Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  “What would that be, Cool Breeze?” Baker said, his six-foot-four inch frame filling the doorway. He stared at me from behind dark shades.

  Simone arched her back like a frightened cat. “He knows.”

  He ignored her and waited for my reply.

  “Blood’s thicker than water, big man.”

  He didn’t move a muscle.

  I thought back to the very beginning. There’s a little brother in city lockup.…

  “We both know the most effective lies are mixed with truth. The ‘little brother’ phrase was a clever misdirection on your part—it’s how you talk. I believed your initial story that you were his childhood protector—why wouldn’t I?—but over time the intensity of your emotions outstripped that relationship. Lonnie is your younger half-brother. My guess is you share the same biological father.”

  Stunned, Simone said, “Sweet Jesus in a manger,” and fanned her narrow face with an O Magazine.

  He remained imposing as a sheer black rock wall.

  I climbed out farther on my limb. “And the father you share is Earl Mooney.”

  Wild-eyed, Simone crossed herself and kept repeating, “O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee and I detest all my sins!”

  “You think you know all that, Cool Breeze,” he said, the same black and impassive wall of muscle looming before me.

  I nodded. “Little things I heard and observed when I first met Skinny that didn’t quite add up when I thought about them later—Skinny and Earl’s separation the year before Lonnie’s birth, precipitated by a transgression on Earl’s part; Shirley and Tyra’s reaction when I asked about a father figure in Lonnie’s life; Earl fainting during Lonnie’s birth wasn’t from the sight of blood since he’d worked as a butcher; rather it was the sudden shock and surreal sight of watching his common-law wife deliver his baby by a younger woman seven months after a one-night stand that caused him to faint.” I smiled and said, “I wouldn’t have wanted to be in Earl’s shoes the day Skinny found out.”

  Simone wanted to speak but Baker shook his head.

  “You staring at me like you Nostradamus ain’t gonna make my tongue wag,” he said.

  “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your father, but I enjoyed meeting your mother, JoJo. She’s a strong, assertive woman.”

  I thought I sensed a faint weakening in his impassable façade.

  “Skinny and Earl raised you well. Her crusty shell always softened at mention of your name. She once bragged she could put you over her knee any time she wanted. There’s a special bond between you, a mother-son bond.”

  Simone locked her eyes on JoJo, waiting for direction that never came.

  I forged ahead. “You’re silent because if this ever gets out, you won’t be able to help Lonnie complete his life’s work. He and you created the alter ego of Mr. Anthony. You work in tandem taking turns in the role. It was you, JoJo, who called the guard in Virginia and sent her those six annuities. Lonnie may have called her once from jail; he was that concerned over her injuries. You probably called in a favor with a DC connection for Rachel Sanchez’s new security job while Simone orchestrated the storage facility arrangement and penned those beautifully written letters. The night we toasted Lonnie, LeMaster must have learned you had a personal relationship with Lonnie to suspend you. You put up so little fight because it was true. I hope it doesn’t jeopardize your career because you’re one hell of a detective.”

  I looked at him. He didn't move a muscle.

  Simone looked like her brown oval eyes were about to pop out of their sockets and roll across the hardwood floor while the standoff continued.

  I turned to her. “There’s no need to recite acts of contrition. What you’re doing is a noble task. You’ve assumed a huge responsibility at great personal risk—insuring Lonnie’s legacy lives on after his murder and, from what I’ve witnessed, you’re doing a great job. No one needs to know about Mr. Anthony. The right thing to do is get the rest of the money to the people he chose.”

  She exhaled, seemingly for the first time in five minutes. She turned to speak to me but Baker waved her off again. “Baby, there’s a time and a place and this is neither.”

  He stood blocking the doorway. “What do you think you know about him?” His words a challenge.

  “What you wouldn’t tell me, what you wanted me to find out on my own. I know Lonnie was a dreamer and an idealist, both brilliant and naïve. He had a blind spot when it came to the cruel side of man’s nature. He didn’t care about money, but was keenly aware of its power for good in the right hands. His father recognized his off-the-chart abilities, hiring him, and handing down his knowledge of counterfeiting. Lonnie was perhaps the last of a dying breed. His perfect plan derailed early when Benny broke the first rule of counterfeiting by telling others. Prematurely forced to weed out all who would be corrupted by the power of money, he made enemies along the way.

  “I know he imagined a world without poverty, where every child is raised and educated in a stable environment. Kids and their caregivers held special places in his heart. He believed everyone who can work, should. His mother had to maintain her sobriety and adhere to a regimen to keep her house. I don’t think he spent a counterfeit dime on himself. Toward the end, more abject need confronted him than he had money to fix.

  “And I know he was living proof the American dream’s a myth—he didn’t receive equal opportunity according to his ability regardless of social class or circumstance of birth. His dream job should have been master engraver for the federal government or an art treasure restorer. He entrusted his artwork collection to me—it’s yours. Like you, his older half-brother, he had a highly developed sense of right and wrong and social justice, but he never complained of life’s injustices. Not the cigarettes put out on his face and arms by foster parents or their biological children, the psychological abuse, the constant turmoil and upheaval in his group and foster homes, the limitations and pain from his club foot, or the job rejections.

  “Lonnie could have wandered through life full of rage and hate and prejudice, but he didn’t. Even in the hostile environment of jail, he took the high road. He was an honorable man in a dishonorable venture. He was driven, motivated by the love of family and altruism. He only agreed to the counterfeiting plan so your father could pay for an operation to save his life. He was patient and kind and humble. I came to respect him and consider him a friend.”

  Baker walked up close to me and said, “You came up with this by yourself?”

  “Lonnie had your back. He’d never tell me you were family. No one did, if that’s what you mean.”

  Baker’s toothpick bobbed up and down.

  “He focused on completing his mission. His actions directly or obliquely could have seriously wronged innocent people, but I don’t think they did. My sympathies go out to you and your family. He made his choices and knew the consequences of his actions, as did Earl, Benny, and Tyrone. I don’t think he directly harmed another soul. He didn’t shoot the security guard. I met her in DC. Her wounds were blown out of proportion by a local source here. Who it was, we’ll probably never know.” I glanced at Simone. “But Mr. Anthony saw to it that she, her children, and nephews will have the opportunity for a good education.”

  I turned back to Baker. “I don't know when you first learned Lonnie had become a counterfeiter, and I don’t want to know. He wants his story told. To me that means making sure the world knows he used his money to help people who help others, and to honor those who helped him along the way.

  “What’s disturbingly curious was my reaction to Maynard’s first news conference announcing Lonnie’s capture, especially the pictures of the four men. Being brutally honest, if Tyrone’s picture was the first one shown I probably wouldn’t have taken the case. I plead guilty to some degree of racial profiling and stereotyping. If the police had access to other photos of Earl and Benny and Lonnie, I probably wouldn’t have taken the case. Those pictures didn’t fit with the harden
ed criminal stereotype Maynard described. That got me thinking something might be wrong.”

  Baker shook his bald head. “I won’t confirm a damn thing you said,” he said and held out a meaty hand. “My man, Cool Breeze. Wouldn’t it be a trip if The Man moved into the little brother’s jail cell instead of a senate seat?”

  I nodded. “Good to see you recovered from the head wound.”

  “Nothing gets through that thick skull,” Simone said, staring at Baker.

  “I think Lonnie would have made a better senator than Maynard,” I said.

  I may write his name on my ballot this year if I don’t like either candidate.

  Simone cleared her throat and said, “You may be big and bad and all that, JoJo, but I am going to say my piece here and you will not hush me.” She handed me a business card. “This is the name of a friend in Family Services. Mention Lonnie and tell her I sent you. She may tell you something amazing.” She kissed me on the cheek and said, “Thank you, Mitch. God bless.”

  On my way out the new door, I turned back to Baker. “I’m glad the Secret Service left empty-handed, but they’ll never give up.”

  Baker didn't flinch. “I don’t know what you talkin’ about, Breezy. We needed a new door so I put one in. You must be high from smoke inhalation or depressed over your little car.” Then he winked at me.

  Baker and Simone stood, arms linked. They looked like two puzzle pieces that fit together just right. “Keep up the good work,” I told them.

  The white Mustang now sat totaled in a police impound yard awaiting paint transfer tests. I climbed in the only car the rental company would loan me after I played demolition derby with their GT, a bright yellow PT Cruiser with over two hundred thousand miles on it. It looked like a hearse wearing a Haz-Mat suit. The interior smelled of stale cheese and mothballs.

  I drove home missing Kris, with Skinny’s words in my head: To live, the spirit must cross over. What do I need to cross? No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t answer that. Baker said the voices sometimes didn’t ring true. That’s how my luck’s been running.

  chapter thirty

  a thousand words

  My twenty-four hour Secret Service protection ended that night. I came home to less hate mail riddled with misspelled words, capital letters, and exclamation points than last week. It was like bloggers had somehow stuffed themselves into my mailbox for months. Several mentioned my mother, others suggested I do physically impossible stunts, and some suggested I move to Cuba since I clearly was a Communist. The townhouse still stood and my lawn remained free of burning crosses. My computer was gone for good. My office mates in the practice had left supportive messages and invited me to a party next weekend. Marilyn was co-guest of honor as she’d been a jail bird for one afternoon.

  I sat on my sofa, in a self-deprecating and ruminative mood, with a cold Rolling Rock in hand. Sitting here long enough watching television that had become an ideology of watching other peoples’ moments on television will do that.

  I reflected about the case: the whispered conversation; my time with Lonnie; the nighttime trips into north city; T-Bone; the fight with Skinny; car rides with the scheming Baker; meeting Maynard and Fallon; finding the bug; the nighttime chase; being shot; hiding trapped behind a Dumpster hoping not to die; feeling the side of Quinn’s head splatter onto my face; pulling Baker from a burning cabin; and seeing Maynard’s arrest. The trials of Maynard, Fallon, Earl, and Tyrone could drag on for years, and I worried about the unequal scales of justice.

  Regular TV had a reality show about modern-day mail order bride wannabes sharing streams of consciousness, eager to meet and marry their princes. We are doomed. I flipped to cable to record the latest episode of The Newsroom when the phone rang.

  Simone’s silky voice filled my ear. “JoJo and I want you with us at Lonnie’s funeral in the morning.”

  “I’d be honored.”

  She gave me the details.

  I had a dreamless night.

  Lonnie was laid to rest in a potter’s field on a bright warm Sunday morning, with fall in St. Louis a month away. In the first row under the maroon tent LaKeesha sat with her hands in her lap, next to Skinny and Tyra and Shirley and her kids. Baker and Simone occupied the second row, among many others. All were dressed in black except Skinny, who wore a bright maroon dashiki with her purple turban.

  I wore a black suit and came stag. Baker and Simone came over.

  Baker was a changed man, wearing a black suit with wide purple lapels and no toothpick in his mouth. Simone wore a long black dress and hugged me. I smelled spices and lemon grass.

  Baker extended his hand. “Cool Breeze, my man. It means a lot. Shoulda brought Blondie. Now you got ’em back, you should use ’em.” He smiled and patted my back. “Come back to our crib after. There are some fine sisters be happy to hook up with you, especially now you an honorary brother.” They went to greet others.

  Birds chirped and sang songs in the branches of the shady elms behind the hole dug for Lonnie. The black hearse arrived, lights on, followed by the longest procession of cars I’ve ever seen, short of a freeway jam. Heads of those seated under the tent turned as Baker and five men solemnly carried Lonnie in his plain pine box from the hearse to the empty hole under the largest elm.

  Skinny turned to me, staring impassively at first, then smiled sadly, and mouthed the words ‘thank you’ before returning to face the grave site. She held her head high. Tyra and Shirley had started to cry along with LaKeesha, but not Skinny.

  Every seat under the awning was filled and the standing areas along both sides and behind the tent overflowed with people wanting to pay their respects. By the time the preacher began his eulogy, there were so many mourners I couldn’t tell how far the sea of people reached. The vast majority wouldn’t be able to hear his words.

  The prison chaplain Reverend Mathis was in his late fifties, with a barrel chest and round wire-rimmed glasses. He addressed the gathering in a soothing, avuncular tone. “I didn’t have the pleasure of knowing our brother Lonnie Earl Washington long. He knew this day was coming and he specifically requested that I keep my words short because life is for the living. Lonnie did not want me to read passages from Scripture that would make his momma cry. He did not want anyone to mourn him today. He wants us to return to our homes and cherish our family and friends, to hold them closer to our hearts, and to be good to one another. He asked that I use secular words and focus on those who remain. I reminded our brother Lonnie that I am a chaplain and a talker, but promised I would try to keep it short.”

  That received a mild chorus of laughter.

  “In our brief but intense time together, I came to know Lonnie well. He loved his mother LaKeesha very deeply, and he adored his father and looked up to his big brothers for being mentors in their own separate and loving ways. He also counted his co-workers at the printing shop as members of his family.”

  Brothers?

  The Reverend’s voice grew in fervor and resoluteness. “Lonnie Washington was a man of mettle; he shunned personal possessions and the limelight. He was a kindhearted man; he turned the other cheek, even in the most trying situations. He cared deeply for the Jeff Vanderlou neighborhood he lived in and the city as a whole; he was passionate about you fine people and wanted you to have every opportunity to achieve your dreams and aspirations. He was a quiet, intelligent man who always thought before he spoke. He overcame many obstacles in life, yet remained focused on the needs of others. As we know, Lonnie had many gifts and talents. I have met thousands of men in my days and Lonnie was one of the nicest, most decent people I have ever known. He was a gentleman and I will miss him.”

  The reverend paused, took a deep breath, and cleaned his wire rims with a handkerchief. “Lonnie was not a religious man in the traditional sense. He believed man incapable of understanding the universe without using God for his own self-serving purposes. During our last visit, he lamented to me that God had never spoken to him. I want to leave you good peopl
e gathered today in your Sunday finest with the same message I gave him. I told Lonnie that I believed the Hand of God moved through him every day, through his mind and through his artistry. That God’s love acted through him every time he helped others. May his good works live forever in your hearts and minds. Because of this, I believe Lonnie will live forever. His time on earth will be judged by the Lord God, not by man. Let us take comfort in knowing he is looking down on us now, smiling as he walks straight and true, with no limp, head held high and proud, hand in hand with Almighty God through the Gates of Heaven.”

  A hearty chorus of Amens followed.

  “At this time, anyone who wishes to approach the grave site and pay their final respects to Lonnie today is warmly encouraged to do so, after his family has had the opportunity. Thank you all for coming. God bless us all and may there be peace in our lives.”

  Skinny stood and escorted a trembling LaKeesha to Lonnie’s coffin that sat over the mouth of the grave. LaKeesha placed a worn-to-the-nub set of crayons in a clear plastic baggy on the casket and said, “I sent these to you when you was little. I couldn’t believe you kept them all those years. This was what got you started, boy. They belong back with you now, Boo.”

  Skinny silently placed a red rose, and then a wrapped cigar on the coffin on behalf of Earl, who remained handcuffed to a hospital bed under police guard. She placed both hands along the rough, knotted wooden sides of the coffin and leaned back. I waited expectantly for something supernatural to happen. It didn’t. She kissed the lid.

  Shirley and Tyra left single white roses and said their goodbyes. Shirley’s kids each released a white balloon.