Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  He snatched them from my grasp with a move so swift I almost missed it. Twenty seconds later the first granola bar was gone, disappeared into the mange of silver hair that passed for a beard and mustache. I caught a flash of green teeth, desperately chewing. He pulled open the wrapper of the second bar and warned me that once it was gone I wouldn’t have any more leverage, so whatever I wanted, I better tell him now.

  Not that I would’ve tried to stop him. The second bar was gone in almost as little time, and the guy crunched, his mouth quivering as he chewed.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  He licked his lips. “Gus.”

  “Gus,” I said, in a voice just loud enough for the others to hear, “did you know Howard Rybak?”

  Gus croaked, then laughed more. “Ah! I knew it. You want something. Knew it. Knew it.”

  “You want something else to eat?” I countered.

  “Whaddya have?”

  A voice from high up. One of the three wise guys again. “Hey, Pinky. What you doing with Old Squat?” he shouted. “Don’t you want some of this?”

  I looked up. The guy who’d been singing before was now thrusting his pelvis my direction, emitting animated moans. One of his companions shouted, “What do you say, Pinky?”

  Pinky?

  I suddenly remembered the ridiculous hat I wore.

  Whipping it from my head, I tossed it away.

  I would’ve expected the tattered crowd to giggle, even laugh, but they were silent. Eerily silent.

  Gus was grabbing at my bag, and instinctively I pulled away. “Hang on,” I said. “There’s plenty. I just want to know if you remember Howard Rybak.”

  “Sure, I do,” he said, his fingers working the corner of my bag, reaching in. “But they’re gonna get you and I want my food first.”

  “Nobody’s going to get me,” I said.

  But the guy from above was making his way down the embankment, his eyes on me, his two companions following close behind.

  Gus’s hands had gotten to the gold and were now full of granola bars, fruit cups and other assorted items I thought the people out here might like. He acted like a selfish brat at Christmas, stuffing everything he could into his plastic bag.

  “I want summa Pinky, too,” a voice said.

  I thought it might be the grizzled old guy come to share, but it was one of the singer’s companions. He stared at me like I was the prize.

  Jesse. Where the hell was Jesse?

  More importantly, where was my Taser?

  Just as I grabbed for it, Gus’s eager fingers wrapped around its barrel. “What you got there?”

  “Give me that,” I said, wrenching it out of his grasp.

  I heard Jesse call out from behind the three men, who sauntered closer, effectively forming a wall separating me and Gus from the rest of the gathered homeless. These three looked different, felt different, than the rest of the people here. Full of booze, to be sure, but all three were large, well-fed, muscular men. The kind who worked out with hundred-pound barbells, not the kind who socialized with hundred-pound beggars.

  Gus kept grabbing at me, for protection or for more food, I couldn’t tell. I stood up, both to keep out of his reach and to be able to run if I needed to. I tucked the Taser inside my shirt and stood my ground.

  Next to them, I was a midget. The biggest guy had to be over six-and-a-half feet tall. He had jet-black hair, buzz-short on the sides, long in back. His two companions were nearly as tall as he was, one with a blond ponytail and tattooed biceps, the other dark complected with his right hand in a cast.

  I needed to arm my Taser.

  “This is my spot,” I said, working up as much intimidation as I thought a homeless person might muster. “Now leave me alone.”

  The middle guy laughed. “You’re full of shit.”

  Jesse yelled, “Get away from her.”

  Their attention diverted, they turned to face him. “Who the hell are you?”

  I took that moment to grab the Taser from my shirt. My fingers scrambled to click the front arming mechanism into place. I’d done it so many times under Terry’s careful tutelage that the parts came together precisely as they should with a reassuring snap.

  The homeless folks had perked up, their interest engaged. One by one, they came to their feet and crowded around. It was entertainment time.

  The tallest of the three men had a deep voice, almost a growl. “Get out of here, bum.” Then turning, he pushed Jesse in the shoulder. Jesse stumbled back. “We want her.”

  “Get out of here now, if you know what’s good for you,” Jesse said. Brave words, wobbly delivery.

  The tall guy laughed. “Or what, punk?”

  “Or . . .”

  Jesse didn’t finish. The three had turned toward me, but the guy with the bad hand zapped his arm back in a swift move, cracking his plaster cast against Jesse’s nose. I heard the crunch, and watched him fall to the ground.

  I rushed forward to help, but the blond ponytailed guy grabbed the back of my clothing, and the force of my momentum sent me sprawling to the ground.

  I hit with a bump, but held tight to the Taser.

  Jesse rolled on the cement, cradling his nose, crying out. Blood poured fast, like water. Puddling.

  “Get up, bitch,” the tall guy said.

  I wasn’t about to star on this grimy stage for anyone’s pleasure, least of all these three bullies. Up close, I could tell they couldn’t be regular street people. They were too clean.

  “What the hell are you doing around here?” I shouted from the ground. “Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of.”

  If our cover was blown, I didn’t care. Right now, these menacing men were too much of a threat and I wanted to get clear of them—no matter what. I heard a car pass and glanced around, hoping to see George Lulinski’s unmarked sedan cruising by. That would scare these jokers off.

  I crab-walked backward, then yanked up the microphone’s head from beneath my grungy shirt. “Rita, Lew,” I started to say, but the shortest of the three guys shot a meaty hand at me. He grabbed my shirt and pulled the microphone out from its perch, jerking it high till it snapped away from the transmitter. “Let go,” I said, kicking him.

  “Look at what she has here,” he said to his companions.

  The homeless around us oohed and ahhed. Inched closer.

  Jesse moaned.

  I scrambled to my feet, aimed my Taser. And fired.

  The probes hit, center mass. “Yes!” I shouted.

  The big guy went down fast. Screaming.

  I gripped the trigger, keeping the juice flowing, my voice five octaves higher than normal. “You want some of this?” I yelled. “Do you? Come on, I’ll give you something to jolt your jones.”

  My sudden courage had nothing to do with bravery, but everything to do with giddy power. My finger gripped the trigger that put the guy in pain. I gritted my teeth and held tight. The Taser made tick-tick-tick sounds as it delivered fifty thousand volts straight into the lug’s massive torso.

  “Big man can’t get up, can you?” I shouted, then “Rita! Lew!”—calling for help. The sound truck was far off, the microphone broken. But Lew had his telephoto lens. Couldn’t they see we had trouble here?

  The two other guys, horrified at the sight of their fallen comrade writhing on the ground and squealing—began to back up. They didn’t get far.

  Behind me, brakes screeched. A vehicle stopped. I turned, expecting to see the sound truck, or Detective Lulinski, but it was neither. As I turned, the big guy on the ground rolled to one side. One of the probes dislodged.

  Two seconds and he was up on his feet, ready to charge.

  But Terry’s training kept me alert. I rushed him, jabbing the Taser into his abdomen, squeezing the trigger, making sure to keep contact with his body.

  He went down again. I went down with him, dodging his flailing extremities, fighting to keep the Taser tight against him, making sure not to touch him between the probes.
Then I’d be down for the count, too. I felt a zing up my arm. Taser effect or fear? I wasn’t sure.

  I heard my name. Someone shouting for me to stop. But it wasn’t Jesse calling me. Not Rita. Not Lew.

  I refused to stop. Refused to let up. I held that trigger as far back as I could, feeling the rush as the tick-tick-tick sent the man beneath me into spasms. I couldn’t let go. If I did, he’d get me. The part of my brain that wasn’t panicking realized I couldn’t stay here forever. I needed to get away.

  As that thought dawned, strong arms pulled me off the thrashing bully. I fought, kicking, screaming, but I heard my name again. Closer this time. “Alex, it’s me.”

  I turned. Nicky.

  “But . . .” I said as my Taser no longer made contact. “He’s going to—” I wanted to warn them that he’d recover quickly, but my words died as a giant of a man grabbed the bully on the ground and lifted him to his feet as though he weighed less than little Gus.

  “Who is he?” I asked, feeling stupid. “What’s going on?”

  “Come on, Alex, let’s get you out of here.”

  “But I can’t . . .” I pointed. “Jesse . . .”

  Nicky called, “Viktor,” and the giant turned. “Bring that guy into the car.”

  Just as Nicky pushed me into the backseat of his Cadillac, the sound truck arrived on the scene. Too little, too late, I thought. If Nicky hadn’t been here . . .

  But why was Nicky here?

  Viktor, the giant, made short work of the bad-guy bully. I couldn’t see what he did to the guy, but I heard his protests, and then sudden silence. Holding my breath I waited as Viktor trotted toward the car, sweaty and triumphant, reaching down to pick up Jesse along the way.

  My breath was coming in fast pants, and I worked to slow it down. “What happened?”

  Viktor shrugged, answering me in a thick Russian accent. “I teach him not to pick on women,” he said, then gave a wry glance at Jesse who was whimpering as he made his way into the car next to me. “Or little men.”

  “But, what are you doing here?” I asked. Even as the words tumbled out, I knew what had happened. Father Morales. Nicky had been vocal and adamant against my coming out here, and he’d threatened to show up to “keep an eye on things.” Which is why I’d kept tonight’s plans somewhat secret.

  Key word there: Somewhat.

  Father Morales must’ve told him about our plans.

  “Alex.” It was Rita, rushing over. “What happened? We had a problem with the feed and we were trying to fix it. Next thing we knew Jesse was on the ground and you were shooting somebody.”

  “It was a Taser,” I said, suddenly weak. “Tell me you got it all on tape. Please.”

  She smiled and nodded, holding up her index finger and thumb to form an “OK.”

  Nicky took charge, ordered Rita and Lew back to their truck and suggested they return to the station. He promised he’d be in touch.

  Viktor shoved a box of tissues at us, then took the driver’s seat. Nicky climbed in next to him, leaving me to minister to Jesse. The poor guy kept his head between his legs, which I thought was a terrible idea.

  Viktor drove off, though I had no idea where we were headed.

  “Jesse,” I said softly, rubbing his back. “Are you going to pass out?”

  He shook his head.

  “Then sit up,” I told him. “You’re losing too much blood. Let me see.”

  When he removed his hands from being cupped around his nose, I winced. He saw it. “Oh, God it’s broken, isn’t it?”

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  Nicky turned, took a look at the two of us in the backseat and appeared to be making up his mind.

  He shared a glance with Viktor, who shrugged.

  “The hospital. Of course.”

  The big guy eased into the left-turn lane and hit his directional signal.

  We arrived at the Edgewater Hospital emergency room just as the rain began.

  Chapter 9

  Ron Shade

  The drive back to Chicago from Furman County had been uneventful, but lengthy. As I got close to Champaign, I remembered to try my cell phone again and found I had four messages. Three from Dick MacKenzie (screw him), and one from Ms. Alex St. James.

  You know, I thought, maybe this chick was digging me more than I figured. She was a looker. Petite, with brown hair and a spray of freckles and a figure that had looked interesting in spite of the heavy jacket she’d been wearing the one time I’d seen her. Of course, it’d been right after my title fight, and I looked like everybody’s favorite raccoon. As far as the message itself, though, it was pretty generic. Just a request for me to call her and her number. When I tried it, her voice gave a cool recorded answer that she was unavailable, but to please leave a message. Playing hard-to-get, I left my usual, “This is Ron Shade returning your call . . .” along with my cell number again. Maybe one of these days we’d hook up.

  The next morning I ruminated about the info I’d accumulated in the prior twenty-four hours as I ran through the early-morning streets dodging the puddles from last night’s rain. At least it cooled things off. It’d been way too late to hit the gym last night, and I knew Chappie would be missing me, so I planned to catch a morning workout if I could. Out of a lingering sense of frustration, more than guilt of a missed workout, I’d pounded the heavy bag and speed bag in my basement after the long ride. And this morning I’d opted for an early run again because I had to meet George. I approached the last hill and quickened my pace. I wasn’t sure if I was ever going to get to defend my title, as slow as things were going, but I was determined to be ready. Being ready had helped me win when I took the last fight on a couple weeks’ notice. Being ready was what had kept me alive in more than one tight spot, too. Sometimes, you just never know when things will pop up.

  When I got in the door I made my way between the whining cats as I removed my hooded sweatshirt. Even though it was almost summertime, Chappie always admonished me to wear one, lest I catch cold. The sodden shirt was so soaked that I had to wring it out over the bathtub before tossing it into the hamper and grabbing a cold sports drink out of the refrigerator. My answering machine was blinking.

  Francis Griggas had left me an appropriately cryptic message about “my order being ready.” Good old paranoid Francis. The call back could wait until after my meet with George. I glanced at my watch and saw I’d have to hustle if I wanted to get there by eight.

  Karson’s, our regular breakfast spot, was at 111th and Western. With all the work being done on the Ryan, George was taking Western north, so our meetings had been working out well for both of us. I had yet to spring any requests for assistance on him regarding this case, but I did want to bounce a few ideas off his seasoned-cop’s brain. He’d been in Area Two, Violent Crimes so long I imagined he’d forgotten more about homicide investigations than most detectives ever learn. I saw his black Ford Crown Vic in the lot and knew he’d beaten me there again this morning. So much for buying him coffee. I parked next to him and went inside, nodding to the hostess who smiled and pointed to George’s table. He sat hunched over the Sun-Times with a half-eaten sweet roll and a cup of java steaming in front of him, looking like Robert Mitchum in some forties movie. Well, actually, George was looking more like middle-aged Mitchum these days. Sort of like when he played Marlowe in Farewell, My Lovely, except a bit more fit and a whole lot tougher. I sat across from him and grinned. He looked up and took another sip of his coffee.

  “What are you fucking grinning about?” he asked.

  “Just glad to see my buddy, that’s all.”

  He smirked. “Okay, what kind of info do you need me to get you this time?”

  “That’s pretty cynical,” I said, smiling as the waitress came and filled my cup. “And I was even thinking of picking up the check this time, too.”

  “Hell freeze over?”

  We exchanged a few more good-natured insults, our usual get-up-and-go routine in the mornings, and order
ed our usual breakfast. Eggs, scrambled for me, over easy for him. Whole wheat toast on my side, plain old Wonder Bread for him. The only exception was I asked for water and a large glass of cranberry-apple juice.

  “When did you start drinking that shit?” he asked.

  “I had some on the plane out to Vegas the last time. Developed a taste for it.”

  “You got any new fights scheduled?”

  “Not yet. Chappie wants to give the eyebrow a little more time.”

  He nodded and his eyes narrowed as he looked at my face. “Makes sense.” He drank some more coffee and asked, “So, how’s Ken doing?”

  I sighed. “As good as can be expected. The nurse said he’s made a little progress.”

  He grunted something that sounded like “Good.” When he asked how my trip downstate had gone I filled him in.

  He broke off another piece of the sweet roll. “I figured it must have been all right since I didn’t get any calls to vouch for you from the local coppers down there.”

  “You know,” I pointed to the sweet roll, “that’s a lot of sugar.”

  “Yeah, yeah, you sound like my wife.” In defiance he shoved the remaining piece into his mouth and chewed vigorously.

  “So how difficult would it be to fake a car crash?”

  He got a real pained expression on his face as he continued chewing. Finally, he managed to shift the remnants of the roll to the sides of his mouth, so his cheeks bulged like a chipmunk’s. “What kind of car crash?”

  I described Deadman’s Curve to him and mentioned the rocks and the fire.

  “Any signs of an accelerant inside the car?”

  I shrugged. “Hard to say. It was totally engulfed by the time the coppers and the fire department got there. They conjectured that the gas tank got ruptured on the stones.”

  “Could happen,” he said. “More than likely not, though.”

  “That’s what Deputy MacMahan and I figured.”

  “Who?”

  “The deputy who investigated the crash. Real solid, stand-up dude.”

  “He going to look into the possibilities of a faked crash?”