Double Fake, Double Murder (A Carlos McCrary, Private Investigator, Mystery Thriller Series Book 2)

by Dallas Gorham

  “Bottom line, Chuck,” said Bigs, “is that Kelly and I are out of options.” His shoulders slumped. “We wanted to tell you in person. God, I feel bad about this. But we have to put the Smoot investigation on the shelf.”

  Chapter 36

  It was 3:30 on a partly cloudy afternoon by the time Chuck and Sneakers made their way to the Port City Pilots Stadium parking garage. The Detroit Tigers had beaten the Pilots seven to two.

  “Let this be a lesson, Sneakers: Life is full of disappointments. One must learn to take them in stride.”

  “You joke about everything, man?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “But you don’t always laugh or smile when you joke. How can I tell?”

  “Sometimes you can’t tell when someone is joking. There’s an old saying: There’s many a true word spoken in jest. Sometimes a person appears to be joking but they mean exactly what they say.”

  “But what about you?”

  “Put what I say—what anyone says for that matter—in context. Ask yourself how it fits with other stuff they said and other stuff you already know. And if you still can’t tell, ask me.”

  “Okay. Where we going now?”

  Chuck felt encouraged by Sneakers’s question. Until now, the boy had been mostly passive in their interactions, allowing Chuck to take the lead, and rarely questioning anything.

  “I’m hungry. Those two hot dogs wore off. You hungry?”

  “I always hungry.”

  Chuck started to laugh, then realized that he meant it literally. “Let’s try someplace you haven’t eaten. You ever eaten Cuban food?”

  “Don’t think so. How do I know if I’ll like it?”

  “You might not. But, if you don’t, you can order something else. Fair enough?”

  #

  Chuck jumped onto the westbound toll road and drove Sneakers toward the newer part of Port City out near the Everglades.

  The two fans discussed the finer points of baseball. Whether it made sense to steal second with one out. Was it better to bunt down the third base line or the first base line? What were the merits of the designated hitter rule, if any?

  I don’t know where Sneakers learned about baseball, but he knows a lot.

  As they headed west, late afternoon thunderclouds developed.

  The end of the toll road fed them onto a boulevard lined with palm trees and flowers planted in the green strip in the center.

  Chuck asked, “You ever been to this part of the city?”

  “I never been nowhere.”

  Chuck turned left onto a residential street as thunder rumbled to the west. A lightning bolt struck the horizon out in the Everglades.

  The next block had an “Open House” sign stuck in the yard. Chuck parked the Avanti at the curb. “Let’s take a look.”

  “I thought we was gonna eat.”

  “We will, but I want to take a little side trip first.”

  “Why, man? It look like rain.”

  Chuck laughed. “You afraid you’ll melt if you get wet? Come on, you’ll have fun.”

  Chuck had researched the new neighborhood the previous afternoon. The young man he had spoken to the previous day stood in the door. He wore shiny loafers with no socks, pressed khakis, and a neat golf shirt with a real estate broker’s logo embroidered on it. He wore a neatly trimmed beard and had close-cropped hair. He was the same height as Sneakers and in his late twenties. Chuck was secretly pleased to see that he was black. Maybe Sneakers could relate to him.

  “How do you do, gentlemen? Welcome to our open house. I’m Tarvius Russell.” He shook hands. “Here’s an information sheet.” He handed out a sheet with color pictures on one side and information about the house on the other. “Would you please follow me?”

  Russell led them on a brief but thorough house tour. He showed them all three bedrooms, both bathrooms, the fenced backyard, and the two-car garage.

  Sneakers didn’t say a word, but his head turned like it was on a swivel as he walked into every closet, every room. He stepped into the backyard and looked at the fence and the back wall of the house.

  Scattered raindrops fell and Sneakers scurried under the aluminum roof over the back patio where Chuck and Tarvius were standing. The rain made a peaceful drumming sound.

  When Russell finished the tour, he returned the group to the living room, “Any questions?”

  “Tarvius, what kind of people can afford to live in a house like this?” Chuck asked.

  “See that house across the street with the blue Camry in front?”

  Chuck and Sneakers both looked.

  “It’s pretty much the same floor plan as this house and the same price. I sold that to a young couple last month. She’s a hospital orderly. He’s an auto mechanic. They have two children.”

  “Do either of them have a college degree?”

  “No, they don’t. I remember helping with their loan application.”

  “Did they finish high school?”

  “Yes, they both went to Wekita Springs High School. In fact, I believe that’s where they met.”

  “Thanks, Tarvius. I owe you one.” Chuck gave him his business card.

  #

  When they were back in the Avanti, Sneakers stared straight ahead in silence watching the windshield wipers until they arrived at the Cuban restaurant Chuck had picked out.

  They scurried through the rain and took a table inside.

  Sneakers stared at the menu. “I don’t know what any of this stuff is.”

  Chuck pointed at a picture on the menu. “I’m having the boliche mechado. It’s a Cuban carne asada.”

  “Don’t know what that is neither.”

  “Sorry. Pot roast. I think you’ll like it. It comes with three side orders. I’m for sure ordering maduros, which are sweet plantains. Do you know what those are?”

  He shook his head.

  “A plantain tastes like a cooked banana. Real sweet. I’m also having yuca, like a stringy potato, but with garlic, and yellow rice. Try those, too.”

  Sneakers looked down at the menu, but Chuck could tell he didn’t see it. As always, his face remained unexpressive, but Chuck sensed an emotion bubbling beneath the surface. He just didn’t know what it was.

  “My friend, I try to make life an adventure. I’m always learning new things, trying new things, meeting new people, and going new places.” Chuck waited until Sneakers looked at him.

  “You’ve got nothing to lose. If you don’t like it, we order something else, or we go to the diner.”

  He nodded.

  The boliche mechado came and Chuck noticed that Sneakers didn’t know how to hold a knife properly. He managed to cut the meat, but it was hard to watch. Chuck made another mental note for Sneakers’s education on how the world works.

  Sneakers liked the plantains and the yellow rice. He took one sniff of the yuca and pushed it aside. Chuck ate it.

  For dessert, Chuck ordered flan and let Sneakers try a bite before ordering one for him.

  Sneakers ordered the key lime pie instead.

  The server cleared the empty dishes and Chuck ordered coffee.

  Sneakers had been quiet ever since the two left the open house, speaking no more than he had to.

  Chuck let the silence stretch while he sipped his coffee. He knew Sneakers wanted to say something, but had not yet found the words.

  Sneakers sighed. “Why you doin’ all this, man?”

  “Doing what?”

  His eyes flashed. “Being so goddamned nice to me, man. Buying me food, giving me money, taking me to a baseball game, for crissakes. Why you doin’ all that?” He pounded a fist on the table. “What’s in it for you?”

  Chuck counted to five before he answered. “Why do you think I’m doing it?”

  “Shit, I don’t know, man. That’s why I asked.”

  “To tell you the truth, Sneakers, it just seems like the right thing to do. This afternoon I wanted to show you what’s possible. For you.”

 
Tears streamed down the boy’s cheeks. His chin quivered. He hid his face. His shoulders shook.

  Chapter 37

  As Chuck waited for Sneakers’s tears to subside, he thought about life, and hope, and opportunity. Why was he doing these things for Sneakers? It was more than Sneakers being a potential witness.

  Chuck made a decision. Terry won’t like it, but that’s life.

  Sneakers raised his head, his face traced with tear tracks. “I’m okay.”

  “Sneakers, I’m going to ask you a stupid question, but I want you to think about the answer. How do you like your life so far?”

  The boy scowled. “How you think I like it, man?”

  “A wise man once said, ‘If you keep doing what you’ve been doing, you’ll keep getting the same results.’ Do you take my meaning?”

  “I think so. If you want to get anywhere, you have to get movin’.”

  “Right. This afternoon I showed you what an average guy, with average luck, and an average education can accomplish. You are far above average. You could accomplish even more. If you do something different with your life, you’ll see better results.”

  He regarded Chuck with narrowed eyes. “What you got in mind?”

  “You remember that discussion the first time we met about whether anybody owes anything to anybody?”

  “What about it?”

  “Those people I owe, some of them taught me how to live, how to do what I do, and how to get what I want. I can teach you what they taught me. Would you like to learn how to get what you want?”

  “I don’t want nothin’.”

  “Then you’re a big success, because that’s what you’ve got—nothing. You’ve achieved all your life goals, then?”

  “Why you wanna do that, man?”

  “Do what?”

  “Askin’ me all these questions about life and goals and shit.”

  “Everyone needs goals. You need to want something so bad that you’ll do almost anything to get it. As far as I can see right now, you’re not living. You just exist from one day to the next, waiting for the ax to fall.”

  “Why you care, man?”

  “Sneakers, I can never pay back the people I owe, but I can pay it forward if I teach someone else what they taught me. And here you are. For the first time in your life, you caught a break. You’re in the right place at the right time.” Chuck smiled. “You want to change your life? Make it an adventure?”

  Sneakers thought for a moment. He shrugged. “Like you say, man, I going nowhere now. What do I do?”

  “You’re coming to stay with me for a while. I’ll be your mentor.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ll give you a dictionary when we get home. You can look it up.”

  Sneakers grinned. “You sure you ain’t gay?”

  #

  As they drove across the causeway, the rain stopped and the high-rise buildings along Port City Beach came into view.

  “You live over there, man?”

  “Yeah. See the building with the red and blue stripes? The one with all the balconies?” Chuck pointed.

  “Yeah.”

  “I live on the fourteenth floor.”

  #

  As soon as Chuck unlocked the door, Sneakers ran over to the sliding glass doors. Chuck showed him how to unlock them and they stepped out onto the balcony.

  Sneakers pointed out to sea. “How far you see from here?”

  “About twenty-five miles. Those ships you see are six miles out, in the Gulf Stream.”

  The boy turned around and faced west. “Is that my neighborhood over there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool.”

  “C’mon. I’ll show you around. Then you can pick your room.”

  “My room?”

  “I’m giving you one of my guest rooms.”

  “You got more than one?”

  “I have two—and an office. Take your pick which one you want.”

  “I never had my own room before.”

  When they finished, they sat on the balcony and watched the sun dip toward the horizon.

  “Man, I didn’t know you was rich.”

  “I’m not rich. I hope to be rich one day, but I’m not there yet. Okay, enough about me. Let’s have your first lesson. How to speak proper English.”

  “I speak English.”

  “I said proper English. Did you notice the way Tarvius Russell spoke?”

  “Whaddya mean?”

  “Did he speak like the people in the neighborhood where you grew up?”

  “No, he talk white.”

  “He doesn’t talk white. He speaks standard English.”

  “You understand me okay.”

  Chuck leaned his backside to the rail. “What does a dog do when he meets another dog?”

  Sneakers laughed. “It smells the other dog’s butt.”

  “Why do you suppose it does that?”

  He shrugged. “Tha’s just what they do.”

  “What about when a dog meets another animal, say a cat or a horse? Even a human?”

  “He smells them?”

  “That’s right. Why?”

  “Beats me, man.”

  “Animals rely on their sense of smell to decide whether another animal is one of them. They recognize their own kind by the way they smell.” Chuck waited to see if the boy understood.

  He nodded. “Yeah, is this dog from the neighborhood? Is this cat a friend? Shit like that.”

  Chuck nodded. “Right. Animals rely on smell. Humans rely on language to tell if another person is one of their own kind. We decide whether other people are like us by the way they talk. What did you know about Tarvius Russell the minute he opened his mouth?”

  He laughed. “He not from my ’hood.”

  “There you go. You knew something important about Tarvius almost instantly. Did he talk like you? Was his accent the same or different? Did he use the same vocabulary?”

  “I got it. Tarvius don’t talk white. He just talk.”

  “Bingo. To join the middle class, it helps to talk like the middle class.”

  “Ain’t that phony?”

  “It’s common courtesy. When I’m in Mexico, I speak Spanish. When I was in Afghanistan, I spoke Pashto. If I were in France, I would speak French if I could. It’s the same thing.”

  “You was in Afghanistan?”

  “Yeah. Special Forces.”

  “Is that the Green Berets?”

  “Yeah, you can call us either name.”

  “Those are tough mothers.”

  “Yeah.”

  Sneakers thought about that a minute. “So you gonna teach me how to talk good and shit like that?”

  “Yep. And the first thing is: Don’t say ‘shit’ anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because most people find it offensive and will think less of you.”

  “I think those people full of…crap.”

  Chuck laughed and shook his head.

  #

  Chuck made Chicken Marsala for a late dinner. The meal at the Cuban restaurant was hours before. Besides, Chuck thought, Sneakers is underweight.

  Sneakers watched from the other side of the kitchen island as Chuck cut the chicken breasts into small strips.

  “Where you learn to do shit like that?”

  “Sneakers, say that again in proper English, please.”

  He chose each word carefully. “Where did you learn to cook?”

  “My parents taught me most of it when I was a boy.”

  “I don’t never remember my mother cooking.”

  Chuck thought, We’ll take up double negatives another time. Don’t want to push too much, too soon.

  Chapter 38

  Monday morning Chuck took Sneakers to a men’s clothing store where the young PI had always wanted to shop but could never afford to until he hit it big with the Simonetti case.

  Bobby Trafalgar saw them walk in. He wore a black, pin-striped suit with a striped tie and mat
ching handkerchief. His light blue dress shirt had a white collar and French cuffs.

  “Hey, Chuck. Who’s your friend?”

  “Bobby Trafalgar, I’d like you to meet Bill Watkins.”

  Sneaker jerked his head toward Chuck. His eyes widened.

  Bobby stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Bill.”

  Sneakers stared at it a moment before slowly extending his own.

  Bobby shook the boy’s hand. “What can I do for you, Bill?” he said, but he glanced at Chuck for the answer.

  “Bill needs everything. From underwear on out. This is your lucky day, Bobby.”

  #

  Wearing a new outfit, Chuck handed Sneakers his old clothes. “What would you like to do with these? Throw them away? Burn them? Give them to the poor?”

  He laughed. “The poor wouldn’t want ’em, man. Let’s let Bobby toss ’em.”

  They stacked the boxes and packages on one end of the sales counter. The stack got taller and they started a second stack, then a third.

  Bobby totaled the bill, and Sneakers stared at the cash register. His eyes grew wide again. He stared at Chuck like he was the Wizard of Oz. “You sure you not Daddy Warbucks?”

  Chuck smiled at him as he gave Bobby his credit card. “I’ll help you with the packages, Bill.” He turned to Bobby. “Maybe you could help us carry some of this?”

  Sneakers scowled but grabbed half the boxes.

  #

  “What the fuck is this ‘Bill’ shit, man?” he said as soon as they arrived at the van.

  “My bad. I forgot to discuss your name with you. But before we do, there’s another word you need to stop using. Guess what it is.”

  He smiled. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Don’t say ‘fuck’ no more.”

  “Right. So you might have said ‘What the heck is this Bill stuff, man?’ Got it?’

  “Big fuckin’ deal,” the kid said. He laughed. “Couldn’t resist. That was the last time.”

  “Okay.” Chuck started the van.

  “I thought we was gonna talk about this Bill stuff.”

  “We will.” Chuck punched the A.C. onto max.

  “Sports stars can get away with using unusual nicknames.”

  “Like Juice Ball Cordoba on the Pilots?”

  “Right. We ordinary people need a real name or conventional nickname to be respected. You’re named after a president of the United States. By the way, his name wasn’t Bill Clinton. It was William Jefferson Clinton. Bill is an example of an acceptable conventional nickname. So is Chuck for Charles or Carlos.”