Wrong Chance

by E. L. Myrieckes

  “Wells, Ca-umm-Marie, I recons you needs to take your troubles elsewheres. Don’t like or gives my help to liars.” He stuck his stubby fingertips back on a Braille copy of Push Comes To Shove and ignored her.

  “I’m not leaving,” she said, her voice taut with tension. “There is no other place for me to go.”

  “Hiding from someone, Ca-umm-Marie? The likes of the law? Don’t fool with lawbreakers.”

  “It’s my husband.” She paused for effect, letting the implications of a defenseless woman hiding from her husband trickle through the man’s mind. “He’s clever. He’ll find me if I use my real name.”

  “That bad?”

  “Worse.” Then: “He’s killed before.”

  “Supposing you wanna pay cash and not leave a paper trail.”

  “Yes, yes.” She breathed a sigh of relief. “I knew I came to the right place.”

  “Not ifens I don’t know your real name.” He snapped the book closed. “Ms. Ca-umm-Marie, I can’t see a lick. Borns that way. And I don’t keep records or receipts of anything. So I only operates on real names and what my nose smells. Surely you heard that through the grapevine, too.”

  Winner winner chicken dinner, she thought, then she leaned forward and whispered her name.

  TWELVE

  On April 21, 2011, Chance’s research led him to the unsavory end of Cedar Road. The elderly brick buildings were hunched over like they had suffered a lifetime of abuse. Some of the crippled buildings had broken windows that made them look snaggle-toothed. He had obviously been fed bad information. He looked at the lowercase lettering—stormie bishop, esq.—on the stained-glass door and started to say fuck it. A man who didn’t think to capitalize his name wasn’t worth Chance’s time or hard-earned money. But a pack of dangerous-looking thugs bopping in his direction urged him to go inside. No use for unnecessary violence and troublesome attention.

  Stormie Bishop, the best damn criminal defense attorney in the Midwest, at least that’s how the source who’d referred Stormie to Chance described him. For days Chance tried to imagine what the “best” looked like. He sure didn’t figure on Stormie Bishop being such a casual man: Old Navy T-shirt and well-worn denims, loafers and a diamond earring with hair as white as an Antarctic blizzard.

  Stormie covered the phone. “Just be a sec; take a seat.” He gestured to the phone. “Granddaughter wants a new car with subacceptable grades. Generation Y.” He flagged his hand. “Move the junk.”

  Chance looked at the Federal Supplements and other law books stacked in the only chair facing Stormie’s desk. He wondered why this jerk-off would refer to his professional tools as junk. “I’ll stand. I won’t be poking around long.” He adjusted the bulky book bag on his shoulder, then he took in the office.

  It wasn’t decked out with all the expensive trappings he expected the best would have; it was the exact opposite: Unimpressive. Cluttered. Dirty. A minifridge and a food-stained microwave were shoved in the corner. The area looked like a rest haven for roaches. A drip coffee maker sat on the desk next to the computer. Its Home Row keys were stained brown. Chance couldn’t figure that one out. Maybe Stormie stirred his Folgers with his fingers and didn’t wash his hands before getting on the computer. The only window in the room offered an ugly view of the senile brick building next door.

  Piles of Criminal Law Reporters and law briefs occupied every available crevice. From the looks of things, Stormie Bishop was far from high-powered. More like static electricity. Chance started to shove off and take a look at his alternative research options now that the thugs outside were more than likely gone. But the Marc Newson Lockheed lounge chair Stormie’s narrow ass was parked in told a different story. Chance knew the chair was worth a couple million easy. Who could afford an ass parking space like that but someone who knew their shit?

  Stormie hung up the phone. “Sorry about that.” He stood and offered Chance a hand. “How can I help you, Mr.…?”

  “Fox. Mr. Fox, but call me Chance.” Chance noted Stormie’s firm, confident grip.

  “So what brings you, Chance?”

  “How many limbs do you charge to defend a capital murder case?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “Whether I’m pleading it down to a lesser charge or taking it to trial.”

  “Going the distance.”

  “Three hundred thousand,” Stormie said.

  “Does that cover multiple bodies or only one?”

  “Depends.”

  “On?”

  “If the bodies were killed together in one location or if they were killed separately in different locations.”

  Chance said, “Different.”

  “Per par share.”

  Chance tossed him the book bag. “It’s all there.”

  Stormie unzipped the bag and took a peek. “Who…who am I defending?” He slowly and carefully set his eyes on Chance. “There hasn’t been a capital murder case around here since that fellow Anthony Sewell murdered those street girls and buried them in that house on Imperial Avenue.”

  “I haven’t whacked them yet,” Chance said without a glimmer of humor, then headed toward the door. “Dude, I’ll give you a buzz when I’ve done the deed.”

  • • •

  Scenario Davenport watched the volley of subtle insults bounce from one sibling to the other. She sat in uncomfortable silence in her boss’s office, not believing she had a front-row seat to this family feud.

  “It’s unethical,” County Prosecutor Marcus Jefferson said and set his square chin. His tone wasn’t kind; it suggested a history of contempt and inflexibility.

  “But we’re family,” Miranda Brooks, a bejeweled woman with coiffed hair, said.

  “Like that amounts to much. Funny, the family word only comes out your fat mouth when you need something. This time it works against you because it’s a conflict of interest.”

  “You seem to act like you don’t know we’re talking about George, your only nephew.”

  “Who robbed a convenience store and carjacked a senior citizen to flee the scene of the crime.” Then: “I can’t prosecute his case because George is my nephew. It’s called conflict of interest. It’s the same reason why husbands and wives can’t be forced to testify against each other.”

  Miranda Brooks said, “If Mother were alive—”

  “She’d what, Miranda? Force me to break the law and risk my job and freedom to give your junkie son a break? Side with you as usual and beat me if I don’t comply? We’re not kids anymore, and she’s fifteen years dead and I’m thrilled about it.”

  Scenario could tell from Miranda’s facial expression that Marcus’s words cut to the quick and set her temper on edge. Their moment of silence was everything but amicable; it was almost intolerable to inhale the fumes.

  Marcus said, “I’ve pulled all the strings I am going to pull for poor George. He got those breaks while he was a juvenile. He crossed the adult line this time. He chose his path.”

  Scenario figured Miranda was too proud and hateful to cry. Instead she kept her tears in check and dabbed them with a fancy handkerchief.

  “You’re never going to change,” Miranda said. “Mother was right about you. You’re a selfish self-centered bastard, Mar Mar.”

  “Don’t. Ever. Call me that again or I’ll make you eat your words and lick your fingers when you’re done.”

  “Isn’t there anything you’ll do for George?” She made an imaginary crucifix on her body. “He’s my son.”

  “This is what I can do for you, Miranda,” Marcus said. “Meet Ms. Scenario Davenport. She’s my new assistant county prosecutor, my successor when I retire in a few years.”

  Scenario flinched when her boss said her name. She felt like he’d just thrown her under a bus. From the sheer look alone, Scenario could tell that Miranda was regarding her with as much contempt as humanly possible. Marcus’s office was too small for the bitterness being stuffed into it. Scenario wanted to open the door but wa
s certain she’d be blown into the hallway when the enormous pressure released. Scenario swallowed and offered a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Brooks.”

  “And?” Miranda looked at Scenario’s hand like it was covered in shit. And she had the audacity not to hide her upturned nose.

  “I’m assigning George’s case to her,” Marcus said with a smug smile.

  Miranda stood up so fast it made Scenario woozy.

  “She’s an outsider,” Miranda said. Her eyes burned with outrage.

  “Assistant County Prosecutor Scenario Davenport is impartial, which is the only way to achieve justice with this sensitive matter you find yourself faced with.”

  Miranda stormed out without uttering another word and slammed the door behind her.

  Marcus put his penetrating turquoise gaze on Scenario. “If anyone in this office ever calls me Mar Mar, you’re fired. Are we clear on that?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Conflict of interest is a fucked-up thing when you want to nail someone. Show me exactly why I hired you and throw the fucking book at my nephew. I hate that little bastard.” He gave Scenario George’s criminal file.

  THIRTEEN

  It was a seedy place called The Kennel, and it was overflowing with idiots. A portable radio with a hanger antenna played the static version of Christina Aguilera’s “Not Myself Tonight.” A raggedy fan stirred the stale air. The place smelled awful, just like its namesake. Chance hopped up on a barstool between a big-tit bimbo with a bad dye job and a redneck that looked like a surgically altered version of Vin Diesel. Diesel look-alike had the tough look down to a science. What is this world coming to? Chance questioned himself as he rubbed his new bald head. He was going to miss his dreadlocks.

  He placed a ten-dollar bill on the scarred countertop and glanced at the Budweiser clock behind the barkeep, 3:55 p.m. “Give me what it’ll take. Pour it neat and make it tall.”

  “What are you into?” the bimbo said.

  Chance knew that ass and tits were all that anyone ever noticed or remembered about her. “I’m into having magic sex,” he said.

  She wiggled her eyebrows. “Oh, really? How do you do that?”

  “We fuck then you disappear. Wanna have a go at it?”

  “Stranger, I knew you were a wild one when you came through the door. Aren’t you gonna ask me my name first?”

  Chance threw back his drink. The cognac burned going down. “I already know your name. It’s Tits and Ass.” He tucked a Marlboro behind his ear.

  “You’re a mess, stranger. Meet me in the bathroom in a couple of minutes. I need to freshen up before we do magic.” Tits and Ass strutted off toward the can.

  Chance checked the Budweiser clock, 3:58 p.m. Revenge was only thirty-two minutes away, so he had a few minutes to blow off some steam doing a little grab ass.

  Diesel belched, then he leaned over. “Mind if I get sloppy seconds?”

  Chance shrugged a suit yourself then followed Tits and Ass into the shitter.

  FOURTEEN

  A knock-down-drag-out fisticuffs, that’s how their last encounter ended eight months ago, and Yancee Taylor had gone home that day to his family with his ass thoroughly kicked. Nevertheless, now, Yancee was excited to hook up with his homeboy Chance Fox. Yancee just hoped that they were able to keep their hands to themselves this time.

  Africa, Yancee’s wife, often commented that he and Chance were engaged in a sadomasochism relationship because they weren’t happy unless they physically or verbally abused each other. Nothing new. These knuckleheads had been carrying on like this since elementary school: fight about something childish, then the stubborn bastards would wait to see who’d give in first and apologize so they could do it all again.

  Yancee laughed to himself as he nosed his ’67 Camaro to the Wood Chips, their old neighborhood meeting place that sat on the corner of Sidney and E. 276 Street. He, Leon, and Chance used to hang out there when they were kids, doing all the things mannish little boys did. The stories that outdoor jungle gym would tell if it could talk.

  Yancee shook his head, disappointed in himself. Worm or lure? He still couldn’t believe that their last fight was over fishing bait. Chance was pro worm; he was pro lure. Yancee peeked at his watch as he parked in front of the Wood Chips, 4:29 p.m. Right on time.

  Chance was sitting on top of the monkey bars swinging his feet in a pair of peep-toe pumps when Yancee strolled up. Yancee squinted and shaded his eyes from the sun as he gazed up at Chance. “What’s up with the wig and dress?”

  “Dude, my psychiatrist said I should get in touch with my feminine side.”

  “And looking like Cash is your answer?” Yancee shook his head.

  “It’s a start,” Chance said. “Besides, I know you won’t hit a girl.”

  “You’re stupid, you know that?”

  “You gonna stand down there giving me goo-goo eyes or are you gonna come up here?”

  “We’re not exactly young bucks anymore, Chance.”

  “Dude, stop crying. Geez.”

  Yancee settled down beside Chance and smelled marijuana and liquor. “You’ve been drinking.”

  “Wow, you’re such a genius. It’s fascinating how intellectually gifted you are.”

  Yancee said, “Here we go with the bull—”

  “Dude, you’re the one who started smarting off at me first, talking about ‘you’ve been drinking.’ ”

  “Forgive me for thinking it was worth mentioning. Last time I checked you had nine years’ sobriety under your belt.”

  “And I’m still taking it one day at a time. Today I’m drinking.”

  “And you’re wearing a wig and a dress. For God’s sake, you’re wearing fake tits.” Yancee threw his hands up. “Good luck with that. What’s up with it, though? Saved any abused pets lately?” He thought it best to get Chance open on a subject he was passionate about before cutting in to him to find out what was really going on.

  Chance frowned. “People are dims wads.”

  “Chance.”

  “What, dude?”

  “You’re tripping. White people don’t use terms like dim wad anymore. If I’m not mistaken, that went out with the eighties.”

  “I’m a retro white boy in a class of my own.”

  Yancee shrugged a so you say.

  “Anyway,” Chance said. “Who gives people permission to cage animals that are meant to be free?” Then: “I could never harm any animal, and people who do deserve to die. Violently.”

  “You know how it is. That’s why we have animal enthusiasts like you in the world.” Yancee squeezed Chance’s shoulder and really took in their surroundings. “This is like looking twenty years into the past. I thought this place would have been torn down.”

  “Those were the good old days.” Chance pulled out two bottles of Mickey’s Big Mouth from the purse he was carrying. He forced one on Yancee. “So many dames got a piece of my boner right here. Adrienne Edwards put out right over there on the sliding board.”

  “Straight up?”

  Chance nodded. “Did a little grab ass with Sahara Lawrence under the sliding board. Gave her the T-bone right in the chips.”

  “Get out of here. Leon loved the hell out of her, but damn, she was a freak.” Then: “If our parents only knew the things we came here to do. I smoked some of the best weed in my life right here on top of these monkey bars. What are we doing here in the past?”

  “Nitwit, it all started here.”

  Yancee frowned. “I don’t follow.”

  “Dude, you, me, and Leon made a blood pact to have one another’s back, to be best buds for the rest of our lives. That was the night before my mother moved me to Cleveland Heights. You know me; I took our pact to heart.”

  Yancee closed his eyes and thought back to the day they pricked their fingers and touched them together. Foolish young boys on a quest to become real brothers. “Yeah, I remember. We hated that you had to go to Monticello Junior High.” He smiled. “We scrapped that same da
y because I cracked on your shoes. Learned real quick that you hit hard for a Caucasian.”

  “Hey, shithead, don’t call me Caucasian. Sounds too bourgeois, too sophisticated. Call me trailer park, white trash, dirty foot. Anything along those lines is suitable.” He swigged his Mickey’s. “Thanks for the birthday card. Moron, you should have just called and apologized instead of disguising it with a corny card.”

  “That wasn’t an apology; it was a birthday card.”

  Chance made a show of surrounding by throwing up his hands. “Dude, I’m just saying I accept your apology.”

  “Thanks,” Yancee said. “I’m sorry about you and Cashmaire separating.”

  “Don’t be. Shit happens.”

  Yancee put his gaze on the Infiniti M37 in the parking lot. “I see you’re driving her car.”

  “She left it behind when she split. No sense in letting it sit.”

  “So what happened?” Yancee hoped he hadn’t overstepped his bounds. He’d learned from an episode of Oprah that marital discord was a touchy subject even among close friends.

  “You don’t know?”

  Yancee shrugged. “All I know is she was supposed to have lied about being pregnant.”

  “We’ll get to that later.”

  “So what brings you to town? Thinking of moving back home?”

  Chance shrugged an I’m not sure. “You up for some fishing? Did some on the Colorado River last week. It was great.”

  “I’m down. When?”

  “No better time than the present.”

  “You’re wearing a dress.”

  “Like that makes a difference,” Chance said.

  “Can’t. Africa’s at home catching hell with the twins. They’ve been asking about their Uncle Chance, by the way. And my mother… she’s deteriorating. We’re all catching hell with her dementia. She’ll be eighty-four this year.”

  “Dude, I got a change of clothes in the car. Another few hours won’t hurt.”

  Yancee made a face while scratching his head. “She’ll kill me; she’s waiting for me to relieve her.” He stated that as if their household ran in eight-hour shifts.