The Second Secret

by Alan Lee

  “Do all private investigators seek to badger and aggravate their sources? Or are you an anomaly?”

  “We could call Calvin right now. Get permission for you to talk with me about his moonshine operation?”

  “I’m afraid it’s a very busy day, Mr. August. And I have other clients coming in. Perhaps we can continue this discussion in the future.”

  “How large an investment is required for you to take me on as a client?” I asked. “You know, start planning my retirement.”

  “The minimum I help invest is five hundred thousand dollars.”

  “I’ll come back in seventy-five years.”

  * * *

  I knocked on Ronnie’s heavy office door and pushed into the receptionist area.

  The cute assistant looked up from her enormous desk and said, “It’s you.”

  “It’s me. Hello Natasha Gordon.”

  “I’m afraid Ms. Summers is not here,” she said and she managed to look genuinely disappointed.

  “Ah. Rotten luck.”

  “I’ll tell her you came by.”

  “Would you mention that I looked especially dashing and virile today?”

  She pretended to write on her notepad. “…especially…dashing. Got it. Is there anything I can help you with in the meantime?”

  “Can I borrow four hundred and ninety thousand dollars?”

  “Is there anything else I can help with?”

  “Do you know why Calvin Summers hired me?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “So we can speak candidly.”

  “I think so.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I think I hope you catch the man who did it. You may sit down, if you want.”

  I did. The cushions were elite. “Do you work for Mr. Summers?”

  “No. I’m an employee of this law firm, not of his investments. However the two businesses are often intertwined.”

  “How so?”

  She bit nervously at her bottom lip. “Am I allowed to talk about this?”

  “Sure.”

  “I’m not sure I believe you. Ms. Summers described you as mischievous.”

  “She meant inquisitive. Which is my job. Calvin Summers hired me to ask questions. Ergo, I ask. How are the two businesses intertwined?”

  “Well, she handles all of Mr. Summers’s legal work. Sometimes there is a lot.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Like employment disputes, tax questions, the criminal trial. Plus, Mr. Summers insists she help his friends with their entanglements. Kids caught drunk driving, thinks like that.”

  “Is Calvin her biggest client?”

  “…Yes, I suppose. Technically.”

  “I detect there’s more to your answer.”

  Unconsciously, her voice dropped to a half whisper. “So Mr. Summers consumes more of her time than any other client. So in that way he is her biggest. But he’s not really a client. He’s family. He doesn’t pay her.”

  “For any of it?”

  “None. He forces her to do the work pro bono.”

  “How does he force her?” I asked.

  “Paternal pressure, I suppose.”

  “Is that fiscally responsible?”

  “Ms. Summers isn’t poor. But her law firm makes half of what it could,” she said.

  “Because of him.”

  “Because of Mr. Summers, yes.”

  “Are you and Ronnie close?”

  Her face brightened. “I hope so, yes. Probably closer than most in our situation. She doesn’t have many friends, to be honest.”

  “Did she talk to you about her father’s legal trouble?”

  “No.”

  “She was privy to the evidence presented against her father. Did she mention it?” I asked.

  She shook her head, ponytail swaying. “No. I know nothing about it.”

  “Has Calvin ever been cruel to you?”

  “Oh no. He’s a perfect gentleman to everyone except his daughter.”

  “He demands a lot of her.”

  “Off the record, he’s awful to her.”

  “Families are hard,” I said, grinding my teeth, and doing my best to pry my fingers off the armrests. I was about to break them.

  “Extremely. Mine too.”

  “Have you met Wayne?” I asked.

  “Wayne?”

  “Wayne Cross. Big guy. Works at the trailer parks.”

  “I know the name. I’ve never met him. If they don’t work with Ms. Summers then I usually don’t know much about them. Sorry.”

  “So you don’t know Scott.”

  “No. Sorry.” To her credit, she looked authentically sorry.

  “Do you know much about Calvin’s rental properties?”

  “I don’t. Mr. Bradshaw would, though.”

  “W hat about the convenience stores?”

  “Ask Mr. Bradshaw,” she said.

  “Does Calvin ever come to this office?”

  “Sure, sometimes.”

  “Does he give out moonshine? Maybe as a Christmas present?”

  “Does he give…what? I don’t understand. No, he doesn’t.”

  Poor Natasha. She looked as though she was being interviewed by an idiot.

  “Have you met Boyd Hunt?” I asked.

  “The farmer?”

  “Dairy farm operator, yes.”

  “I knew him when I was a child. I’m still in contact with his wife, who is lovely. Does that help? Very nice woman. She lives in Franklin County. I used to be friends with her daughter, back in high school.”

  “Does Mrs. Hunt strike you as a government informant?”

  “No. She does not.”

  “What about Mr. Stokes? Property manager?”

  “Yes.” A crisp nod, ponytail swaying. “Him I know.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Could he have betrayed Calvin?”

  “I don’t know. I know he comes in to ogle Ms. Summers as often as he can,” she said.

  “Ew.”

  “I think so too.”

  The door behind me opened. I turned to see a sharply dressed man in a coal black suit. He paused at the doorway. Despite being indoors, he wore black Ray-Bans. His head was shaved and it gleamed and he inclined it curiously toward me and then down to his watch.

  Natasha Gordon said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Antoine, but Ms. Summers is out. I’ll tell her you came by.”

  Mr. Antoine didn’t speak. I got the impression his eyes were resting on me. I tried to look professionally ferocious.

  More silence.

  Natasha Gordon fidgeted.

  “Am I sitting in your chair?” I asked him.

  “This is the second time,” Mr. Antoine said. Dark and displeased voice.

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Happens again, I inform Mr. Summers I’m getting a new lawyer. And he don’t want to lose my business.”

  “Yes, I’ll let her know. I’m apologize.”

  He glared another moment and left. The door clicked softly behind him.

  “He’s kinda spooky,” I said.

  Natasha looked as though she was releasing a breath she’d been holding. “Yes.”

  “One of Calvin Summer’s friends whom he foists upon the legal counsel of his daughter?”

  “Something like that.”

  “What’s he do?”

  “I haven’t been told.”

  “When he’s displeased with his attorney he threatens to tattle on her to the father?” I asked.

  “It’s complicated.”

  “How soon will Ronnie be back?”

  “Not for a few days. She drove to Washington.”

  Despite my professional ferocity, despite my stalwart spirit and my heart of gold and my strongly controlled emotions, my heart sank. “To visit her fiancé?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “I have not. I don’t believe he’s ever been here. He’s a federal prose
cutor.”

  “Wow.”

  “I think so too.”

  I said, “Thank you for the information.”

  “Was I much help?”

  “Yes. And more pleasant than Wayne.”

  “Is Wayne what happened to your face?” she asked.

  “I plead the Fifth.”

  “It’s okay.” She smiled, a warm one. “I’ll tell Ms. Summers you looked handsome anyway.”

  Chapter Ten

  >> hey big guy

  >> lol

  >> come over tomorrow 4 lunch?

  >> meet me at roanoke college?

  The texts were from Kristin Payne, the psychology professor, field hockey coach, and size ten hottie. I hadn’t seen her since our date.

  Did I want to see her again?

  …Mostly.

  I possessed enough self-awareness to recognize a kind of raw jealousy lurking in my chest. Ronnie was with her fiancé — perfectly natural. That’s where she should be. Except I didn’t want her to be there. I wanted her to dump the repugnant asshat.

  Was he repugnant? Almost certainly. In comparison to intrepid private cops.

  I texted Kristin. Told her I would meet her for lunch, but I didn’t mention I’d only be coming to mitigate loneliness caused by another woman.

  Careful, Mackenzie. Easy.

  You are captain of your ship.

  Or something like that.

  I slipped the phone back into my pocket and forcefully took my mind off Ronnie.

  I was standing on a football field at Patrick Henry High School under a deep blue spring sky. The head coach had contacted me again about being his defensive coordinator but this time he suggested I come watch a practice. It was a dirty tactic; the pads and the grass and the whistles hit me like a shot of adrenaline. He’d essentially opened the door to a time machine, whisking me back to halcyon days.

  I thought about suiting up and tackling these mere mortals.

  This wasn’t a real practice though. Those wouldn’t start till summer. More or less, the players were running through orchestrated conditioning drills in pads during their off-season. Still. I loved it.

  Jeriah Morgan burst through his offensive line, put a fancy move on the nearest linebacker, and sprinted up the field. Jeriah was a former student of mine, a sophomore starting on varsity, a running back with college potential. He caught sight of me and jogged close.

  “August! What up, Teach! Haven’t seen you.”

  “Jeriah.” I nodded. “Still got the quick feet?”

  “You know it.”

  “You’re wasting too much time going east to west.”

  That stopped him. “Do what?”

  “Just now. To elude that linebacker, you went lateral. Can’t do that in a game. You’ll get caught from behind.”

  “Yeah, well. What do you know? Can’t run over the dude. He’s got fifty pounds on me.”

  “You only need inches in the open field. Change direction, blow by him, not around him. Force him into an arm tackle. You’ll get through, most times,” I said.

  “What, you the coach now?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Yo, August, that’d be lit. You gotta be a coach for us.”

  “We’ll see.”

  He jogged back to the heaving mass of helmets and coaches. Though madness, there be method in it. They regrouped and ran more plays, keeping lungs and legs hot.

  A tall man came onto the field and stopped beside me. Bald, strong, imposing, like black Jason Statham in a suit. He smelled good.

  “I been telling the boy, eliminate the fancy maneuvers,” Marcus Morgan grumbled. “He don’t listen to me. Not anymore. Perhaps he’ll attend you.”

  “Possibly you’ve reached the stage of fatherhood where you’re more obstacle than mentor,” I said.

  “Lately it’s like a competition.” He sighed, a deep rush of wind. “Father and son. Trying to prove he’s better than me.”

  “Good to see you, Marcus.”

  “Been hoping you’d show. This team needs something. Needs you.”

  We silently watched the practice. When I realized we both had our hands clasped behind our backs I crossed my arms instead. How embarrassing.

  “Haven’t seen you at church,” he said.

  “What’s a gangster like you go to church for?”

  “Not a fucking gangster. I’m a business man. You know this. And what does that have to do with church?”

  “I apologize,” I said. “You’re right. But as soon as I’m without sin, I’m going to throw stones at you.”

  His stoicism cracked. A pleased smile. “Moving cocaine is no worse than moving sugar. It’s illegal but it’s a product. Someone will move it, might as well be me. I’m merely the most humane cog in the machine.”

  “An episcopal cog.”

  “Episcopal.” He sniffed with displeasure. “Denominations are a formality. Hate them. See, I recognize there’s more to life than this. Than what we observe. And so I chase it. As best I can any given moment. I’m not episcopal. I am spiritual.”

  “A spiritual cocaine mover.”

  “Thankfully you and I, Mr. August, happen to serve a merciful God.”

  “Amen.”

  “Amen.” He nodded.

  I glanced behind him. Sitting on the bleachers was a fat man in jeans. He wore a shirt far too big, probably to hide a gun.

  “You got a walk-around guy, now?” I asked.

  “A precaution. Became necessary.”

  “Uh-oh. You angered someone, Marcus. Hard to imagine.”

  “Apparently I reached a certain rank in the hierarchy of success. Made me a target,” he said. “Bodyguard is worth the expense.”

  “Big Will told me I owe you one.”

  “Do indeed. Though it was partially self-preservation. They murder you and missed your Mexican friend, he’d come after me.”

  “You’re talking about Manny,” I said.

  “Yes, Manny.”

  “Yeah, he’d kill you. And your cute bodyguard.”

  “I tried to purchase Manny. Seems uninterested in money.”

  “He didn’t tell me that,” I said.

  “My impression, he marches to the beat of his own drum. And though he’s got great affection for you, he is not, ah, beholden to you.”

  “Yes.”

  “He strikes me as…incorruptible isn’t the right word. Perhaps unmanageable is better. By me or by his superiors.”

  “Manny does what he wants and he does it well,” I said.

  “You two make quite the duo. Large personalities in our city.”

  “So now Sergeant Sanders is gone, you’re looking for other cops to put on the payroll,” I said.

  “Essentially. Cop or marshal, whatever. But he is too principled.”

  “Not principled. It’s survival instincts. A loathing of attachments. He can’t let himself be in your debt.”

  Jeriah jogged past, back to the scrum, giving his father and me an extra long inspection.

  “Boy’s good,” I said.

  “Yes. Could be great, but he’s got no fight. Just arrogance. What do I do, Mr. August? It’s our wealth makes him lazy. I need to live in poverty so he gets a work ethic? The conditions I grew up in made me strong. Made me a man. So I could provide a better life for my wife and my son. But now those conditions make them soft. It kills me. You understand.”

  “Somewhat. My kid still wears diapers. Men like you and I, we emerged into this world potty trained.”

  “I was Jeriah’s age, I had two jobs. I provided for myself and others,” he said, ignoring how funny I was. “Didn’t stare at fucking screens all day.”

  “You want him to take over the family business?”

  “Hell no. Shit no. I want him to be a teacher. A surgeon. A defense lawyer. A grocery manager. Something to be proud of. Not like me.”

  “Not like you.”

  “You want your boy to grow up and be a detective? Private or otherwise?”

  “I d
o not.”

  He nodded. “You see.”

  “That’s just the way of things. We hope our children experience no conflict. But that’s impossible. It’s the conflict which matures us. Can’t be a good football players without years of bruising.”

  He grunted.

  I continued, “But I agree — Jeriah should become something other than a gangster.”

  He sniffed. “Told you. I’m a businessman.”

  “A businessman working with the District Kings.”

  “You know about the Kings,” he said.

  “I know enough.”

  “I went to a high council meeting, to explain your mess couple months ago,” he said.

  “They actually call them high council meetings?”

  “District Kings aren’t thugs. They are educated men.”

  “And a bit theatrical, I note.”

  “Damn right,” he said. “Men from Latin America. Men from Russia. Europe. America’s cities. Dangerous men. Fucking angry men who don’t agree on much. But one thing they got in common? They hate you.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Met in Philadelphia. They sent a squad down immediately. For you,” he said.

  “Big Will wanted to ride along. To watch the shootout.”

  “Big Will…he’s unique.”

  “Thanks for convincing the squad otherwise.”

  “Pay me back. Be in my son’s life. Coach this team,” he said.

  “All right.”

  “All right?” he said.

  “Sure. Be fun.”

  “Good,” he said. “And come to a poker game tonight.”

  “A poker game.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “You and I, Marcus, we have a weird co-existence. Call it a friendly truce. But I don’t know that means we play cards together. I’m not your ally.”

  “I know this. Not trying to recruit you into the underworld.”

  “Mafioso at this game?”

  “Maybe. Mostly local guys. Most in Roanoke would kill to get invited,” he said.

  “Who plays?”

  “Calvin Summers.”

  “You jest.”

  “Shit you not, August.”

  “He hired me,” I said.

  “I know.”

  “You and he work together?”

  “Calvin is a…competitor. To be polite.”

  “You went to Princeton,” I said.

  “I did.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “White-guy dumbass school, my guess,” he said.