Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  “Business must be pretty good if you can afford a ’Vette and two Caddies.”

  “Yeah, well, like I said, everybody dies.” The door slammed shut. The sickeningly sweet smell of his pungent aftershave still hung in the air. I guess a guy who spent most of his time around dead bodies wanted to make sure the stink didn’t linger on him. But this guy stunk anyway, for a different reason.

  I sat behind the wheel of the Beater, pretending I was studying a map, while I waited for Nick to leave on his important business. He did, but it was close to forty minutes later. It was a small lie, and certainly an understandable one, considering he was trying to get rid of some guy at his front door. But when he did leave, he got in one of the Caddies and left the ’Vette. I saw him staring at me as I continued to pore over the map. Looking up as he slowly passed, I waved and made a small hold-on-a-minute wave. His head swiveled to the front and he gunned the big engine, disappearing down the street. Instead of following him, I backed up, drove into the funeral home lot, and copied down the license plates on both cars. Maybe I could persuade George to run a criminal history check on him. There was something about the guy I didn’t like, and it wasn’t that he had a red Corvette. I made a mental note to tell him my Corvette joke at the conclusion of our next interview. It was guaranteed to piss him off.

  I glanced at my watch and assessed the time factor. I was up on the North Side, and the Manus Corporation was maybe thirty miles west, through heavy traffic. Even if I started now, I wouldn’t get there inside of thirty minutes, and that was with a little bit of luck and no traffic jams. But that would put me in rush mode, considering that I’d have to conduct as thorough an interview as I could, and figure they might not welcome me back the next time. After all, they might realize that I was trying to look into taking their whopping double-indemnity millions away, if I could. Of course, they might realize that right off the bat and refuse to give me diddly. And, at the moment, time was tight. It would be better to go there in the morning and make it clear that I had the whole day to languish in their waiting room making their receptionist miserable. Ruin a receptionist’s day, and her indignation will usually seep up to the corporate boss’s office like rising flood water. I thought about the poor people that MWO had cheated out of an insurance settlement by exercising the no flood damage loophole and decided that I’d call it a day.

  Besides, I still had to drive home and get my ass downtown for my dinner with Alex St. James. I smiled at the thought. A date with an angel.

  Yeah, Mid Western Olympia’s dirty work could wait.

  Trying to find a parking space near Benson’s was more problematic than third-year calculus. And I never got past advanced algebra. I circled the block several times looking for a space, any space, that I could squeeze the Beater into. I figured I could brave a no-parking zone somewhere and hope the FOP stickers did the trick, but the prospect of maybe giving the lady a ride home didn’t gel with worrying some overeager meter maid would call for Lincoln Towing. In the end, I found a parking garage about two blocks away and swung in. They had a valet parking service, which meant a tip on top of the hefty charge, but what the hell. The guy looked at the Beater and frowned, probably figuring a dude driving this clunker wouldn’t tip for shit. I grinned at him and said, “Take good care of my baby,” and pointed to the FOP stickers. He glanced at it and nodded.

  It was one of those cool late-spring, early-summer evenings where the temps float in the low 70s and it reminds you of the joys of the seasonal changes. The sky was clear, and even though I couldn’t see any of the stars because of the extra hours of daylight and the ubiquitous city lights lining the skyline, I knew they were up there twinkling down on me anyway. I clapped my hands together in anticipation and picked up my pace. Tonight, I thought, anything might be possible.

  After all, she had asked me out. Forward thinking on her part, obviously, but most likely the sign of a real modern woman. The kind who sees a good thing, something she wants, and isn’t afraid to go after it. Or him, in this case. I wondered if she’d be just as forward-thinking about first dates?

  Shade, old boy, I heard an imaginary British voice saying inside my head, you just may have done it again.

  Benson’s was one classy joint and the maître d’ eyed me almost suspiciously as I walked in. Like he wanted to tug on my necktie to see if it was real. I’d even worn my famous gold chain tie clip, which was known to make most women weak in the knees as soon as they saw it.

  “May I help you, sir?” The guy had a prissy face, with a tiny mustache. His mouth twisted into what might have passed for a smile, but I could sense the condescension behind it. Sure, I was wearing a sport jacket instead of a suit, and my shirt wasn’t white, but I felt like asking him if he’d ever tried to shop for a shirt with an eighteen-inch neck.

  “I’m supposed to meet a friend here,” I said, flashing a confident grin. Yeah, I belong here, Roscoe, and don’t you forget it. “A Ms. Alex St. James.”

  The maître d’s manner softened a bit and he turned, holding up a delicate hand and wiggling his fingers in a “come hither” gesture. I followed along, feeling like the bear being led into the circus tent. This place was already making me itch.

  To my right when I’d first walked in was a separate room with an undulating bar of polished wood, equally polished tables and chairs, and the feel of old money interacting with new. It wasn’t very crowded, and even the bartender looked bored. The bottles lining the back of the bar looked untouched. I followed the maître d’ into the dining room, where booths lined the perimeter and well-dressed people sipped wine from long-stemmed glasses. The place had a 1940s ambience that almost made me check for Bogey and Bacall sitting in a back table somewhere. Off to my left a waiter dressed in white stepped back quickly as he lifted the metal lid of a serving tray, touched a long rod to something, and some flames shot upward. He replaced it and a line of smoke filtered through the air.

  “What’s your fire coverage on this place?” I asked. “I got a buddy who sells insurance.”

  If the maître d’ heard me, he didn’t let on. He just kept walking me through the maze of tables. He stopped at a booth and looked down.

  “Madam, is this the man whom you were expecting?”

  Alex St. James looked up at me and smiled. “Yes, Herman. Thank you.”

  She looked gorgeous, with her hair pulled back and done up in a French braid. Her dress was black and sleeveless and she wore a silver necklace that held a cylindrical blue stone captured inside four tiny pillars. I checked to see if her freckles descended from her face to her shoulders, but from what I could see, they didn’t.

  “Hiya,” I said, slipping into the booth across from her. She’d sat with her back to the wall, which is the seat I take out of habit, but who was I to argue? At least I had a babe watching over me.

  “Would you care for another Riesling?” Herman asked her.

  A half-empty wineglass sat on the table in front of her. “No, one’s plenty. Thanks.”

  Herman turned to me. “And for you, sir?”

  Since I didn’t drink, I ordered an iced tea.

  Alex picked up her glass and brought it to her lips. “So the man of steel doesn’t imbibe? I told you my boss is picking up the tab, right?”

  I smiled. “I’m in training.” That usually satisfied people, or else they asked what I was training for.

  “What kind of training?”

  “I’m a professional kickboxer. Besides being a world-class Private Investigator, I’m also a world champion.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Is that why your face was so bruised looking when we met at that gas station back in March?”

  “Yeah,” I said, then added, using my best Marlon Brando imitation, “but you shoulda seen the udder guy.”

  That made her smile. Things were looking up.

  Before I could come up with another witticism, Herman was back and placed my iced tea on the table without comment. “Would you like menus now?” He spoke only to Al
ex, which was fine with me. When she said we would, he whipped a pair of leather-bound menus from under his arm and placed them in front of us with the aplomb of a high-class poker dealer. He straightened, nodded, and turned. I picked up the menu as I watched him walk away.

  “I think he likes you,” I said.

  “No, I’ve just been coming here a long time.” She took another sip of her drink. “Anyway, I’m glad you could make it.”

  “Me, too.”

  “You’re probably wondering why I asked you here tonight . . .”

  She left the end open, full of promise. Did I dare hope that she would be this forward?

  “The question did enter my mind,” I said, thinking, but I bet I can guess the answer.

  “Well, I have a business proposition I’d like to run by you.”

  Business? In a romantic place like this? My libido suddenly felt like it got punched in the gut. Or maybe a little bit lower. I was at a loss for words.

  “But first . . .” She let the sentence hang a split second, “there’s something else I’d like to ask you.”

  Ah, I thought. Here it comes . . . The windup, and the pitch. My killer charm has done it again.

  “What’s that?” I punctuated the question with another high-wattage smile.

  “It’s about your car. The one you sold to Bass, my boss. The Firebird.”

  I semi-shuddered thinking of how to explain that I was only driving the Beater temporarily. Just until I had time to get something better. I cleared my throat. “How does he like it?”

  “Oh, he’s wild about it,” she said. “But . . .”

  The great eraser. “But?”

  She looked down at the rim of her glass. “He’s curious as to why you let it go for such a low price.”

  This was getting ticklish. Did I tell her about Ken? I definitely didn’t want to scare her off if she was interested. But the truth won out.

  “Lots of bad memories,” I said. I gave her a thumbnail of how I got the car as payment for catching Paula’s killers, and then how Ken had taken a bullet meant for me on a stakeout. The space between her eyebrows creased slightly as I told her about my surreptitious checks on Ken’s rehab progress.

  “That poor guy. It must have been terrible for him,” she said, reaching forward to pat my hand. “And for you, as well.” It felt electric and sent a charge through me. A good charge.

  Alex St. James

  To say I was relieved that this Ron Shade fellow walked in at Benson’s looking a lot less beat up than he had when we’d first met, was an understatement. Despite the fact that he seemed uneasy while the maître d’ hovered, I could tell Shade was a man comfortable in his own skin. That was nice. Too often, these gym rat–types were all muscle and no personality.

  But, as I listened to his tale of the Firebird’s history, I realized he wasn’t the gym rat–type at all. Broad shouldered and muscular—yes. Needing me to fawn all over him—no. Thank goodness. He had strong features and a kind face. I liked him. And from his animated, vivid descriptions of how he and his cop friends handled situations, I trusted him, too. Which made the prospect of a successful business arrangement even better than I’d hoped.

  He seemed so shaken by the telling of the story of how his friend had been shot and permanently disabled—by a bullet meant for Shade’s brain—that I patted his hand. He looked like he needed it.

  With a smile that told me he was grateful for the gesture, he shifted in his seat. It dawned on me that dredging up all this negativity had to be tough for him. I figured he’d appreciate a change in subject from one so personal to something more neutral, so I thanked him for his candor and decided to get to the real reason for tonight’s meeting. “Do you have any evenings free in the near future?”

  Our waiter stepped up to the table before Shade could answer. He introduced himself as Jorge, then asked, “Have we decided?” in cozy waiter-speak.

  “I know what I want,” I said, looking at my dinner companion. Shade seemed suddenly discomposed and, worried that I was rushing him, I quickly added, “But I think we still need a few minutes. Is that okay?”

  “As you wish,” he said, blending away.

  Shade took a long sip of his iced tea. “Evenings?” he asked.

  “Yeah.” Elbows on the table, I leaned forward, keeping my voice low so as not to be overheard. He leaned in to hear me. “First of all, I have to apologize,” I said.

  He started to shake his head, dismissing any apology, but he didn’t know what I was going to say, so I continued.

  “When I arranged this on the phone with you, I was . . . distracted. I’m sorry. I’m sure I sounded a bit . . . scattered.”

  “No, not at all.”

  He was being kind. I smiled, but didn’t want to come across too eager to hire him. Sometimes men got the wrong idea when I warmed up to a subject. They often mistakenly thought it I was warming up to them.

  “Why don’t I give you a chance to look at the menu before I take this any further,” I said. “Would you like an appetizer?”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  I reached a finger to point over the top of his leather-bound menu. “This first one. It’s a combination. Chicken skewers, beef kabobs and a sampling of ribs.”

  “I don’t eat pork.”

  “Okay,” I said, wondering what that was about. “Then, whatever you like.”

  He shook his head, closing the menu. “I think just dinner will be fine.”

  “They have the best steaks here,” I said.

  Jorge sidled back to the table, hands clasped behind his back. This was one of those places where the waitstaff never wrote anything down. I think they saw it as classy. I found it unnerving. But they hadn’t messed up a single order of mine yet. “Are we ready?” he asked.

  Shade canted his head in my direction. “Ladies first.”

  “I’ll have the filet mignon,” I said, “the king cut. Medium rare, with a side of creamed spinach. Salad with ranch dressing on the side, please.”

  Shade started speaking, so softly I couldn’t understand. Jorge bent closer. “Sir?”

  Again, Shade ordered. And I realized he was speaking Spanish. Or trying to. Jorge listened patiently and repeated the order in English. Porterhouse, well-done, with asparagus. No salad. “Very good, sir,” he said. “Gracias.” He drew the menus out of our hands and drifted into the background.

  “I’m impressed,” I said. “Where did you learn Spanish?”

  He blushed. “I used to know a Cuban girl. But she said I mumbled too much when I spoke.”

  I’d thought the same thing, but didn’t say so.

  “You’ve got a good appetite,” he said.

  My turn to blush. “Why not? My boss is handling this tab. He really wanted me to find out about the Firebird. I just have to decide how to break it to him.”

  His eyebrows twitched. “Is that why you asked me to this dinner? Or, is there some other reason?”

  I took a sip of the remaining wine. “There is another reason.” I sighed, thinking about poor Jesse’s nose. Thinking about what Detective Lulinski had suggested about Nicky arranging for the attack. “And I know this is terribly short notice, but could you be available for the next several evenings?”

  This time, his lips twitched, breaking into a slow smile. “Well, that depends.”

  I held up a finger, amending. “Not tomorrow night. Tomorrow I have too much other stuff to do, plus I need to connect with the filming staff at the station. But, let’s say the day after. Would you be available for, say, three or four nights? For bodyguard work?”

  “Whose body am I guarding?”

  “Mine.”

  Now he looked confused.

  Jorge swung my salad onto the linen tablecloth before me. I speared a tomato, but waited to pop it into my mouth until I’d told Shade about the homeless feature, the terrible conditions under that viaduct, and last night’s altercation. “I had to Taser one guy. The others ran off when my friend’s son ha
ppened to show up.”

  As I alternately talked and worked at my salad, Shade asked questions, good ones. He was a pretty sharp guy.

  I finished by recounting my theory—well, Lulinski’s—that the altercation might have been an elaborate setup.

  “So, who arranged for the punks to harass you?” he asked.

  I shook my head. I had no real proof that Nicky had done anything of the sort. And I didn’t want anything to get out until I was sure. The last thing I needed was to get on Larry’s bad side before he looked into my adoption information. “It was just a theory we tossed around.”

  Our steaks and sides arrived exactly as ordered. We settled into small talk as we ate, but I’d filled up on salad, so I didn’t finish mine. I waited till Shade cleared his plate before I asked for mine to be wrapped up. “I’ll be eating dinner on my boss for two days,” I said. “And enjoying every morsel of it.”

  Jorge returned with a tidy little bag, and a tray laden with dazzling confections, “Do we care for dessert?”

  “Not for me, thank you. Mr. Shade?” I asked. “Is there something you’d like?”

  He demurred, his expression unreadable.

  “Nothing at all?” I pressed when Jorge left. “Coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” He seemed disappointed, and I couldn’t figure out why.

  When Jorge dropped the bill off at the table, I picked it up. Shade offered to leave the tip, but I refused. “Nope. The whole thing goes on the company tab. And I’m an excellent tipper.” I placed a credit card in the folder and winked. “Former waitresses always are.”

  “You were a waitress?” he asked as our bill was swept away.

  I nodded. “In college.”

  “I’d like to hear more about that.”

  I smiled, knowing he was just being polite. Probably feeling uncomfortable because I paid for dinner. But I wasn’t about to bore him with tales of my adventurous youth. “Some other time,” I said with a smile.

  Jorge placed the folder back on the table. I figured the tip, signed, and pocketed my credit card. As I did, my watch slid over my wrist, turning so I got a look at its face. It was later than I thought, and I’d promised my sister Lucy I’d call her tonight. “Maybe it’s a good thing we didn’t have dessert,” I said, with a pointed glance at my wrist. “I gotta get going.”