Malachi, Ruse Master

by Pamela Schloesser Canepa

  It turns out I didn’t have to stay too long. My observations revealed that Clinton was not too chummy with his friend on school grounds. A little bit of research the night before had provided me the name of his friend, Darren Lee and the mother’s name, Heather Lee. Jack’s on-call hacker was quite useful. Luckily, since I was a front man, I didn’t require the computer skills. Let’s just say it was not my forte. I was what you’d call in -the- field. Front lines. I was totally comfortable working a scene or even “working” a person. I felt like I was good at that. Just look how I had drawn out the worst of Don! I felt rejuvenated in my job.

  I went and sat in the back of the overcrowded American History class and wasn’t even noticed. When the bell rang, I slipped out and headed for the Art History class where I saw Clinton exiting and heading for a locker. I stood on the wall as if I was waiting, hoping to see his friend Darren, but I didn’t. Instead, I saw a girl lurking around his locker and getting plenty of funds from Clinton. She may have been a girlfriend. Or were there actually drugs tied up in his secretive life? I followed her down the hall to English class, taught by one Mrs. Mullins. It was 11 a.m., and the girl sat in the second seat at the other end of the room. I made a mental note to do some research and find out her name. At that point, I had had enough of the teenage angst surrounding me and decided to head home and return at the last bell. I knew what kind of car Clinton drove, so after I jotted down my brief observations, I made sure to circle the parking lot once and identify where he was parked.

  Instead of going home, I headed for Jack’s office. Only, he wasn’t there, and the door was locked. I decided to get a hot dog from a street vendor and just hang out for a little bit. I briefly wondered why I hadn’t seen Otis in so long.

  “You want any relish on that?” the husky, aproned man asked.

  “No, thanks. Say, do you happen to know where that fellow Otis is? You know, the one who always washes car windows and rides a bike?”

  “You could be describing a lot of people around here. Is he an older guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, I know who you’re talking about. Older, black guy? Drives a beaten up Schwinn bike. No, I haven’t seen him lately, now that I think of it.”

  “That’s him. Alright. Thanks.”

  I sat on the bench outside the building that housed Jack’s office and several other businesses. A half hour later, Jack showed up.

  “Do you really have time to sit and wait around for me?” he asked as he unlocked the door.

  “Well, I haven’t been wasting time. I know Clinton’s full course schedule and the full name of his friend. I also know they’re not so chummy around each other at school.” I followed Jack into his office.

  He sat down and put up his booted feet. “Okay, then why are you here?”

  “I need a lead on a new place to stay. ASAP. Please.” I sat in front of his desk on a folding chair. I didn’t know how this man ever attracted clients like Clinton’s parents with such sparse surroundings. Maybe he made home visits.

  He handed me a newspaper cut-out. “These check out.”

  “Do you know them?”

  “No. I’ve done background checks.”

  “Can you do that without fingerprints?”

  “I can. Connections.” He smiled. “Like I said, they check out. Give them a call, and feel free to use me as a reference.”

  “Wow. Okay, thank you. I really appreciate this.” A glance at my watch revealed that I had only 45 minutes until the last bell at Linville High School. “Oh, gotta go,” I announced. “I’ll start calling them later.”

  Out the door, into the car, and down the street I went as fast as I could. (FortunateIy, Jack had floated me a loan and an excellent mechanic connection to get the car in tip-top shape). I arrived at the high school just before the last bell. Some students were already making their way out of school and to their cars. Glad he was still there, I found an empty parking spot just across from Clinton’s car and leaned down behind the steering wheel, waiting. At this point, I was glad my car had a bad paint job; it truly looked like something a teen would be driving for his first car.

  It occurred to me that today was Friday and that shadowing Clinton might become much more interesting on the weekend. I drove behind him out of the school parking lot, two car lengths behind. I lost him at one point, noting that this was one aspect of my job I needed to study and improve. Still, I had observed enough to gather just where we were headed: Darren’s house.

  Jack had told me he was getting calls from Mrs. Rusche complaining that it had been a whole week, and he’d come home late four of those nights. Why had I not found out anything? He also told me he approved of my method; I was being thorough. So, thorough I would be. Little did I know I just needed a Friday night to show me the light.

  I headed to Darren’s house and found Clinton’s car there. I parked down the street as always. I thought I should ask Jack about getting him bugged. The only way to do that was to somehow get in the house or make contact with Clinton, but I wasn’t ready for that. I needed to meet him on one of his night excursions; I needed to convince him that I was up to the same thing he was, whatever that was. The best way to pull that off was not to actually meet him beforehand. I couldn’t risk blowing my cover.

  Darren’s mother, Mrs. Lee, seemed like a lovely woman from my observations, meaning the way she walked Clinton to the door. You could tell she was really fond of him. Wouldn’t she sense if he and her son were up to no good or getting into drugs? Then, there was also the fact that Clinton ate most of his dinners here. Mrs. Lee did not look like a drug addict. Did Clinton simply feel more loved at the Lee’s house? I could totally identify. Still, it didn’t account for Clinton’s late night hours, as he didn’t seem to be staying here until 2 or 3 a.m. The last time I had shadowed him, he left the Lee’s house at 9 p.m. without Darren, and it was one of those nights his mom reported that he’d arrived home at 2 a.m. Yes, per Jack’s request, she kept a log of the times her son came home every night now. So, this was a group effort, and I hoped she had his best interests at heart, because the fact that he didn’t like eating dinner at home did not sit well with me. In fact, it reminded me of the way I had felt at home before leaving for college. Unaccepted, judged, a disappointment.

  I could observe shapes through the kitchen window from my vantage point. Mrs. Lee was serving dinner. The two young men were joining her. I found myself wishing I could sit around that table. I was also a lonely young man who didn’t feel comfortable at home. Was it because Clinton knew his parents were on to him? Was it easier to hide what he was doing here? I saw the two young men hug each other while Mrs. Lee tidied up at the sink. Then, they dispersed. They must have gone to the TV room, because now I couldn’t see them from where I was parked, and the window to the TV room was in the back of the house. I made a note to obtain a cable servicemen’s garb for next time. Jack provided funds for such a thing. It would totally explain why I would be in their backyard, by accident, of course. “I thought this was the Smith’s house,” I’d say. Yes, it could work. It would give me an activity to do rather than sit, bored, in the car. At this point, I almost dozed off.

  A little while later, I heard a car start up. Clinton was on the move. I quickly started my car and followed at a distance. He was in the car alone. Par for the course. He stopped at a convenience store a few blocks away. For what reason, I couldn’t tell.

  I followed him over the train tracks and onto a scarcely lit street. He parked outside of a night club and got out. I slumped down low and drove past. I didn’t want him to see me get out. In the rearview mirror, I saw him cross the street and enter the bar. It was called, ironically enough, Other Life Bar.

  Circling back, I found a parking spot and got out. Two fellows were climbing down from a truck wearing cowboy hats, which they tipped at me, saying a quick hello. Briefly, I worried that I wouldn’t fit in with my current attire. That was dispelled when I saw a guy wearing a leather jacket, tight jea
ns, and loafers walk up as well. The three of them chatted as if they knew each other.

  “I’m Jacques,” the man in the leather jacket announced, extending a hand toward me.

  I accepted the handshake. “I’m Malachi.” I was glad I was carrying my fake ID, and I figured Clinton must have one as well, since his car was still parked when I got out of my car.

  “This is Matt and this is Sneed. That’s not his real name,” he whispered.

  I wondered why he told me that. The bouncer looked at my ID and waved me in right away.

  “Well, have a good time,” Jacques said. “Come and see me if you don’t find anyone to talk to. I’ll introduce you around.”

  He obviously was a regular. I looked and noticed there were no women there. Well, correction: there was one woman working at the bar. She wore very heavy makeup and had the longest nails ever.

  Clinton was sitting at a table talking to another fellow. I wondered if they knew each other and if Clinton was also a regular here. I bought a light beer so as not to stand out too much, but also, to avoid getting a buzz right away. I needed to observe.

  “Are you sure that’s all you want, honey?” the woman behind the bar asked in a husky voice. “You must be just barely twenty-one years old. Such a young one, you are.” She leaned forward and batted her eyelashes. She was sweet, but too old for me.

  “Yeah, just turned twenty-one, uh, last week.” I couldn’t recall if the birthday on my fake ID was the same as my real birthday. Here we were in the middle of April, and my birthday was actually May 1st. Glad she wasn’t the one checking ID’s, I turned my gaze to the table where Clinton was chatting away. So this was a men’s club. Would there eventually be dancing ladies? Not that I wanted that; I didn’t need the distraction.

  “Okay, I won’t keep you anymore.” She stood up and started wiping the counter. “I know I’m not your type. Go chat up one of those cowboys over there. Sneed’s really friendly.”

  The truth suddenly dawned on me. There would be no dancing ladies; well, not if they were truly ladies, anyway. I tried to hide my surprise. Turning back to her, I answered, “Sneed doesn’t reveal his first name. I don’t appreciate that kind of duplicity.”

  “Hmm, big words for a college kid. I like that. But really, what’s your name?” She batted those big eyelashes again.

  “Malachi.” I took a sip of my beer and looked over to where Clinton was again. I couldn’t make assumptions about why he was here. Somehow I’d have to talk to him, but fitting in was a must.

  “I’ll bet that’s not your real name, either. I go by Prudence.” She laughed. “But Vince is what they know me by during the day.”

  I smiled in an attempt to cover my surprise. “You know, I was almost fooled.”

  “Almost?” She chuckled. “You didn’t know until I told you. Admit it.”

  “Okay, you’ve got me.” I laughed in return. “Well, nice talking to you.” I wondered, Would Prudence want me to refer to her as she, or as he? I decided I’d do best to remember her name.

  “You might like me in my day attire. Just saying, but you go on your way.” Prudence waved at me.

  A big guy in a flannel shirt walked up and rubbed her back. “Do you really have to flirt with every single customer?”

  “Keeps ‘em coming back, honey.”

  He put up his hands up in a helpless gesture and walked off. I walked over to the table next to where Clinton was still chatting with the same guy. Another young man who had been sitting at their table came over and said hello. He must have felt like a third wheel at Clinton’s table.

  “I’ve never seen you around here.” He smiled and leaned forward in interest.

  “I’m just checking it out.”

  He extended a hand. “I’m Lance, by the way. You look awfully young to be in here. Prudence sure took a liking to you.”

  “I hear she’s like that with all the newbies,” I bounced back, struggling with all my might not to appear uncomfortable.

  “Ah, you’re catching on. Still a little wet-behind-the-ears though. Like my friend Clinton over there.”

  I realized Clinton was using his real name and hoped he hadn’t dropped his last name on any listening ear. It did appear that Clinton had been here before. Was he a regular?

  Lance continued. “I can see you’re kind of new at this.”

  I shrugged, searching my mind for a response, biding my time. What angle I would play was not yet decided. I’d had no idea what I was walking into when I followed Clinton in here.

  “What’s your story? Are you testing this out, kind of curious, or spying on someone?”

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention. “Well, actually I’m looking for, um, a friend. I haven’t seen him in weeks. I know he’s afraid to tell people what’s going on with him.”

  “So you’re not here for you?”

  “I didn’t say that, but….” I stalled for time, taking a deep breath. “Let’s just say, I’m not here because I need to meet anyone. That’s not the reason I’m here.”

  “Interesting,” Lance said. “When you first came in here I sized you up as straight.”

  “Isn’t that good, though? I have to fit into the everyday world.”

  “Don’t worry so much. Be yourself. I can see you’re just learning all that. It’s worth the risk. Don’t fake your life.” He looked bitter for a moment then turned back to me and smiled. “Some folks won’t accept you for the real you, but the longer you lie, the worse it is for everyone.”

  I felt humbled. “Well, uh, thanks for the advice.”

  “You’re a college kid, right?”

  It sounded good to me. “Yeah, college. Third year. I am also into film-making. Um, gore, slasher films.”

  “Marvelous; I’d love to see some of your work sometime. You could be the next Tarantino.”

  “Thanks. There is no work to see yet, but there will be someday.”

  “Let me know if you need any advice easing in to this life. I’ve been out for three years now. I still have to keep the lid on it at work. Though when people want to set me up on blind dates, I do tell them I don’t date women. Most of them don’t ask questions beyond that. You should see the looks on their faces, and some of them stop speaking to me. No one has told the boss yet. I’m not sure he could treat me the same way, knowing the kind of man he is. Always on a power trip.”

  I was looking at Clinton’s table. He had left the table to go out to the dance floor, which was just heating up. There were still no women in here. Two other guys were twisting and gyrating out there to a techno beat.

  “Let’s go dance,” Lance said.

  “Um, I don’t dance,” I answered.

  “A regular fish out of water. Ah, don’t worry. Plenty of men in here don’t dance. It’s not for everyone. Who am I to criticize?” Lance spoke the truth. “I’m going to dance, and you can do as you wish. I’ll be back to talk to you again. Though I’m sure some nice chap may be chatting you up before I’m back.” And off he went.

  I wanted to stay until Clinton left, to observe a little more and have more evidence to dispel the notion that he was a drug addict. It was hard to avoid awkward conversations, and I found myself moving about, setting down my beer, losing track of it, and getting in line again, all while trying to keep one eye on Clinton’s doings.

  “You’ve been watching me. So, I thought I’d introduce myself,” a voice said from behind me as I was ordering another beer. It was Clinton, fast on his feet, sneaking up on me. I felt like a schmuck.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.” I shoved my hands in my pockets.

  “I’m Clinton.” He extended a hand. “This is Sneed—” he gestured toward the cowboy next to him— “who tells me you’ve been watching our table all night long.”

  I looked at my watch; I’d been there for three hours. Of course, the place was hopping now, and Clinton looked more comfortable, more at ease. “Sorry. Your friend over there resembles my sis
ter’s boyfriend, a lot. It’s not him, though.” I stood. “I’ve gotta get going. Nice to meet you both.”

  “You know, her boyfriend will tell her when he’s ready. You can’t force such a thing.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I scratched my head, wanting to avoid any further conversation, not really thinking much about what he said. “Thanks. Have a good night.”

  ***

  The next day, I got to work on ruling out Clinton’s supposed drug dealer. I followed her down the hall to English class and spoke to a guy who was going in after her.

  “Hey buddy, I’m new here. The name’s Rex. Who’s that girl?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s Tina.”

  “Is she in History after this?”

  “Wow, you a creeper?” He looked me up and down.

  I shrugged and smiled. “Well, admit it. She’s kind of pretty.”

  “No,” he finally answered. “She’s not in History next; she heads for the Physical Education wing after this.”

  “One more thing: where is the guidance counselor? Is that in the main office?”

  “Yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it? You changing your schedule already?”

  “It’s worth a try, right?” I said through a smile.

  The guy shook his head and walked away. I heard him mutter ‘stalker’ under his breath and then laugh, so it was likely I would not get reported. To him, I was just a sorry loser who didn’t really present a threat.

  ***

  Back at home, a phone call to Jack’s computer whiz helped me get closer to who this girl was. Tina Martinson. She lived in a small house with a family consisting of her mom and six children out near Anacostia, D.C. Could I handle tailing another individual?

  “Jack, I need to tail a girl from Clinton Rusche’s school. I won’t have time to do it. I’m following him and getting closer to the truth.”

  “No worries. I’ll get another associate to tail her tonight. Tina, right?”

  Word was traveling fast. This was a tight network he had working for him.