Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  I shook my head. “Not unless I can come up with the guy who supposedly died in it.”

  “Okay, you lost me. I thought you said that the driver burned to death and a positive ID was made.”

  “That’s the official version. MWO Insurance has hired me to get the Ron Shade version.”

  “Sounds like you need an accident reconstructionist to look over things. Maybe they can do a mock-up on a computer. The original car still available?”

  “Don’t know. I doubt it. It had to have been totaled.”

  “Well, it sounds like you’re SOL, then.” He smiled as the waitress set down a hot plate in front of him, then one in front of me. “But knowing you, I’m sure you’ll get to the bottom of things.”

  I filled him in on a few more choice details as we ate. When we’d finished I made a grab for the check but he plopped his big hand down on top of it.

  “This one’s on me,” he said. “I don’t want to owe you so I’ll feel like I got to do you any favors.”

  It was said in a joking manner, I knew, but it still stung a little. The fact was that I had intended on asking him to run some checks, and I hated to feel like our friendship was based on that. I simply nodded and tossed down a few bucks for the tip.

  George and I shook hands in the parking lot, and I watched him turn left and head north. I’d relieved him of his newspaper and sat in my car, taking out my cell phone. The first person I called was Francis. I told him it was me, and that everything was cool, but he still insisted on me repeating my password.

  “I’ve got your order ready,” he said, after I’d whispered a husky “Rosebud” into the phone. “You can come by anytime and pick it up.”

  “Can’t you just e-mail it to me?”

  Silence, then, “I’d have to make it password protected.”

  “Forget it,” I said. “I’ll come by later this afternoon then.” He lived way on the North Side, so it was another long trip that I was going to bill Big Dick for. As well as the fee. “Say, Francis, make me up an invoice, too, will you?”

  “An invoice?” His voice sounded strained. “You’ve never asked for one before.”

  “Yeah, but this time I need it. Got to bill my client for any expenses.”

  More silence. “I really would rather not. Paperwork of that sort is so traceable.”

  “Look, Francis, put generic computer searches on it if you want, all right? I just need it by this afternoon when I come by.”

  He finally agreed and I hung up. Dealing with paranoid computer geeks is not on my list of favorite things to do. I composed myself, scanned down to the number I wanted, and hit the transmit button. Moments later her velvety voice came on the line.

  “Alex St. James.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d gotten hold of her so easily. I told her so and added, “We seem to have been playing phone tag lately. What can I do for you?”

  Instead of a laugh, I heard a slight sigh. Her tone sounded hesitant, on the edge of emotional. Or was she just nervous to be talking with me?

  “I . . . was wondering if you’d be free for dinner, Mr. Shade. I have a couple matters I’d like to discuss with you.”

  Dinner? A girl asking me out? This chick was definitely interested. Old Ron Shade, world champion and professional lady killer. I took a moment to bask in the possibilities.

  “Mr. Shade? Are you there?”

  She definitely had a case of the jitters. I figured it was best to be brief. “Sure. Just tell me where and when?”

  “Do you know where Benson’s restaurant is? On Rush Street?”

  Benson’s . . . Now it was my turn to be hesitant. “Yeah, sure,” I said, answering slowly. I immediately regretted letting her choose the place. Benson’s would probably drain my wallet just for the valet service. Maybe I could somehow bill the thing to Dick. “What time?”

  “Why don’t we shoot for six?”

  I thought about a way out. “Maybe I’d better check to see if we can get reservations this quickly. Any other places you’d like?” I added quickly, thinking maybe she’d agree to the Rock-and-Roll McDonald’s.

  “I’ll take care of that,” she said. “And I’m paying, too.”

  I started to offer a weak protest but she cut me off.

  “No, it’s okay. My boss is picking it up.” A hint of merriment found its way into her voice.

  A girl after my own heart, I thought.

  “Say,” she said, sounding rushed again. “I’m in the middle of something. So I’ll see you there at six?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Call me if anything comes up.”

  When I terminated that call, I glanced at my watch. It was almost nine. More than enough time to hit Chappie’s for a nice relaxing workout, and then a ride to the North Side to see Francis after the traffic jams had faded. I was just backing out when my phone rang and I answered it expecting Alex St. James again. But instead it was Dick MacKenzie.

  “Ron, how come you haven’t returned my calls?”

  “I was downstate yesterday. My cell phone wouldn’t work.”

  “Downstate? Furman County?”

  “The one and only. Talked to the coroner, the doctor that did the autopsy, and the police officer who investigated the accident.”

  “And what did they say?”

  “Pretty much what was in their reports.”

  “Oh, Christ, don’t tell me you haven’t gotten anywhere.”

  I resisted the temptation to say, Okay, I won’t tell you. Instead, I mumbled off some generic BS about several new possibilities that I’d uncovered. I had to keep him happy until he paid the bill.

  “New possibilities? What are they?”

  “Look, Dick, I can’t really go over them now. You’ll just have to trust me that I’m working on things. In fact, I’m on the way somewhere right now.”

  “Ron, you are making this one a priority, aren’t you?”

  “Of course. I’m all about priorities.”

  I could hear his heavy breathing over the phone. He was probably debating giving me the “how important this case is to the company” line. Instead, he just muttered an “Okay,” and told me to get back to him as soon as I had something. His voice perked up to the old insurance salesman he was when he added, “Remember, we’re all counting on you here.”

  I hung up and continued driving to the gym. Like I’d said, I was all about priorities.

  Besides a couple of journeymen boxers who worked night jobs and trained in the mornings when they got off, I was practically alone in the boxing room. Chappie was out doing something, so we were left to our own dedication. The gym was composed of three long, parallel rooms, dividing the place into three sections. Several women swayed to some hard rock in the aerobics class next door, and in the room adjacent to them, die-hard lifters pumped iron with our resident body builder, Phil Brice. My winning the championship seemed to have inspired everyone there to work harder. Brice announced he was going into training for the Mr. Midwest title, and a couple of the boxers began begging Chappie to set them up in some smokers at the Aragon. My buddy Raul, who’d won, then lost, the light-heavyweight kickboxing title, had been coming in more often as well. Unfortunately, Chappie’s young protégé, Marcus Smith, had been killed in a drive-by shooting. Initially, I’d wondered if he’d gone to workout at another gym, but then heard word on the street that he’d fallen in with some bad dudes. His death, which had involved the ubiquitous gangs and drugs, had come about a week later. Chappie took it pretty hard. It was like a light somewhere had been extinguished, leaving his world in a little more darkness. Marcus’s mama had signed the paper to donate his organs, so she felt that at least a little good had come out of the tragedy. But I’d been slightly irritated by the doctors who’d been hovering around us in the waiting room, giving the poor old woman the soft-soap about how important it was, and how organs were in such short supply.

  “It could help save another young man’s life,” the doctor had said. Chappie had been on the verge of goi
ng after the guy when Marcus’s mama agreed. I wondered if it wasn’t just another form of flim-flam. The law of supply and demand, taken to the ultimate degree.

  I worked the speed bag, concentrating on the various rhythms, as I worked the case in my mind. A trip to Bayless’s former place of employment was definitely in the cards. So was a trip to the dentist. The one who’d confirmed the ID. If something was fishy, a whole lot of people were either real stupid or involved somehow. That meant some pretty big payoffs. Of course, with a double indemnity of ten mil, there was plenty to go around. Still, I couldn’t afford to show my hand too quickly. Better to give the appearance of plodding ahead, then dazzle them with some speed and footwork right before the round ended.

  With that brilliant thought, the round bell rang, and I stopped for my minute’s rest. The other boxers, who’d been working the heavy bags, stopped, too. We all stood in silence as the music, the Bee Gee’s “Staying Alive,” wafted in from the other room. An iron pumper’s primal scream sounded as well. He’d either completed a tough set, or gotten a hernia. Chappie would be more than a little peeved at me for missing last night’s workout. He’d been training our Russian kid, Alley, for another bout, and Chappie liked for me to help out. Alley’s name made me think of Alex St. James, and I suddenly felt an urge to check my cell phone just in case she’d called back wanting to change our plans. Maybe she’d want me to pick her up instead of meeting at Benson’s . . . Maybe I should have suggested it . . .

  I decided that the gentlemanly thing to do would be to call her and extend that offer. Of course, it meant driving the Beater. I pondered that and decided she wasn’t the type of girl who’d be overly impressed by a flashy car. Still, when this case was over, I’d have to go car shopping. After all, I had an image to uphold. Slipping off my bag gloves, I headed for the locker room, eyeing the bouncing female forms as I walked past them. Chappie’s daughter, Darlene, usually led the classes, but she’d gone back to law school and was seldom there anymore. He’d hired a couple of other young lassies to fill the gap. The one today was named Norma Rae. I hadn’t figured out if that was her first and last names, or only the first two. She looked like she’d had enough plastic surgeries to send a couple of the doctor’s kids through college, although she was buffed as hell, in an extreme sort of way. I’d talked to her a few times, but her main focus was on Brice, who also looked cartoonishly chiseled. Together, they made the perfect couple to put on the cover of Muscle & Fitness Magazine.

  I sat on the bench inside the locker room and turned my cell phone on, getting ready to call Alex when the text along the screen told me I had a voice message.

  Did I want to check it?

  Of course I did, and pressed Yes.

  “Mr. Shade.” The voice was flat-sounding and twangy. “This is Thad Brunger, from Furman County. I have that information you requested. If you can call me back at . . .” He left me two numbers and added that if he couldn’t be reached at the first one, the second was his store.

  I ended up dialing them both, since the first one went almost immediately to a voice message. Brunger answered on the third ring of my second call.

  “Ah, Mr. Shade. I was hoping you’d get back to me relatively soon. I found the name of that funeral home that picked up Mr. Bayless.”

  “Great.” I stood and searched the shirt hanging inside my locker for a pen and paper. “What is it?”

  I heard one of those sudden exhalation sounds and remembered the man’s disconcerting laugh. I guessed it was supposed to be ingratiating, or something.

  “Before we get to that,” he said, “I’d like to discuss my fee. I believe you mentioned you’d be willing to pay for my time looking the information up?”

  “Absolutely.” I found my pen, and scanned the room for some paper. I walked over to the waste can and pulled out a plastic soft drink bottle, peeling off the label as I spoke. “What would you feel is a reasonable amount?”

  “Well, ordinarily, I charge ten dollars for any copies of reports,” he said. “And since I had to get up extra early to search through the files here, meaning that I had to open the feed store a bit later than usual, I feel that twenty-five dollars would be appropriate.”

  I had to hand it to the shithead, he wasn’t shy. I folded the peeled label in half, giving me a slip of white on which to write.

  “How about fifty?” I asked. “Would that cover it?”

  “Why, ah, certainly.” His voice had a glow of satisfaction. “Shall I send you an invoice?”

  “I’ll need that,” I said, thinking of Dick hitting the roof and screaming about being bilked by a public official. But grease made things go faster, and Dick was too big a boy not to know that. “If you can give me the name now, and send me an official invoice, I’ll get started on your reimbursement.”

  Long silence. I could tell his huckster nature was in a tizzy. If he gave me what I wanted, there’d be no guarantee he’d ever see his money.

  “Mr. Brunger, remember that I’m building a case here. I have to have receipts to go in the file. I may need to have you deposed at a later date as well, which, of course, would be more money.”

  That seemed to whet his appetite. “Of course.” I could almost hear him licking his chops. He quickly added, “I’d be happy to help out in any way I can.”

  “Good, good,” I said in my most reassuring tone. “Ah, the name?”

  “It’s Sunset Manor.” He read off the address. It was in Edgewater.

  “The card say anything else?”

  “Ah, yeah. It says: ‘Where we treat the dead with the dignity they deserve.’ ”

  And how about the presumed dead?

  Alex St. James

  Bass came into my office just as I was ending my call. I motioned for him to sit. He scowled, but complied.

  “Thanks,” I said into the receiver, “keep me posted.”

  He waved a note in the air. “What’s this?” he asked, then used the note to fan his nose. “You look like shit. And you smell worse.”

  I’d been up most of the night with Jesse. Nicky and Viktor took their leave shortly after dropping us at the hospital’s door, but before they drove off, Nicky told me—three times—to let him know when I needed to be picked up. I told him—three times—not to worry, that I’d find my own way home.

  In fact, I hadn’t gotten home at all.

  We were stuck in the emergency room for hours, until the triage nurse decided Jesse’s injuries were the next most critical and assigned us to a doctor. We waited there again, where I dozed, only to be wakened by Jesse’s whimpers of pain.

  He refused to let me call his family until we knew what was up. He claimed that he didn’t want to unduly upset them, but I suspected that he was angry with me, and he saw my presence at his side as recompense for getting him into this mess.

  No matter. I wouldn’t have left him anyway. Not till I knew his prognosis.

  At five in the morning, Jesse went into surgery. Broken nose, just as we suspected. The good news was that it was a clean break and after he healed, he would have no physical indication of the injury. His family showed up at six. Amid a lot of wailing and crying from his mother and sisters, and after explaining the situation to a demanding father, I’d snuck out.

  And now Bass, furious, in front of me, was more than I cared to handle.

  “Do you have any idea who I was on the phone with?” I asked.

  “No. Am I going to have to get the cleaning service to fumigate this office?”

  “Edgewater Hospital.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “So Jesse’s been injured,” I said. “He’s just gotten out of surgery.”

  Bass opened his mouth, but I interrupted him.

  “I’m sure your heart bleeds for the guy, but let me put this in terms you’ll understand: Jesse got hurt investigating the homeless story. The story you assigned us to. Know what that means?” I didn’t wait for his answer. “It means that the station could be liable for his injuries. Oooh,”
I said with a fake shudder. “Liability.”

  That got his attention. He stopped waving the little paper. “What the hell happened?”

  I gave him a rundown. “That’s why I left you that note this morning.” I pointed to it. “I thought I’d be out of here before you came in. I wanted you to call me, even at home.”

  “You’re going home?”

  “Look at me,” I said. “I am not spending the rest of the day here looking and smelling like this. And, to answer your question, yes. You should have this office fumigated. Today. While I’m home sleeping.” He opened his mouth again, then wisely shut it as I continued, “I’m going home to get some rest before I go meet with your buddy, Ron Shade, tonight. Or did you forget about that little assignment?”

  I knew I was sniping, but it felt good.

  Bass kept his voice neutral. Smart man. “You mean to ask him about the car?”

  “Yep.”

  Nodding, Bass stood. “Okay. Sounds good.”

  “One other thing,” I said as he made it to my door. “I want to hire him as a bodyguard when I go back undercover.”

  “What? How much is that going to cost?”

  I held up a finger. “Don’t quibble on this one, Bass.”

  To his credit, and my immense surprise, he didn’t.

  Ron Shade

  I hit the showers after hanging up and left the serious working out to those of a more dedicated variety. I just didn’t have it this morning. No zip. Maybe the run had taken too much out of me. I reminded Brice to make sure he told Chappie I’d been by. He nodded as he did curls with an Olympic sized barbell with forty-five-pound plates on each side. His biceps bulged with veins the size of garden hoses. Outside I strolled around to the back of the building adjacent to the alley and down to where I usually parked my car. The Beater had been blessed with a plethora of FOP and IPA stickers, since it had originally belonged to George’s partner, Doug Percy. Although the body had more Bondo holding it together than a Baghdad taxi, no self-respecting copper in the entire city of Chicago would dare slap a parking ticket on it with all those police stickers. Thank God for good old Chicago alleys, as well. Too many places in the city, even on the good old blue-collar South Side, were getting the gentrification treatment. Alleys were literally being eliminated as homes became required to have front drive access to their garages. Sometimes change is for the better, sometimes not. I knew I’d miss them when they were gone. As I got in I thought about my date tonight with Alex St. James, and how I really would have to go car shopping soon.