Sheer Gall

by Michael A. Kahn

  Amy knew where he usually had lunch, and insisted on coming with me. “You’re not going to want to go in there alone,” she explained.

  She was right. What made the lunch crowd salivate at Junior Dice’s favorite spot was not the food on the plates but the women on the tables. Cherries was its name. It used to be called Derrières, and there were many on display, one per table, each neatly cleaved by a spangled G-string. Fortunately, Junior Dice’s preferred seat was in a quiet booth along a darkened back wall of the establishment, and the dominant object on his table was a fully dressed Caesar salad.

  He recognized Amy as we approached and broke into a big grin. “Hello, Miss Amy. Allow me to buy you and your foxy girlfriend a drink.”

  Junior Dice was a large dark-skinned black man. He had shrewd eyes, even white teeth, and a smooth, shaved head. It was the head of a boxer, with scar tissue around both eyes, a nose that had been broken more than once, a small dent in his forehead, and a cauliflower ear. He was wearing an iridescent green sports jacket over a shiny black T-shirt. The jacket was tailored to accentuate his broad shoulders, barrel chest, and narrow waist.

  Amy introduced me but did not tell him my connection to Sally. He reached across the table to gently shake my hand. “I am delighted to meet you, Rachel.”

  A bikini-clad waitress in spike heels arrived at our table to take our orders. She had what looked like maraschino cherries on the points of her bikini top, which was crammed to capacity by a pair of expensive-looking breasts. Dice ordered another glass of chablis, Amy asked for an iced tea, and I passed. As the waitress wiggled back toward the bar, Dice turned to me with a smile. “So, what brings you to this establishment, Rachel?”

  “I’m an attorney, Mr. Dice. I’m helping close up Sally Wade’s law practice. I understand you believe you have a claim against the estate.”

  Dice glanced in mild surprise at Amy, who was sitting next to me. Then he looked back at me with a smile. “You must be mistaken.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so. I understand you think Sally cheated you out of one of your fees.”

  He gazed at me with languid eyes. After a moment, he leaned forward and calmly said, “You understand wrong. Sally owes me nothing.”

  “Hey, Junior, who’re the girls?”

  The mood shattered, we all looked over at once. The speaker was one of the Cherries dancers, a slender brunette wrapped in a silky blue robe. She was standing at the head of our table, hands on her hips, one foot tapping nervously. She seemed to have pleasant features, although it was hard to tell precisely what was concealed beneath her thick stage makeup. Her scowl, though, would have been visible from the upper balcony.

  Junior leaned back in the booth, his smile warming a few degrees. “Be cool, baby. I’m helping clear up some confusion in the minds of these ladies. This is attorney Rachel Gold. I believe you already know Amy Chickering. She worked for the late, great Sally Wade.” He turned to us, his smile even warmer. “Ladies, this is my special girl, Jo-Jo. Her last name is Black, but she’s just as white as Snow White. And jes’ as pretty, ain’t you, baby?” He reached out, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her toward him. “Come on down here, Snow White. You on break. Have a seat next to your Junior and let me buy you a drink.”

  Reluctantly, she sat down next to him. Dice signaled for the waitress, who was heading in our direction with Dice’s glass of wine and Amy’s iced tea. As he ordered a Bloody Mary for Jo-Jo, I studied her features, trying to imagine how her face would look without the fake eyelashes, heavy eye shadow, and pancake makeup. She didn’t look like Sally Wade, or at least the photographs of the real Sally Wade. The problem was that I could no longer clearly recall the features of the fake Sally, if indeed the Sally I met had been a fake. Jo-Jo Black had similar hair color and body type, although hair color proved nothing and the body type I recalled was typical enough to include Amy and plenty of other women, including me.

  It was clear that we were done with Dice for the day. For whatever reason, he had decided that his prior business relationship with Sally Wade, including any money owed him, had terminated with her death. But Jo-Jo might be worth one shot before we left.

  “You knew Sally Wade?” I asked her.

  She glanced uncertainly at Dice, who subtly nodded his head.

  “Yeah,” she said, “I knew her.” She took a pack of cigarettes out of her robe pocket and stuck one in her mouth. “So what?”

  “I understood she owed Junior some money.”

  Dice had her well trained. She looked at him and he slowly shook his head as he flicked his lighter and held it toward her. She leaned forward, lit her cigarette, and looked back at me. She exhaled a stream of smoke and said, “I don’t know nothing about that.”

  On the way out, I told the bartender that I represented two nightclubs in Memphis and asked if Cherries had a publicity shot of Jo-Jo Black. It did, and he gave me one.

  ***

  “Why did you want her photo?” Amy asked as we pulled out of Cherries’ parking lot. Next stop: Alton, Illinois.

  “Clutching at straws,” I said, glancing down at the photo. I shook my head. “She doesn’t look much like Sally.”

  “Sally?” Amy asked, momentarily confused. “Oh, that,” she said, lifting the photo. “No way. Just more wishful thinking by Neville’s lawyer.”

  We drove for a while in silence. I glanced over at Amy. “Did you ever hear Sally mention someone named Tammy?”

  “Tammy?” she repeated.

  I nodded.

  “Who is she?”

  I explained Neville McBride’s alleged alibi witness. The passage of time hadn’t lent it any more credibility.

  “Meanwhile,” I continued, “I’d like Neville to look at Jo-Jo’s picture. It’s a long shot, but you never know.”

  “You think Jo-Jo might be Tammy, too?”

  “I don’t know what to think, Amy. But the fact that Jo-Jo is Junior Dice’s girlfriend sure brings her closer to the center of the action.” I turned onto the highway toward Alton. “How much money did Junior claim Sally owed him?”

  “About five grand.”

  “All from one case?”

  She nodded. “It was a big fee. He claimed she was racist and was always trying to screw him out of his fee. That’s why I ended up handling most of the face-to-face stuff with Junior.”

  “Was he her only black chaser?”

  Amy nodded. “But racism had nothing to do with it. They just plain didn’t get along. Believe me, Junior can be a real asshole.”

  “This may sound crazy,” I said, “but did Sally have any case involving rocks?”

  “Rocks?” Amy repeated.

  I explained the strange pictures that we had picked up from Walgreens with the receipt I’d found in Sally’s safe deposit box. I gestured toward the backseat. “I have one of the shots in my briefcase. Can you reach it?”

  Amy handed me the briefcase, and, keeping one eye on the road, I took out the picture. “Do these things look familiar?” I asked.

  She stared at the photograph for a long time. “I have no idea,” she said.

  “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  After a moment, Amy said, “This whole thing has been a real eye-opener.”

  I looked over at her. “How so?”

  She rested her chin in her hand. “You work for someone all that time and you really think you know who she is, right down to her secrets.” She flicked the photograph. “I guess I didn’t know Sally as well as I thought.”

  “I wish you could have been there the day she retained me,” I said.

  Amy frowned. “Why?”

  I gave her a rueful smile. “That way at least one of us would have known if she really was Sally Wade.”

  We were driving north along the Illinois side of the Mississippi River heading toward Alton, an Illinoi
s river town above St. Louis. We were passing the point just north of St. Louis where the Missouri River flows into the Mississippi River after its 2,500-mile journey from its headwaters high in the northern Rockies. Even down near river level along Route 3, the source of the Muddy Mo’s nickname was apparent: you could see its brown currents swirling into the Mississippi, staining the clear waters mahogany.

  A few minutes later, I pulled into a parking space behind the police department, turned off the engine, and checked my watch. We were early. Turning to Amy, who was reaching down for her purse, I said, “Tell me about Brady Kane.”

  Amy jolted upright. She gave me a strange look. “What about him?”

  “He works at Douglas Beef Processors in East St. Louis, right?”

  She nodded. “He’s the plant manager.”

  “You know him?”

  She nodded. “Sally handled a lot of workers’ comp cases against DBP—that’s what people call Douglas Beef. Brady Kane was usually the company rep at the hearings. I’ve been over there several times—for document productions, to serve subpoenas, to deliver notices, that sort of thing. You have dealings with DBP, you have to deal with Brady Kane.”

  “What’s he like?”

  She shrugged. “Sort of a cross between a management hard-ass and a Neanderthal man.”

  “Has he done anything specifically to you?”

  She gave me a puzzled look. “Why do you ask?”

  “The way you reacted when I mentioned his name.”

  She shook her head. “He’s just a creep. Last time I was in his office he had two jars of fetal blood on his desk.”

  “Fetal blood?”

  “From a calf fetus they found inside a slaughtered cow.” She shuddered. “They sell the stuff. He looks like he’d drink it warm with a ham sandwich and chips.”

  “That is creepy.” I sorted through my notes. “Tell me about Sally’s relationship with him.”

  “Relationship? What do you mean?”

  “The police pulled Sally’s phone records. She talked to him a fair amount before and after normal business hours. The telephone records show about six telephone calls to him a month—half to his apartment at night, half to his private line at the slaughterhouse early in the morning.”

  Amy frowned. “Well, we did have a lot of cases against DBP.”

  “True, but they were represented by attorneys in each of those cases. That was clear from the files. Sally was a lawyer. That meant she couldn’t talk directly to Brady Kane, or to any other Douglas Beef employee, about any pending case.”

  “Why not?”

  “It violates the Code of Professional Responsibility. You’re not permitted to make direct contact with an adverse party that you know to be represented by an attorney.”

  Amy gave me a cynical look. “Is that the same code that says you’re not permitted to pay a chaser for a case?”

  I smiled. “Good point.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Rachel. I’m not saying there was anything improper about Sally’s contacts with Brady Kane. In fact, I have no reason to think there was.”

  “Then why would she be calling him?”

  Amy mulled it over. “Maybe they were friends?”

  “Maybe they were lovers?”

  Amy made a gagging noise. “God, I hope not.”

  I thought about the Swiss bank account. “Were there ever any confidential packages delivered directly to Sally from the slaughterhouse?”

  Amy frowned. “What are you thinking?”

  I shrugged. “Money. Some sort of kickback on cases. It happens.”

  “I don’t think so, and I probably would have known if there had been. After all, I knew all about the chasers.”

  I sighed. “Damn.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Instead of crossing names off my list, I keep adding new ones.” I checked my watch. “Tomorrow for him. Let’s go see Officer McCarthy.”

  “You go,” Amy said. “I’ll wait.”

  “Oh?”

  “I never had any contact with Annie. She would only deal directly with Sally. You’ll probably get more out of her if I’m not there.”

  ***

  It would have been hard to get any less.

  Officer Annie McCarthy had her story and she was sticking with it, come hell or high water. She met me in a witness interrogation room that included what had to be a one-way mirror on one wall, and she acted as if someone from Internal Affairs were watching from the other side of the mirror.

  “That’s a total crock of shit, lady,” she said, arms akimbo, fists clenched on her hips.

  She was in full uniform, with a riot stick dangling from one hip and a handgun strapped to the other. A walkie-talkie in a shoulder holster emitted occasional coughs of static. Even her hairstyle was tough: a ragged macho pageboy. Only her face seemed out of sync with the Rambo demeanor. She was cute, in a Midwestern tomboyish way, with bright blue eyes, a pug nose, and perfect white teeth.

  “I understand that’s what you told the Disciplinary Commission’s investigators,” I said.

  “And it’s what I’m telling you,” she said, her chin thrust forward defiantly. “And it’s what I’ll tell any other asshole who wants to ask. I never drove no accident victim to that lawyer’s office, and I sure as shit never collected no fee. Period. End of sentence. Understand?”

  “Sit down a moment, Annie,” I said, aiming for a soothing tone. I took a chair.

  She looked down at me with a sneer. “No need to. We’re done. I’m outta here.”

  I gazed up at her. “I have the payment records,” I said calmly.

  There was a pause. “What payment records?” Sounding a shade less cocky.

  “For the clients you brought Sally. She kept them in her safe deposit box. Nine hundred dollars for Ramon Valdona. Remember him? Five hundred from someone named Javier. And so on. But I’m not here to build a chaser case against you, Annie. I don’t care about that stuff. I want to talk to you about Sally Wade. We can do that in private, just the two of us, or we can do it in public, in some courtroom.” I shrugged. “Your choice. If you’d like, I can meet you after your shift ends.”

  I could almost hear the gears turning inside her head. It took her a long time to respond, and when she did her tone was subdued. “You got a business card?”

  “Sure.” I pulled one out of my briefcase and held it toward her.

  She snapped it out of my hand and swiveled to leave. “Maybe,” she said, her hand on the door, her back to me. She opened the door. “Maybe not.”

  She walked out.

  I watched the door swing shut. Slowly, I stood up. I felt exhausted.

  ***

  I dropped by the office before heading over to my self-defense class. Jacki had left a nice surprise in the center of my desk: a photocopy of the society column from the Style Plus section of the Sunday, August 16, edition of the Post-Dispatch. Jacki had highlighted the middle paragraphs, which described the Carousel Auction Gala at the Ritz-Carlton put on by the Friends of the St. Louis Children’s Hospital:

  Guests gathered at 6 p.m. on a Friday night under the carousel in the smaller of the two ballrooms at the Ritz, where a bar had been set up in the center of the room with bartenders serving on all four sides. High above the bar was a carousel horse, and at each of its four corners was a smaller gilded carousel horse dressed in burgundy and teal blue. Waiters and waitresses passed silver trays of delicious hot hors d’oeuvres to guests as they signed up for the silent auction items displayed around the room.

  Chairwoman Cynthia Barnstable said the event netted more than $450,000, including $145,000 from the auction itself. The 350 guests paid $150 and up for their tickets to the event. The money will be used for the Neurorehabilitation Unit at Children’s Hospital.

  I read the excerpt again, nodding
pensively. The article included a photograph of two women standing in front of a carousel horse. The caption identified them as Cynthia Barnstable, chairwoman of the event, and Prudence McReynolds, president of the women’s auxiliary of Children’s Hospital. The photo credit named Charles Morley. I circled his name and drew an arrow to the margin, where I jotted a note to Jacki:

  We need to serve this guy with a subpoena.

  Let’s talk in the morning.

  ***

  The special tonight was groin-stomping, with a little face action thrown in for variety. I was pumped.

  “Assume the position,” Faith ordered.

  I was there already: feet at shoulder width, toes pointed forward, knees flexed, hands at my sides.

  We started with foot-heel strikes, first in slow motion. I pulled my right leg up, inverted my heel, toes pulled back, and then kicked. Ten with the right leg, ten with the left. Then full speed, with our yell of spirit. We sounded awesome—eleven high-kicking women shaking the room with martial-arts screams.

  We paired up to practice heel strikes to the knee in slow motion. Because there were an odd number of us, Faith took turns pairing up with each of us. Tonight she picked me.

  “Stay low in your stance, Rachel,” she said. “That’s it. A little lower. Good. Balance is key. If your stance isn’t firm, your kick will be weak. Yes. Aim for the top of the knee. Right there.”