Dead Ringer

by Michael A. Black

  “Roger wilco,” I said, and watched her move away, back toward the viaduct. The pants she had on were tight enough to show the outline of her ass, which made me regret my promise to George. But then again, I was dealing with a classic ice princess anyway.

  I decided to get the lay of the land, which was something I always do when working a particular place. I combed through the alley area, then went around to the embankment a bit farther down. The expressway roared above us, buttressed by angular concrete blocks that extended the roadway over Grisham. Where the elevation ended and the bridge part began, an unintentional shelter from the elements had resulted. It was sad to think of people living under there. But then again, the homeless had always roamed the city, except in the old days they’d been called bums.

  I walked back toward the congregation, checking out the businesses and houses on the block. Mostly empty lots, but farther down were a neighborhood liquor store and a dilapidated gas station that had more reinforcements in the windows than Fort Knox.

  I looked at the motley collection shuffling through the Dumpster in back of the liquor store. One guy came out with a rolled up bag of potato chips. His teeth had almost as many gaps in them as the street had potholes. He stuffed his treasure into his pocket and continued digging. One guy staggered along the sidewalk and came up to me.

  “Hey, mister, spare any change?” His bleary eyes stared at me like a lost puppy’s. Maybe he’d seen me giving money to Alex. I felt sorry for him, but I knew if I got made as an easy mark, they’d be on me like a horde of seagulls. And I was here to do a job, which meant I couldn’t afford any distractions.

  “Beat it,” I said, using my cop voice. “Before I call for a squad car.”

  The guy’s eyes widened. “You the po-lice?”

  “Yeah, now scram.”

  He scurried off and I pondered the wisdom of my ruse. It might make the locals less responsive to Alex St. James’s camera needs, but it would make my job a helluva lot easier. An ounce of prevention, my mother always used to say.

  Not that I wasn’t totally prepared for tonight. On the contrary, in addition to having my Beretta and enough extra mags to fight a small war, I had my trusty pepper spray, a kuboton, my folding, double-bladed knife, and a set of nunchucks tucked inside my belt on the left side. In the hands of someone who knows how to use them, they could reduce a threatening crowd to mishmash in about thirty-five seconds. I strolled down toward the grassy knoll, looking for Alex. Now that I had my bearings, and spread some intimidation around, I figured I’d better keep an eye on her. After all, that was what I was getting paid to do.

  Alex St. James

  It was with an unpleasant sense of déjà vu that I settled myself under the viaduct a second time, disguised as a homeless woman. What a way for a girl to spend a Saturday night.

  Rita and Lew were, again, stationed in the sound truck, though this time they parked a little closer to the action.

  With Jesse still recuperating, I needed another camera person. The only one willing to take on the challenge was Hal, a longtime employee, about thirty years older than Jesse, and about sixty pounds heavier. Hal was a gem, but I worried for his inability to be discreet. The guy was a nonstop talker. Homeless people needed a gentler touch.

  I’d made some significant adjustments to this outing. I decided against the smelly clothing from Father Morales. In fact, I’d thrown that stuff away. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d really given me those malodorous items as part of his plan to dissuade me from going. Tonight, I wore the used garments Bass had originally provided—they were clean, at least—and I chose not to let Father Morales or Nicky know my plans for a repeat engagement.

  Again, Jordan would be proud. Nicky had asked me when I planned to revisit the viaduct, and I’d lied and told him that I wasn’t even considering going back till next week at least.

  This time, I had control. I made sure that everything was perfectly arranged. And, the best part, the part that made me feel the most secure, was Ron Shade’s presence on the scene. For the first time since I’d been assigned this story, I felt safe, with someone who knew what he was doing watching my back.

  Hal, sporting his miniature camera, walked the location three times before sitting on a grassy patch to the far side of the cement incline. “Gotta sit on the grass,” I heard him say to little Gus, “my back aches, and I got a touch of sciatica.” He looked around. “Where do I go if I gotta go?”

  Gus inched away. I didn’t blame him.

  Shade had disappeared. I sat with my back to the metal post, my butt perched on the edge of the cement pillar, and tried to see where he went. I didn’t want to be too obvious—the last thing I needed was to have the local population pay too much attention to my actions—but it was disconcerting to have him out of sight.

  I pretended to be fascinated with the streetlight over my left shoulder, and used the time to scan the viaduct’s underside. I couldn’t see him anywhere. Not that my subterfuge mattered. The folks beneath the expressway were all involved in their own matters, whether it be babbling to themselves, sorting their belongings, or sleeping.

  “Looking for someone?” a male voice said.

  I spun. It was Shade.

  “There you are,” I said. “Where did you go?”

  “I wanted to get a feel for the place. Check things out.”

  I frowned slightly, thinking about what might have happened if those three boors would have shown up, but then realized that the chances of that were minimal since I’d thrown Nicky off the scent.

  “In the army we called it recon,” he said. “Short for reconnoitering.”

  “The importance of familiarizing oneself with the surroundings for those just-in-case moments?”

  He nodded. He was wearing an old military field jacket that looked older than he was.

  “Is that from your army days?” I asked.

  He shook his head and pointed to USMC stamped in black letters above the left pocket. “It belonged to my buddy George. He was in the marines back in ’Nam. Now he works for CPD as a detective.”

  “George? What’s his last name?”

  “Grieves. Why?”

  I smiled. “I’ve got a friend on Chicago, too, who’s a detective and his name is George. But his last name is Lulinksi.”

  “Good Irish name,” he said with a grin.

  “Speaking of names, do you know a Nicky Farnsworth?”

  Shade considered the name, looked pensive, then shook his head. “Doesn’t ring any bells. He a cop, too?”

  “Hardly.”

  Loud grunting caused us both to look up. A man, high up on the embankment stood bent in half, pants around his ankles, holding his stomach, moaning.

  “Oh geez,” I said.

  “Real classy joint you picked.” Shade grinned. “But I guess you’re dressed for it.”

  I looked at him. “You know, you don’t look much like a homeless person.”

  “Don’t you think I look scruffy enough?”

  The last thing I wanted to do was offend my security detail. “Well, I guess every homeless person started out clean at some time.”

  At that he’d smiled. I thought about Jordan’s suggestion to think of this guy as more than the hired help, but recent events, and the desire to get this story done without distraction worked more powerfully on me than the prospect of dating again. It was easier to think of Shade as a big brother–type.

  He was brawny and powerful-looking. He looked more like the three guys who’d accosted me than the people who actually lived here. “You’re here to get a story,” he said with a shrug. “I’m here to make sure you stay safe.” Thrusting his chin toward the rest of the inhabitants he said, “These people aren’t paying me a bit of attention. And that’s good. You go about what you need to do, and I’ll make sure it stays quiet.”

  And so I did.

  The first person I talked with didn’t know Howard Rybak, or maybe she just didn’t care to admit that she did. I could’v
e sworn the name registered when I’d asked her. The second person, a man who looked to be in his seventies, stared at me with close-set vacant eyes. I sat next to him—not too close—this guy reeked so badly of body excretions my eyes watered. “Dunno,” he said, when I mentioned Rybak’s name. I was about to turn, relieved to get away, when he asked, “He the one got new teeth?”

  I didn’t know what that meant, or if he was even talking to me. His gaze seemed fixed somewhere over my right shoulder.

  “I’m not sure,” I said. “Howard. You know him?”

  The elderly guy must’ve had something stuck in his own tooth because he worked his stubbled, doughy face back and forth, side to side, like a masticating giraffe.

  My nose seemed to take on a life of its own, fighting to leap off my face.

  “What’s your name?” I asked, holding the back of my hand near my face.

  He stopped chewing. “Brewster.”

  “Brewster. That’s a nice name.”

  More chewing.

  “I’ll be right back,” I said, jumping to my feet. I scurried over to the curb. Even with hot stinky air blowing up from its sewers, the street was a way better place to breathe. I leaned forward, hands on knees, working air in through my nose and out my mouth.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I lifted my eyes to see Shade there, looking concerned. “Holy geez,” I said. “That guy stinks.”

  He chuckled. “I told you. These homeless people aren’t like you see in movies or on TV. These people live out here. They eat, sleep, they . . .” he shrugged and glanced up toward the scene of the pants-dropping. “They do everything out here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You okay? You going to throw up?”

  “No,” I said with asperity. “I’m not a wimp.” I softened my tone as I straightened. “I just needed a few breaths. Something to clear this . . . ick . . . out of my nose.”

  “It can stay with you,” he said, commiserating. “I’ve been there.”

  “I think there’s smell memory,” I said, turning to face Brewster again, gearing myself up for another round of aromatic questions. “Do you wear aftershave?”

  “Not usually.”

  “Men’s cologne?”

  “Why, you planning on buying me a present?”

  I laughed.

  “No,” I said, “it’s just that there’s this guy I know who wears too much cologne. Every time I see him, I smell him for the rest of the day.”

  “Maybe you should ask your boyfriend for some of his strong smelling stuff to give to that dude.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said, shooting him a disparaging glance. “Believe me.”

  “Well maybe that guy’s available.” He grinned and pointed toward Brewster.

  “I’m worried that his fragrance is going to stay with me even longer.” With that discouraging thought in mind, I returned to talk with Brewster, staying far enough away to keep the nasties at bay.

  “Howard Rybak,” I began, trying to jar Brewster into awareness with mention of the name. “You know him, huh?”

  He stared at some middle distance. Chewing again. But his eyes reacted.

  “Hard times out here?” I asked.

  Nothing.

  “How long have you been on the street?”

  Brewster stopped chewing. Blinked. “What year is this?”

  I told him.

  “Twenty-two.”

  I couldn’t stop my exclamation. “You’ve been out here for twenty-two years?”

  He didn’t seem to be bothered by my shock. “Not just here. I been places. Been lotsa places.” His mouth worked the phantom food. “Seems longer than twenty-two years. Seems my whole life.”

  All of a sudden discussing the success story that was Howard Rybak seemed cruel. I was about to stand—to find another interviewee—when Brewster looked me straight on. “Wish I could get the good deal he got.”

  “Who?”

  “That guy.”

  “Rybak?”

  He nodded, his gaze zooming off again. “Wish I could get what he got. Even if I might get dead.” Brewster spread his lips, pointed to rotted out teeth. “New ones. Good ones. He looked real good.”

  “Rybak did?”

  Brewster sighed. “Nice teeth. New ones. He come back to show us. Brought us food. And then he was gone. If I got new teeth, I’d be gone, too.”

  At that the old man started to cry. I was completely at a loss of what to do, how to react. I couldn’t very well put my arm around him. Nor would I want to. He’d probably see it as an attempt to steal something.

  I got up, brushed my backside and thanked Brewster.

  He didn’t even know I left.

  Hal intercepted me on my way to talking with a woman curled up in a fetal position.

  “You getting anything worthwhile?” he asked.

  Disgusted, I shook my head. “Don’t know.”

  “Who’s this guy you keep asking about?”

  I explained.

  “So you think that if you can track this guy down, you might be able to avoid living among the undead?”

  Casting a glance around all the people I’d thought of as zombies, I agreed. “That’s the plan.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll see what I can come up with—I’ll talk with some of the folks near me.”

  “Thank, Hal,” I said. It couldn’t hurt.

  He climbed up the embankment and I headed to the pillar.

  When I got close to the fetal-positioned woman, I thought it might have been Vicky, the woman who’d coerced me for a handout at Father Morales’, but it wasn’t. This woman was about the same size and build, but older. A lot older.

  “How are you doing?” I asked her.

  “Why?”

  I lowered myself to sit next to her. She had an unpleasant scent around her, but it was nowhere near the world-class stink that surrounded Brewster. “Just want to talk,” I said.

  “You talk different.”

  I’d given up the imperfect grammar. It was difficult to maintain, and until right now, apparently unnecessary. No one under this bridge cared how I talked. They went about their business as though they expected oddities, and when some surfaced—me, for example—they took the new development in stride.

  Either that, or they were all so out of it that no one really noticed.

  Except this woman here. Maybe she noticed other things as well.

  “What’s your name?”

  She sat up, stared at me for a long, uncomfortable moment. “Ugly bitch.”

  Taken aback, I didn’t know what to say.

  She laughed, showing teeth almost as bad as Brewster’s. “No, I ain’t being rude. That’s what everybody calls me around here. But you ain’t from here, are you?”

  “I’m from nearby.”

  “Sure,” she said, rolling her eyes. She worked her mouth, a lot like Brewster had. I wondered if it was a symptom of bad dental hygiene, or a ghost movement, prompted by wishful memory of eating real food. Whatever it was, it gave her a moment to think as she scrutinized me. “Name’s Iris.”

  “I’m Alex,” I said, encouraged by the interaction. “So, Iris, how long have you been on the street?”

  “You don’t wanna know.”

  “I do.”

  She licked her lips. “You ain’t here to be my friend, so why don’t you cut the shit? What is it you want? You looking for action? Cuz me, I like men, myself. But if the price is right—”

  Revulsion must have showed on my face because she stopped herself. Got angry.

  “Then what the hell do you want, Miss Priss? You come down here. You talk to us. You gotta be here because you want something. Because if you—”

  I cut her short. “I want information.”

  That took her aback. She twisted her face into an exaggerated frown, but I could tell I’d piqued her curiosity. “What the hell kind of information do I have that can do you any good?”

  “For starters,” I said, “does the na
me Howard Rybak mean anything to you?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Shit.”

  I waited.

  “Who are you with?” she asked.

  I knew better than to bullshit. I pointed to Hal, who was desperately working on chatting up Gus. “Him.”

  She gave me another hyper-frown. “Ain’t what I mean.”

  “Then what do you mean?”

  She stared at me, squinting as though trying to read a hidden message in my eyes. “Us . . . here,” she gestured to encompass everyone in the immediate area, “are in the dog pound. You know?”

  I didn’t but I nodded.

  “And sometimes they come getcha.” She snatched at my arm but didn’t touch. “Now is it good that they getcha, or is it bad?”

  Trying desperately to follow her logic, I said, “I guess that depends on who’s getting you.”

  Her eyes lit up. “You’re a smart cookie.”

  “Did somebody ‘get’ Howard Rybak?”

  She nodded.

  “Who was it?”

  I’d gotten used to the smell, so when she leaned in close, it didn’t bother me. But her whispers shot hot, rancid breath—a new nasty scent—my direction. “Sometimes it’s like . . . like a nice family, picking out a puppy to take home,” she said with a knowing look. “But most times, well, most times it’s money-grubbers who want to steal what we got. So they lead us away and promise us treats and tell us they’re our friends.” Another look. “But the whole time they’re just fixing to put us to sleep. Like dogs.”

  When she leaned away again, I tried to put it all together. “Which way was it for Howard Rybak?” I asked slowly. “Did he get the good home, or is he . . . being promised treats?”

  Treats in exchange for what? I wondered. This made no sense. Why would anyone promise homeless people “treats” just to lead them away? Taking them from their homes, such as they were, required dedication and commitment if the goal was to find them better lives. It was an enormous responsibility. And it didn’t make sense.

  “So who you with?” she asked me again.

  I shook my head. “I’m just looking for Howard Rybak.”