Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  What the hell? What was going on here? Was Larry trying to tell me, in a roundabout way, that my parents were street people?

  Nope. This guy wasn’t into subtleties. These guys weren’t here to talk about me, they were here to talk about themselves.

  “Dad,” Nicky said, again with that rehearsed-sounding tone of admonishment, “I’m sure she isn’t interested in any of this, are you, Alex? I bet you haven’t even ever seen a homeless person.”

  What a stupid thing to say. “I work in the Loop,” I replied. “Of course I see homeless people. Every day. In fact, I’m doing a story on them for Midwest Focus right now.”

  The moment the words escaped my lips, I knew it’d been a major mistake.

  “Wonderful!” Larry was back to being the cheerful cherub again. “Maybe you can interview Nicky.”

  Nicky shook his head. “Dad, I don’t think so.”

  “Don’t be bashful, son.” He turned to me. “He’s still kind of shy, you know.”

  I held up my hands. “I haven’t even figured out my angle on this story yet. And, really, I don’t think the station is focusing on their deaths. I think our goal is to illuminate the plight of the homeless—and that means that I’ll be working with folks who are still alive.”

  If either of them caught my sarcastic tone, I couldn’t tell.

  “In any case,” Larry said easily, “I should get back to work. But let’s do this again, soon.”

  With that he dropped his napkin onto the table, smiled and did that lean-forward thing that heralded the end of the meal.

  I grabbed his arm. “But wait. Who were they?”

  Larry looked at me—his face blank. “Who were who?”

  This was a successful attorney I was talking to. I didn’t for a minute believe that he didn’t understand the question. But, just to avoid any further confusion, I said, “My birth parents. You had to have known who they were.”

  Larry stopped for a moment, then summoned the waitress again. This girl deserved a great tip. Despite the fact that the restaurant was full to capacity, I felt as though we were her only table. “Dessert,” he said, nodding to the two of us. “What do you say?”

  Now that we were talking about my adoption—the sole reason I’d requested this meeting—I’d have said yes to anything that would keep the luncheon from ending.

  I ordered apple pie, Nicky ordered cheesecake. When it came to Larry’s turn, he shook his head and patted his ample gut. “Gotta cut the calories, but you two go ahead.”

  Then, as though there had been no interruption whatsoever, Larry continued the conversation from where he’d left off. “I know you’re searching—searching for yourself, Alex. I understand that. Old Ketch was like a surrogate father to Nicky when I couldn’t be there for him. But it was Nicky who made the funeral home into the success that it is today. He really found himself there.”

  My mind screamed with frustration. Another tangent. Another story that had absolutely nothing to do with my questions. I kept my expression polite, but I wanted to tell Larry that I didn’t give a flippin’ nickel about Nicky’s search for himself.

  At that moment the waitress returned with our desserts. Larry shoved some bills in Nicky’s direction. “You pay for lunch, son.” He smiled at us both and stood. “I’ll leave you two to talk about it. It’s quite fascinating.” And before I could protest, he took off.

  Ron Shade

  I flicked a double jab at the heavy bag when I heard Chappie’s voice behind me.

  “Sugar Ray used to be able to hook off that jab.”

  I grinned. “Which Sugar Ray you talking about?”

  “Do it matter?” He raised his hands and tilted his dark, shaved head backward slightly. “Lemme see them cuts.”

  I lowered my arms and canted my head, feeling his fingers probe the area above my left eye. He made a few sounds, like he was considering how a pair of new shoes felt.

  “What’s the verdict?” I asked. “Do I get to make some money soon, or not?”

  “Not till them cuts heal more,” he said, dropping his hands. “Should give them a while longer yet.”

  “Chappie, it’s been over two months.”

  He nodded. “Six’d be good. Maybe even seven or eight.”

  “Come on.”

  “What, you got nothing else to occupy your time? You need to get yourself a hobby. Like playing the guitar or something.”

  “I got a hobby,” I said. “It’s called a job. Being a private investigator, remember?”

  “You talking about the job that kept you from fighting for the championship them times?” Now it was his turn to grin. I’d lost two previous opportunities to fight for the title due to on-the-job injuries I’d sustained. As if he could read my mind, Chappie continued, “Un-huh. And I seem to remember you needed my help on your last case, too.”

  I’d taken him with me, but only at his insistence because I was so busted up after the big fight. But Chappie had evolved over the years into something much more than a trainer and manager. In a lot of ways, he was like a surrogate father.

  He sighed. “So what you be working on now?”

  “Ever hear of a guy faking his death? Disappearing. Starting over.”

  He nodded. “Happen all the time in the ghetto. Man starts to feel the weight of the responsibility weighing on him. Pretty soon, it be dragging him down. Like he trying to swim in a quick current. Once he makes it to the other shore, he climb out, shake himself off, and don’t look back.”

  Which is why the state’s attorney had a special taskforce to trace down deadbeat dads, I thought. But Bayless’s family had a two-million-dollar parachute. A payoff like that could do a lot to assuage a man’s guilt.

  Chappie stooped and picked up some focus pads from my gear bag. “I’m gonna take Alley through some ring work. You keep on working the bag.” He slipped a mitt on each hand and slapped them together making a shot-like sound. “It ain’t gonna hit back.”

  I settled in working the bag again, while he took Alley, our young, Russian-born fighter, through the motions in the ring. I paused to watch them, wishing it was me up there. The bag work was so familiar to me that I felt I could do it without thinking, and when I returned to it, my mind began to wander a bit. I considered Chappie’s brief explanation of the disappearing man. It happened in places other than the ghetto, too. In Latin America they even had their own word for it. Les Desaparicidos—The Disappeared Ones. Maybe Robert Bayless had felt those heavy weights pulling at him. The file said he’d been married with one son. And he was in his early forties. The beginning of a lot of middle-aged crises. I’d know more once I talked to the witness and evaluated what he said. Maybe he’d just seen someone who looked like Bayless. A lot of people look alike. I’d been told I bore a strong resemblance to the former Buffalo Bills quarterback, Jim Kelly. I couldn’t see the resemblance myself, but I always answered that I wished I had his money or his career.

  As if he could read my mind once more, Chappie called out from the ring apron, “You looking like a million bucks, champ. All green and wrinkled. You ain’t gonna hit that bag any harder than that, you might as well go do some of that private investigating.”

  I bounced around on my toes and grinned. “I’m saving that for tomorrow.”

  Chapter 2

  Alex St. James

  The next morning Bass pulled me into his office. “I have a present for you.”

  “You’re joking.” Bass didn’t give gifts. He never chipped in for office celebrations, though he always managed to snag a piece of cake. A true miser, Bass skimped wherever possible, though I knew he was well off. I couldn’t understand why he didn’t live a little. If he wasn’t willing to spend money on himself—or his girlfriend Mona—and enjoy life a little, someday he would make the state very rich.

  “Nope. Picked it out myself.”

  With that, he hoisted a large plastic bag onto the desk. Black and bursting at the seams, it landed on his blotter with a solid thunk.

/>   I stared at it for a moment. “You’re giving me a bag of garbage?”

  “Don’t be silly. I’d never give you garbage.” Evil grin. “I plan to let you pick out your own.”

  It took two beats before his meaning became clear. The homeless story.

  “No,” I said.

  Ignoring me, he stood to untie the red drawstring. “You’re gonna love this stuff,” he said.

  “No,” I said again.

  The first item he tugged out was brown and long and made of itchy-looking wool. “The nights can get cold.”

  “Bass.”

  “What size shoes do you wear?” he asked as he pulled out a pair of men’s Hush Puppies. The toes were scuffed, the heels were worn to near nonexistence and they had to be at least size eleven. My feet would get lost in those boats.

  “I am not going undercover.”

  His cheer undiminished, he dragged more items out of the never-ending bag, even as I protested.

  “I got all this at the thrift store on Halsted,” he said with pride. “Can you believe this whole bag cost me only six bucks? I almost feel bad putting in an expense report for such a small amount.” He grinned again. “But I will.” He came up with assorted pieces of clothing, a purple sleeping bag, and a bright pink floppy hat, which he said would make me more recognizable on television. “It ties under your chin, like this.” He indicated the rawhide laces, but didn’t put it on his own head. Of course not. He didn’t want any part of the cooties that lurked inside.

  I sure as hell wasn’t about to wear it and I told him so.

  Without acknowledging me, he finished his little fashion show. Once the entire bag had been emptied onto his desk, he gave the collection a grimace. In his excitement to display his “find” he’d forgotten himself, and now the junk was leaving second-hand germs all over his pristine office.

  Maybe there was some justice in the world. But that still didn’t mean that I’d be taking part in the little adventure he’d envisioned.

  “Listen, Bass,” I began.

  “Wait.” He held up a finger, then opened one of his side drawers. “Here you go. The pièce de résistance.”

  My hand reached out automatically to take the next bag. About a tenth the size of the first one, it was nonetheless weighty. I looked inside. “No way.”

  “I would’ve gotten you a smaller version, but the little ones cost twice as much. I figured that you’ll have plenty of clothes on, though. You’ll be able to find a place to hide it, right?”

  The Taser in my hand looked like one of Star Trek’s Romulan disruptors. Heavy, gray and with a trigger that itched to be pulled while pointed at Bass, it made me want to scream. He must have sensed my urges, because he pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

  Even as I prepared arguments in my mind, I knew I was losing this battle. I hefted the weapon in my right hand, shifted it to my left, and then back again. The thought of Bass squirming on the floor in wracking pain gave me something to smile about.

  “That,” Bass said, pointing to the Taser, “cost me a hell of a lot more than six bucks.”

  “I’m not doing this.”

  “You think Gabriela got all the cush assignments when she first started on-air?”

  “As a matter of fact, she did.”

  He fidgeted. “Yeah, well. She’s different.”

  My gaze flicked up to meet his. I knew what he meant. Gabriela was a successful on-air personality not just because of the great stories we covered, but because she was blond perfection. Me, I looked like the obedient girl next-door. The girl who’d go live with the homeless because my boss told me I had to.

  I shook my head.

  “This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity,” he said.

  “What can you possibly hope to accomplish with me going undercover?” I threw up my hands. “I don’t see the angle.”

  “The angle,” he said, wagging his eyebrows Snidely Whiplash–fashion, “is that our station has a heart.”

  “Since when?”

  He held up a finger. “We feel so strongly that the homeless have become invisible in our society that we’re willing to risk one of our own,” he pointed at me, “to bring the story to life.”

  “No way,” I said when he drew a breath. “First of all, it’s been done. Overdone. There are blogs, for crying out loud, written by bored twenty-somethings who treat a weekend of ‘playing homeless’ as some sort of game. If we intend to exploit the plight of the homeless for ratings, what we should be doing is raising awareness. At the very least, our goal should be to improve their situation.”

  “And that,” Bass said with a knowing smile, “is exactly why we chose you to do this story.” He shook his finger at me for emphasis. “You and I may not always agree, but I appreciate the passion you bring to your assignments.” Reverting to his customary frown, he added, “But you tell anyone I said that, and I’ll take back the gift I got you.”

  “Some gift.”

  “Yep. Nothing but the best for my ace reporter.”

  Ron Shade

  I began the northern trek earlier than I had the day before and managed to beat the big back-up before the 95th Street toll plaza. For the most part. Even though I had one of those great I-Pass transponders, the traffic slowed to a monotonous crawl before I reached the Oakbrook exit. Plus, I’d left the special Velcro strips on the windshield of the Firebird, and didn’t have any for the Beater. So I had to hold up the transponder whenever I passed through the tolling site, or risk one of those photographic tickets they loved to mail out. Even my Chicago Police buddy, George Grieves, had a fear of them. “Can’t get a ticket fixed if you ain’t got no Chinaman, and I don’t in the ISP.”

  Neither did I, so I held up the plastic device and crept over toward the exit. I’d factored in enough time to find someplace to eat a good breakfast, while I waited for the minions of MWO to arrive. I found a place not far from the rows of glass-walled buildings and hotels. The area was juxtaposed between O’Hare Airport and the Loop, and built with elegance and style. I wondered what it would be like to be able to afford to live up this way instead of the blue-collar South Side where I had my humble abode.

  After ordering my usual scrambled eggs, orange juice, and rye toast, I reviewed the file once more. The traffic crash that had killed Robert Bayless had occurred last November on a winding country road down in Furman County. I wasn’t even sure where that was and made a mental note to get a map someplace. I wondered what Bayless had been doing down there. It also mildly piqued my interest that his car had caught on fire and he’d been “burned beyond recognition.” Convenient. It had been my experience as a cop that cars in traffic crashes seldom caught on fire. It ain’t like the movies, where every vehicle is transformed into a spectacular fireball right after leaving the roadway. Something has to trigger the flames. The crash report gave no indication of what had done this.

  The death certificate was signed by the Furman County Coroner’s Office three days after the crash. According to the coroner’s report, the autopsy was performed by a Dr. K. Boyd. Have to look him up, too. Probably some local GP. It was anybody’s guess what Thaddeus Brunger, the coroner, did for a living. It was an elected position, and a lot of them downstate were funeral directors. Toxicology reports showed the presence of a low level of alcohol, Amoxicillan, an antibiotic, and Vicodin ES, a painkiller, in Bayless’s bloodstream. The report explained that his dentist had given him the prescription because he’d had two teeth pulled. An aside by the dentist stated that Bayless had been warned not to imbibe. Mixing alcohol with the painkiller could have a synergistic effect, which could cause drowsiness. They had to wait for ID verification from Bayless’s dentist, a Dr. Keith Colon, who subsequently provided it. There were no copies of the X-rays, but the report said the identification was positive. The cause of death was listed as accidental, and the claims adjustor had written all his findings in a summary, recommending full payment on both claims. Bayless had a million-dollar life insurance policy on himself,
which went up to two mil because of the accidental double-indemnity clause. Ditto for the second policy his employer, the Manus Corporation, had on him. Theirs was for five million—double made it ten. Added to the personal two mil, it totaled up to a whopping twelve. I wondered what it would be like to be worth so much more being dead, instead of alive.

  But then again, maybe Bayless was both.

  Alex St. James

  I knew I had to make an appearance at William’s going-away breakfast, so I pasted on a cheerful face and headed in. William had been on staff for less than a year, so his departure didn’t warrant a big restaurant hoopla event. Instead, management popped for a catered-in affair held in our lunchroom. Why they’d gone with a breakfast instead of lunch was beyond me. Maybe Bass was in charge of arranging it, and scrambled eggs were cheaper than sandwiches.

  My assistant, Jordan, was already there, nursing a plastic cup of red punch. I made my way over to her, avoiding William and the bevy of women around him, saying how sorry they were that he was transferring to our sister station in San Francisco. I needed to prepare myself for when my turn came to say farewell.

  Jordan alone knew how I felt about this particular personnel change. She shot me one of those “girlfriend” looks as she sauntered up. “Is that a tear in your eye, honey? I can see how broken up you are.”

  I stifled a snort. There were about fifteen people present. “How soon can I leave this party without looking rude?”

  “Ooh,” she said with a glance over my shoulder, “not soon enough.”

  I turned to see William heading toward us.

  Jordan upended her cup to finish the last few drops, then waggled her eyebrows. “I’ve been here about twenty minutes. I think I’ve done my civic duty.” She placed her hand on my forearm and whispered in my ear. “Here’s your big chance to give him the send-off he deserves.”

  When William came up, Jordan flashed him a dazzling smile, her teeth bright against her coffee-colored skin. She was a beautiful girl, just a few years younger than I was, and I appreciated her support. I would have much preferred her to stay, but she had a warped sense of humor, and I knew she thought this was fun.