Counterfeit

by Scott L. Miller

  JoJo and Simone walked up arm in arm and left photographs on the coffin. Simone softly said, “We will see it to the end.” At first I thought JoJo would remain silent, but he bowed his head and said, “Peace, little brother,” before escorting Simone back to her seat.

  As I watched the attractive couple, I noticed movement on a nearby hill. Mark DeFrane and Francis LeMaster were dressed in conservative suits, heading toward their sedans.

  DeFrane made eye contact with me and briefly, almost imperceptibly, nodded his head.

  I nodded back. On a hill behind them, Debbie Macklin and a cameraman kept their distance, filming the throng of mourners.

  Next in line came an attractive couple in their forties, the mystery brother and his lady friend. I see the resemblance now. I should have known. This boy, he the runt of the litter.… Next to them stood a small, thin teenage girl. The couple left a framed photograph of the trio and the girl placed an old Etch A Sketch on the coffin. What caught my eye was the drawing.

  A procession of somber faces followed in orderly fashion. Most of them I didn’t know, some I did. Many left a single flower or picture. An elderly black man released a white dove and the handicapped lady with him started to cry.

  Coretta Mae Givens arrived with her walker and the help of Shondra McKinney. Coretta gently laid a sandwich with some hard candies in a baggie on top of the coffin. She saw me and stood a little straighter. “I will continue my work in his name until it’s my time.” Shondra had Dmitri in tow as well. She left a Christmas tree topper of an angel blowing a horn. She said to me, “I brought one of my angels to say goodbye.”

  Dmitri was nattily dressed in a coat and tie. He told me, “Thanks for helping him.”

  “You were right about him, Dmitri. It’s good to see you again.”

  By this time, the stacked offerings had begun to slide from the coffin to the mounded earth below. The casket was partially lowered to accommodate the remembrances. Hundreds had come and gone so far and the number of mourners showed no sign of slowing.

  Little Ty arrived on his bike and placed a pack of firecrackers on the lid.

  Even a decked-out Reggie from Glover Storage arrived using a cane and left the sign from storage unit #10 atop Lonnie’s coffin.

  Maurice the burly doorman from Debbie’s apartment building paid his respects, leaving one of his hats.

  Mr. Price from the jail arrived and left a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo.

  The next mourners I recognized arrived en masse—the guards from Gateway City Jail.

  Sgt. Donnell Collins led the way, followed by Smilin’ Henry, Big Daddy Dwight, and Rain Man Marty. Zack and Wilbur Johnson were no-shows.

  To my surprise, Sgt. Collins handed me two charcoal sketches—one of my face in profile and one of Lonnie and me sitting around the visitation table, talking. “He wanted me to give you these. I came to respect him. He was a man among men.” The other guards shook my hand. Smilin’ Henry nearly crushed me with a bear hug and Marty spoke his first words to me, saying, “Lonnie was okay.”

  Simone returned and introduced me to a tiny white lady who sported a graying pageboy haircut, large round glasses, and dark blue two-piece suit. The three of us walked off to talk privately and the lady stepped forward, her hand extended. “I’m Yvette Sorkin, a city administrator for Family Services. I compile and analyze city welfare data and other statistical records. My department examines quarterly statistics by neighborhood and evaluates trends, to determine what areas are declining or on an upswing. During the last fiscal quarter of this year in the Jeff Vanderlou and surrounding neighborhoods, there have been major declines in the use of food stamp and general relief programs, school truancies are down eleven percent, and youth and adult crimes decreased sixteen percent despite the hot summer and concerns over growing racial tension in the wake of the counterfeiting arrests.”

  “Do your statistics identify the cause of these dramatic changes?”

  “No, but I can tell you that this neighborhood and surrounding ones have never had their food pantries so well stocked with healthy basic foods since Nixon first spoke of a war on hunger. Large, sustaining financial contributions poured in from someone with the initials LW. If we had more LWs on the planet, we would eradicate world hunger in a generation. LW has also provided generous funding for inner city kids’ programs to insure they remain in the black for years, and similar donations have been made to area children’s residential, group, and foster homes, as well as outpatient psychiatric clinics and agencies. Through my city contacts, I also learned that one hundred art scholarships have been established for children in the name of LaKeesha Washington. Anonymous monies have been sent to local colleges, earmarked for art classes. The St. Louis Art Museum welcomed a sizable donation; even the police and firefighters embraced substantial donations. All from the mysterious philanthropist LW.”

  I smiled and said, “I’m not surprised.”

  Sorkin glanced back at the grave site. “He bought the least expensive coffin and no marker for himself, but the family has ordered a granite tombstone. The city lost a good man today.”

  “I agree. We usually get the other kind.”

  She gave me a quizzical look. “You’re right. A good man is hard to find. Pleasure meeting you, Dr. Adams.” She gave me a second firm, brisk handshake.

  At last the line had dwindled to a scant trickle when the biggest surprise of the day also arrived en masse.

  “I didn’t recognize her at first because I never expected her to know about Lonnie’s murder, much less make the trip. The attractive young woman wore a black pants outfit and held a baby son in her arms. Clustered near her in a well-behaved tight circle stood four young boys ranging in age from four to eight. An older lady accompanied her and pushed the lone girl, a toddler, in a pink stroller.

  Rachel Sanchez walked up to me and said, “Surprise.” One by one she introduced her mother and children. “Mom came along to help with the kids. I thought long and hard about what you said. I want to apologize. When you visited, it brought back bad memories. I was thinking with my emotions. Later I realized that nobody in my family ever had the chance to go to college. These annuities are a blessing and a responsibility. I want my kids to know who Lonnie was and to remember him and his generous spirit. I want them to be that way.”

  “With a mom like you, they have a good start.”

  The cute little boys took turns gently placing their crayon artwork in honor of Lonnie onto the mountain of gifts. They bowed their heads and made signs of the cross. Rachel placed a small plastic bag that contained a bullet casing on the festooned coffin. I wondered if it was the casing from the bullet that had passed through her arm.

  I introduced Rachel and the boys to JoJo and Simone so they could begin their education about Lonnie.

  The crowd had dwindled to the last stragglers. Everything was winding down.

  I missed my talks with Lonnie.

  Then I saw her standing nearby. Sixteen, maybe seventeen; she had gradually walked my way.

  Etch A Sketch.

  With sad, almond-shaped, almost sleepy eyes, she had distanced herself from the adults, seemingly in a moment of quiet reflection.

  “That was quite a picture. Did you sketch that?” I asked, smiling, hands in my pockets.

  She nodded.

  “You have a lot of talent.”

  Was that a trace of a smile? She had that same faraway look in her face I’d come to know.

  “I’m Tanya.”

  I offered my hand. “I’m—”

  “I know who you are,” she said, as her long, slender fingers slid into my palm, the only green on them her nail polish.

  “I could barely draw a snowman on my Etch A Sketch. What do you want to be when you’re an adult?”

  “Uncle JoJo’s staring at us.”

  Baker, shades back on, stood next to the man who bore a definite family resemblance. Both looked at us. A toothpick in Baker’s mouth bobbed up and down. He walked towar
d us.

  “I want to paint and sculpt in Paris, work in the Louvre restoring works of art.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed my cheek before losing herself in what crowd remained.

  The Etch A Sketch screen showed an exact duplicate of a hundred-dollar bill.

  I’ll be damned. You’re a sly one, Lonnie.

  For the first time in more than a year, the smile on my face matched the one in my heart.

  Baker approached warily.

  “Nice kid,” I said. “Just wanted to let you know that I stopped by Stan Winston’s office the other day with some of Lonnie’s bills.” He was mad I’d lied to him about being the station manager’s son and almost refused to see me a second time. “I told him I’d received bills at a casino and was worried they might be fake. He inspected each meticulously at his desk, in front of his ‘The Buck Stops Here’ sign. He pronounced them all legal tender and handed them back.”

  “Little brother was the man,” Baker said, still eying me.

  I squeezed his tree trunk of an arm and said, “What a great kid. I wish her the best.”

  Baker didn't say a word.

  “I’m glad Lonnie’s knowledge didn’t die with him. It would have been a shame. Right, uncle JoJo?”

  He remained silent, staring.

  “I hope she achieves her career goals. I guess we’ll have to wait and see if the world opens up to her more than it did for Lonnie. She has great potential.”

  “We take care of our own,” Baker said.

  “I know you do.”

  He hugged me and we shook hands.

  I walked to my car wondering whether Tanya was Lonnie’s daughter or niece. Considering a young life was at stake, I didn’t need to know. I like to think she was his daughter and that he experienced some joy and happiness during his brief time.

  Since Lonnie was technically indigent, my code of ethics prevented me from keeping the remainder of the money Mr. Anthony had sent, so I made an anonymous donation to the Make-A-Wish Foundation for kids. I decided to keep Warhol's Money and find homes for the rest of the artwork Baker and Skinny didn’t want. I hung Lonnie’s sketches in my study with Money in the middle.

  The next day, I mailed a certified package containing ten of Lonnie’s bills to my unlikely mentor and guardian. I wondered what he’d do with them, but I knew he’d get a hoot out of it. I wished I could see the look on Milton Peebles’ face when he opens his thank-you letter. I figure he’ll enjoy an adrenaline rush when he uses one (or more) of the counterfeits to pay for a night of Guinness. I bet he’ll smirk each time he sticks it to The Man. I imagine he’ll frame one.

  That night, I threw myself into writing Lonnie’s story, the first of what would prove to be many long nights with less sleep, because my days gradually filled again with challenging, difficult clients who alternately frustrated, disappointed, touched, revolted, and surprised me. I didn’t move the practice from my Clayton office, but I wheeled my old leather chair past a perplexed Gus the security guard to the Dumpster after buying a new burgundy-colored one. By the time my first rough draft was completed, I had, irony of ironies, a quarter million words and two interested publishers. The trials kept being delayed, irony part deux, by Maynard and Fallon’s legal teams. The election would pass him by and I hoped he’d never be able to vote again.

  Counterfeit seemed like a good title.

  I thought Ryan Gosling would be a good fit for me. Or go with a little darker mood and a clean-shaven Clive Owen. I liked them both.

  The day after I started writing, I felt back on track from my self-imposed exile. The world brimmed with endless possibility.

  New excited me again.

  I drove my Velveeta-colored Haz-Mat Cruiser to Shaw’s Garden to talk to Kris.

  A young couple was getting married in the rose garden and I didn’t notice the wedding photographer backing up for a panoramic shot until it was too late. She tripped over my foot and I caught her in mid fall, looking into the brightest aquamarine eyes and at the clearest complexion I’d ever seen. Those eyes changed from blue to green and back again. I held her in my arms. I didn’t want it to end.

  “Thanks. You can let me up now, if you want,” she said. Her kind eyes looked into mine and grew larger. “I know you from the news.”

  She stood about five seven, with shoulder-length strawberry blonde hair, and wore matching turquoise earrings and a necklace that highlighted her white blouse and shorts. Her open-toed golden sandals revealed red toenails. My years of training noted the bare ring finger.

  She snapped a series of several quick close-ups before I could object. She handed me her card and said, “I’ve got to get back to work. Call me. I think you'll like these. They'll be ready Friday night after five. On the house.” She smiled one last time and returned her attention to the wedding. Also being an observant and trained professional, I noticed her long legs and nice ass.

  I made my way to the Joyce Duane bench and told Kris how the case was winding down and of the latest news. The bullets that killed Dan Quinn matched a test round fired from a rifle found in the possession of, and registered to, Nelson Dodd. That sly and slick Maynard had been able to convince and manipulate the major players to agree to a white lie that 95% of the money had been recovered—even special agent DeFrane—to protect the force from bad press and buy them time for their investigation to build a stronger case. That Carter, Malvern, and Downey accepted plea deals in exchange for rolling over on Maynard and Fallon. That the police chief and his assistant were circling the wagons and lawyering up, looking for a deal and finding all the seats taken. Looks like this story will make the city towing and the baseball playoff ticket scandals look like small potatoes. Detective LeMaster appeared to be uninvolved in it all.

  I told her all this, trying to imagine her response. The breeze caressed my back and the sun filtered through the canopy of trees to touch my face, but that was it.

  She wasn’t here.

  I thought of Skinny’s final prophecy and grinned. Crossing over.

  I was sitting on a weathered wooden bench in a beautiful garden talking to myself like a doofus.

  I looked at the business card. Miranda Gabriel was a photographer at a studio called A Thousand Words, five miles from my townhouse.

  A Thousand Words.

  I laughed and smiled. I, Mitchell Adams, former ladies’ man and lost soul, had spent the last forty minutes talking to a phantom and realized I hadn’t said one word to the beautiful woman I’d held briefly in my arms.

  There's always Friday night redemption.

  New is exciting.

  acknowledgments

  Kristina Blank Makansi and Blank Slate Press's sister imprint Layla Dog Press nurtured and cultivated and pruned my sapling of a story. They helped the roots grow deeper and straightened the branches; they showed me where I’d added too much fertilizer and where it was too dry. Thanks to Kristy and BSP for your support and insights and hard work, for all the BSP early reads and feedback. It may take one writer to create a story, but it takes a village to make it stand straight and true. You took a chance on me and for that I’ll always be grateful.

  Perpetual love to my wife and best friend Beta, for her patience during all the hours I spent in my cave tapping away on the keyboard. We complete each other’s thoughts and sentences … may everyone experience that in life.

  I received invaluable help from a mysterious person on the technical aspects and details of counterfeiting and the Secret Service. My shadow friend wishes to remain there, much like my Mr. Anthony character. Any errors in the book related to the art of counterfeiting are mine and mine alone.

  Thanks to William Boyd Brown, MSW, for his insights into the many diverse St. Louis neighborhoods. He helped keep it real. The stories he can tell—Miracle-Grow for another novel? Thanks to Dr. Felix Vincenz, for his knowledge of private practice and computers. He should run for president. Many thanks to my smart step-son Rich Parcinski, for his computer wizardry and cool website design, and to my
beautiful step-daughter Amie Parcinski for helping me with my missing computer gene. Thanks to attorney Mike Schaller, the bulldog, for his help with some legal aspects of my novels.

  A shout-out to my long-time friends and poker buddies—Felix Vincenz, Mike Schaller, Willie Thomas, Clive Woodward, Jerry King, and Brian and Aaron

  Vincenz. Forty-plus years of friendship are something special. Thanks for sharing good times, books, stories, movies, jokes, and your selves.

  Last but definitely not least, I wish to thank my mother Virginia Rose Miller for her love and strength, especially during the last two years. I lost my dad Elwood and only sister Ann while she lost her husband and only daughter. The courage Mom shows every day astounds me. Not a day goes by without me missing them.

  about the author

  A licensed psychiatric and medical social worker, Scott L. Miller earned his master’s in social work at St. Louis University in 1979 and has worked with adults, children and the elderly in state and private hospitals in St. Louis city and county ever since. Working at the old Malcolm Bliss and St. Louis State Hospitals provided him with his first taste of the street life partially captured in his current novel.

  Long fascinated by the wonders of the human brain and an avid reader of psychological suspense novels, he quit writing exceptionally bad poetry, studied fiction writing under the late John Gardner and more recently at Washington University, and began writing twenty-odd versions of the first novel in his series, The Interrogation Chair, in lieu of sleeping at night. He currently is working on his third Mitchell Adams novel from his home in Chesterfield where he lives with his wife Beta and their barn of beagles and cats. He finds time for sleep now, unless the animals hog the bed.