Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  “Didn’t think so.”

  I didn’t know if I was supposed to shake hands with him, but he held his out and I took it. His grip was incredibly feeble, even though his hand was massive.

  He shook his head. “They tell me if I want to live . . .” He paused and took a breath. “I gotta quit smoking and lose some weight.”

  I nodded. “Sounds about right.”

  “But I told ’em,” pause. “That ain’t living. Much.” He tried to laugh and it was a mistake. He motioned for me to hand him a pillow stacked next to the bed. I did and he grabbed it to his chest and held it there. His mouth opened and for a second he looked like a fish out of water, gasping in the open air. He lowered the pillow.

  “You okay? Want me to get the nurse?”

  He shook his head. “Had to cough.”

  I remembered my visits to Bielmaster when he’d been in for his heart operation. He and Rich were about the same size, but Rich was younger. He seemed to have fared worse, though.

  “They split me open from here to here,” he said, bringing his hand from just under his throat to mid-belly. “Almost bought the farm on the table.”

  “What brought this on? Were you having pains?”

  He shook his head. “My belly swelled up to like three times its normal size. My nuts, too. Had to go in, and they rushed me into surgery.”

  The nurse came to the edge of the door frame and stood looking at me.

  “I take it my five minutes are up?”

  She nodded.

  I turned back to Big Rich and held out my hand again. “If you need anything, except cigarettes, you call me, okay?”

  He nodded, and as I left, trying my best to look cheery, I saw his eyes misting over. He’d fallen from the mountain and was working his way back up. I hoped he had enough drive and sense to do what they told him and drop about a hundred pounds. The cigarettes would be rough, too, for a guy who acted like a human chimney. But seeing him there, holding a pillow to his chest so he didn’t blow out his staples, might be enough motivation for that. I hoped to God it would be.

  I thanked the nurse and went down to wait for the elevator. You couldn’t take the stairways in hospitals because you could never find them. The down arrow light clicked off with an accompanying chime and I got in, pressed “L” for lobby, and watched the doors slide shut.

  I silently wished Big Rich luck and reflected on how we’d been friends for years, but really barely knew each other. Strange. One other thing was glaringly obvious as well. He’d be in no kind of shape to help me with the Bayless case. My cell rang, snapping me out of the reverie. I answered it with a gruff hello.

  “Mr. Shade?”

  “Yes.” The voice was feminine and familiar.

  “It’s Alex St. James. I just wanted to touch base with you about tonight. Do you know where the Grisham Avenue viaduct is?”

  “Not really.”

  She gave me a more exact location. “They congregate under the viaduct there. We figure to set up about seven-thirty.”

  “I’ll be there.” I pulled out my notebook and pen. “Give me a description of those knuckleheads who attacked you before. I’ll run some checks to see if they match any previous crime patterns.” As she gave me the description I could tell she was a little impressed. My checks would consist of a phone call back to George, using another favor, but what the hell. It sounded good. Or at least I thought it did. She surprised me with her next comment.

  “Actually, I had a detective friend look into that already,” she said. “It looks to be an isolated incident, but then again, how many homeless people are going to be reporting things to the cops?”

  “Probably not too many.” This was one smart chick.

  “Which is why I have you, right?”

  I agreed, and she rattled off what she’d be wearing. “You may not recognize me. I’ll be undercover as one of the homeless. Just look for the blue baseball cap.”

  I thought about saying if that was the case, she’d be the best-looking bag lady on the block, but George’s warning to me stuck. Keep it professional. Especially now. So, I simply replied, “I’ll make sure I find you.”

  My aimless driving took me toward the gym, and pretty soon I found myself edging down the south end of the alley where the incident had occurred the night before. I pulled in back of Chappie’s and stared out the window, re-creating last night’s every move in my mind. Getting out, I retraced my steps. The Beater had been there. I looked across the street. Vallet Man had been in the shadows next to a small cement wall. He’d known I was coming, and must have known I was headed for the Beater. He also had the element of surprise. The other guy had been in the SUV somewhere as lookout, or maybe backup. They figured I’d go down easy . . . Not so tough . . . Tiny shards of the broken glass still littered the dark asphalt where I’d smashed the florescent bulb across the guy’s face. I looked harder, trying to see where the bullet that had been fired had hit the ground, but it all looked the same. Just a lot of uneven, worn blacktopping, ground away by the friction of thousands of tires.

  As I walked toward the front doors I looked around, cognizant of every car, every pair of eyes within shooting distance. The Beretta on my hip felt comforting as well. If anybody came at me again, I’d be ready.

  Inside, I heard the familiar sounds of the gym: weights clanging, music playing, and a distant thump, thump, thump of a speed bag. When I got to the boxing room I saw it was the man, himself, beating out the rhythm. His dark eyes caught a glimpse of me and he stopped abruptly, the bag smacking the board and then slowing appreciably. Sweat glistened on his shaved head.

  “Hey, Champ,” Chappie said. “What you doing in here?”

  I shrugged. “I was in the neighborhood.”

  “Hey, now, don’t you be thinking about working out today.” He shook his head and made an “Uuuu-aah” sound. “You need to be resting and letting that arm heal. Last thing you want is to pop some of them stitches.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I looked around. “Alley here?”

  Chappie shook his head. “He came in this morning, did his work, then went home to sleep. Working the night shift tonight.”

  Alley had a job as a janitor and trained at odd times. For him, a real treat was to have a night off so he could come to the gym and spar with Raul or me or some of the regular evening guys for a few rounds. “The kid’s got heart, I’ll give him that.”

  “What you looking for him for?”

  “I wanted to ask him about some guy that came in last night,” I said. “Before I was attacked. Alley said the guy was Russian.”

  Chappie’s eyebrows rose. “Well, he oughta know.” He looked at me. “You thinking he the dude that tried to stick you up?”

  I shook my head. “It wasn’t him, but he might’ve been with him. My guy had some kind of foreign accent.”

  He shrugged. “Lots of those ’round here now.”

  “Too many to believe in coincidences,” I said.

  Chapter 14

  Alex St. James

  I caught an aproned Father Morales peeling potatoes next to a giant stove. Large window box fans placed strategically around the humid kitchen made lots of noise but did nothing to cool the area. Morales plopped a bald spud in the nearest stainless steel pot and reached for another when I called out a hello.

  “Alex,” he said with surprise as he wiped his brow. “What are you doing here?”

  “Bad time?”

  “Not at all, I just didn’t expect you.” Morales stopped what he was doing, banged his potato and knife on the countertop, and stared at me with intensity. “I heard what happened the other night. You could have been killed.”

  Not if I was right about Nicky’s involvement, I thought. “I got lucky,” I said, then turned the conversation away from my safety. I wasn’t in the mood for another lecture. “Who were those three guys?”

  He grimaced at the remaining pile of potatoes, turned off the heat beneath the stainless steel pot and wiped his hands on h
is apron. “Don’t know,” he said. “I’ve been trying to place them. From what Nick told me—”

  “That’s another thing,” I said. “Why did you tell Nicky when I’d be out there?”

  “Why not?” he asked. “Isn’t it good that he showed up?”

  “Of course,” I said. I wasn’t about to share my suspicions that Nicky had engineered the episode, but I didn’t want to risk a repeat performance, either. “I just was surprised to see him.”

  Morales smiled. “So you’re finished with your project? No more living among the homeless?”

  “What I’m actually interested in,” I said, deflecting, “is contacting Howard Rybak. I understand he used to stop in here all the time. If you’ve got his address . . .”

  “Will that keep you from doing this ‘undercover work’ you’re so set on?”

  “It might.”

  “You’re a bad liar,” Morales said. “But let me think.” He pursed big lips. “The last time I tried to reach him, I discovered his telephone had been disconnected. I’m afraid the address I have is out of date.”

  “I’d still appreciate it, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  He wiped his hands again. “I think I have it in the office here. Give me a minute. Have a seat, if you want.”

  “Thanks.”

  My Catholic guilt sent me to the pile of potatoes, and I began peeling the one Morales had started. He was doing me a favor, I reasoned. No need for him to fall behind on his work to help me out.

  By the time I’d gotten to my tenth potato, I’d begun to perspire. Hair strands stuck to the side of my face, and I pushed them away with the back of my hand.

  I turned to glance at the door where he’d gone. What was taking so long?

  There were only two potatoes left to be peeled by the time Morales finally got back. He noticed my handiwork immediately. “Alex, how can I ever thank you?”

  I dropped the knife and wiped at my sweaty face. Peeling potatoes was not hard work, but this kitchen was a steam bath. It amazed me that Morales wasn’t thinner. “You can thank me by putting me in touch with Howard Rybak,” I said with a smile, pointing to the paper in his hand. “I take it you found it.”

  He made a so-so look with his head. “This is the most recent address I had on file. But, like I said, last time I tried to reach him there I had no luck.”

  I took the paper. North Side, a bit farther east. I wasn’t familiar with the area, but I knew I could find it. “Thanks.”

  “Nick doesn’t have anything more up-to-date, either.”

  “You never know,” I said.

  “No,” he said, heading back to the potatoes. “I just got off the phone with him. He rattled off the same address when I asked.”

  “You called him? You told him I was here?”

  “Not at first,” Morales said, looking flustered. “I just asked him for the address, but then after he gave it to me, he asked me why I needed it. That’s when I mentioned you. Was that the wrong thing to do?”

  I took a breath. “It’s fine,” I said. I’d asked Nicky for the address, too—though he hadn’t been able to rattle it off for me. “I just know how busy he is. I don’t want to cause him more work.”

  “Nick is always very busy,” Morales said. “Which is why his help with the indigent is so admirable. He makes time for them in a way that most successful businessmen would not.”

  I stared at the note in my hands thinking of Morales’ phrasing. “How is it that Nicky was able to just rattle the address off?” I asked.

  “Nicky found the apartment for Howard.”

  “He did?”

  “I’m telling you, Nicholas Farnsworth is truly our Saint Nick.”

  “I had no idea he was so involved.”

  “I hope this information helps you,” he said, then added, “and as long as it keeps you from camping out among the homeless, I feel as though I’ve done some good.”

  I pocketed the note Morales gave me and thanked him. “You’ve helped a lot. I’ll make sure to mention your work on behalf of the homeless in my story.”

  “God’s blessings on you.”

  He returned to his potatoes, and I returned to my musings.

  As I walked to my car, I heard the toot of a horn. I turned. Nicky pulled up in a red Corvette.

  “Hey, good-looking,” he said.

  Damn it. Morales’ phone call had brought him around like a bird dog. Or maybe a hound dog. I really didn’t want to stop, so I waved and kept walking around the car’s far side.

  The Corvette’s passenger window whirred down this time. “The good father told me you’re going back for more under the viaduct,” Nicky said.

  So much for priest’s keeping secrets. Maybe I should have told Morales my plans within the boundaries of confession. But since Nicky was here, I figured I’d poke around a little. “I’m more interested in interviewing Howard Rybak. I guess you had his address all along, huh?”

  He glanced forward, and into his rearview mirror. “I . . . uh . . .” he licked his lips, “you see, I didn’t want to give it to you because I knew the address was no good. I told Father Morales that Rybak moved, but actually, he left for parts unknown.” He continued to ease the ’Vette forward to match my pace. It sounded like a racehorse champing at the bit. “Look, Alex, you need to rethink going out there again. Didn’t you learn your lesson the last time?”

  I smiled coyly. “Actually, I learned plenty.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that this time I’m bringing my own security.” I looked at my watch. “In fact, I need to go meet him now.”

  “Security? Who is this guy?”

  “How do you know it’s a guy?”

  That flustered him. “Is it?”

  This was fun. “Yes.”

  “When are you going back ‘undercover’?”

  “Next week,” I lied. “At the earliest.”

  Nicky snorted as he did a quick glance at the mirror again. “Well, I hope this security guy is better than the last wimp that was supposed to be protecting you.”

  I was angry that he’d refer to poor Jesse that way. “This guy’s no wimp. He’s a professional kickboxer and a private detective.” Not that it was any of his business.

  “He’s a what?”

  “A professional kickboxer.”

  His lips separated like he needed more air. “What’s his name?”

  “Ron Shade.”

  He blinked twice. “Shade?”

  Something was strange in the way he said it.

  “You know him?” I asked.

  His cheeks puffed out slightly and he shook his head. “I guess you don’t need me then.” The big tires of his Corvette spun until they caught on the asphalt, leaving a dark spoor of tread.

  His abrupt departure was unnerving, although welcome. I shook my head at the smell of the burned rubber. He was a grade-A jerk even if he was the son of a family friend. Still, his behavior was odd. Like his reaction didn’t fit with the situation. Was he jealous because I hadn’t swooned over his invitations to dinner? Or maybe that I didn’t fall all over him after his dubious rescue the other night. And I was beginning to suspect that there was more to his elaborate theatrical production than just impressing me. Maybe there was a story lurking here after all.

  Ron Shade

  I hummed “Over the Rainbow,” substituting “under the viaduct” as I walked toward the towering section of elevated roadway at the Grisham Avenue viaduct. It was supported by some huge cement pillars adjacent to a sloping hill of wild grass. The human detritus that littered the expansive underbelly looked like a rag-tag bunch of discarded clothing. As I got closer, I saw a nondescript van with one too many antennas on top. It had to be the Midwest Focus camera vehicle. Alex had said they’d be lingering close. Figuring she might be inside, I paused next to it and rapped on the back doors. I heard a couple of voices inside abruptly stop talking. The windows were all smoked glass, totally opaque from the outside. When
no one responded, I knocked a bit harder. Finally, a bearded, male face popped out and asked me what I wanted.

  “I’m Ron Shade. Alex St. James hired me to—”

  The guy cut me off. “Yeah, yeah, I know. She’s over there already. With the blue hat on.”

  In the fading evening light I saw her svelte form. I thanked the van geek and strode toward the lady in the blue hat. I was only about fifty yards away. She’d arrived early, because it wasn’t even seven-fifteen yet. Maybe she was going to pay me by the hour and had to round everything off. In any case, I decided to have some fun. Instead of acknowledging her, I kept walking right past, letting my eyes linger on her. In a few seconds she was right beside me.

  “Hey,” she whispered.

  I did an exaggerated jump. “Beat it, panhandler.”

  She frowned. “Come on, don’t tell me you don’t recognize me.”

  I made another exaggerated show of studying her, during which her lips scrunched together and she looked like she was about ready to smack me. I reached in my pocket, took out my wallet, and removed a dollar bill. “Here, go buy yourself some deodorant.”

  Her eyes widened in anger and she literally snatched the buck out of my hand and shoved it into her pants pocket. “Very funny.”

  “Ms. St. James?” I asked, doing my best to imbue surprise into my tone. “I’m sorry. I thought you were a good-looking bag lady.”

  Her expression softened slightly and she rolled her eyes. “Give me another dollar.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to make it too obvious that we know each other. I’m supposed to be undercover here.”

  I got my wallet out again and looked through it. I had only fives, tens, and twenties. I took out a five and handed it to her. “Here, you can buy the coffee when this thing is through. What time is that going to be, by the way?”

  “I’m hoping to creep away by midnight. We should have all the shots we need by then.” She glanced around, then tugged the sleeve of my field jacket, pulling me toward an alley. “I’m not real concerned about those three guys anymore, but anyway, that’s why you’re earning a paycheck tonight, right?”