning after my exile from the streets of north St. Louis, I completed another five-mile run and worked out with weights. In the evening, I went to dinner and a movie with two co-workers. I was home by eleven for my early morning flight out of Lambert.

  Frantic pounding on my door woke me three hours later. I had a flashback to Detectives Baker and LeMaster and the horror of Kris's murder last year. Through the peephole I spotted a slender-as-a-thread person with big hair smoking a cigarette and hugging herself as if she were cold or, more likely, stressed.

  I opened the door for Debbie and she immediately began pacing the length of my living room, puffing away, head down, lost in thought. She wore a classic full-length black evening dress and a pearl necklace. She carried her high heels in one hand. Her face was red and puffy, her make-up streaked from crying.

  “Sorry if I woke you. I have to talk to somebody.”

  “It’s okay. I didn’t know you smoked.”

  At two in the morning I am a master of insight.

  She shrugged. “It’s another way to keep my weight down for the camera, sucking over fifty legal carcinogens into my lungs.” A pause, then: “For my so-called career.” Shaking, she turned to me and said, “I’m such a fool. You were right all along.”

  “You're no fool. Come on, sit before you fall down. Let me get you some water with lemon.”

  She shook her head
. “Grey Goose, if you have it. Or a dirty Bombay Sapphire martini, straight up and chilled. You can throw that lemon wedge in or, better yet, some big fat salty olives.” Her large green eyes a tad out of focus, she smiled crookedly and said, “Yum!”

  “How much have you had?”

  “Not enough.”

  When I returned with drinks, she slowly rocked back and forth in a chair, looking for an ashtray. I handed her a small plate since I don’t own one.

  “I don’t have vodka. This is Tanqueray, straight up, freezer-chilled, with two bleu cheese stuffed olives. I also brought water with lemon.”

  “Thanks.” She took the martini and sipped like a dainty bird at first. When it met her approval, she took a healthy pull.

  “He invited me to an ultra-exclusive soiree tonight at the Buckingham in Clayton. He said it was his way to thank the station for our coverage of the counterfeiting story.” She took another swig and laughed.

  First a nibble of prime rib, now gin and olives. What’s next, a pie-eating contest?

  “Maynard?”

  She nodded. “The little rat bastard Fallon orchestrated the entire evening. A stretch limo dropped me off and the chauffeur told me a penthouse suite had been reserved for me if I wished to stay the night. Security escorted me to one of the posh corporate banquet rooms on the second floor. I danced, drank, and flirted; worked the room sniffing stories. Since this began, I’ve been invited to yacht parties, this year’s Super Bowl, and private island resorts in Hawaii and the Caribbean. Big-time money. Big-time players. A really big shoe!” she said, giggling at her own impression of Ed Sullivan.

  “Since what began?” I asked.

  She paused to take a gulp and gin splashed on her dress. “I … uh … haven’t been exactly ... upfront with you. Before the party at the Haller estate, Fallon promised me exclusives to all breaking events in the case.”