Crooked Numbers

by Tim O'Mara

  “I can’t say that I do.”

  “I gotta be there tonight. The paper’s doing a new series: Saturdays at Eight. They want to spotlight the new hot spots around the five boroughs. Get the young readers turning the pages. Bullshit, if you ask me. All the hipsters get their info electronically or by word of mouth, but when your editors went to journalism school with Cronkite and Murrow, what do you expect?”

  “So,” I said, “you’re a crime reporter during the day and a trendspotter at night?”

  “The cheap fucks won’t spring for another reporter, so those of us still lucky enough to be hanging on to our jobs get to take turns club-hopping. And you, my friend, get to tag along. Come on, whattaya say?”

  “They serve beer?”

  “And apple martinis.”

  I laughed and grabbed a piece of paper off the table. “What’s the address?”

  She gave it to me. “Eight o’clock, Ray. And dress … hip.”

  She’d never seen my closet. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Later.”

  After she hung up—and I got the smile off my face—I called the Lee home. A woman’s voice I did not recognize picked up. “Lee residence.”

  “This is Raymond Donne,” I said. “Is Mrs. Lee home?”

  “The teacher from the newspaper?” A slight Southern accent.

  “Yes.” I was already getting tired of this. “Is Mrs. Lee there?”

  “Oh, no,” the woman said. “They’re all still at the cemetery. You didn’t go to the church, young man?”

  “No, ma’am. I didn’t.”

  “That’s okay,” she reassured me. “Gloria told me you didn’t strike her as a church-going person. But you seem nice just the same.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “When’s a good time…” There was no way to finish that without sounding stupid. “When would I be able to speak with Mrs. Lee?”

  “She wants everyone to know she’ll be expecting them at the apartment tomorrow afternoon. Anytime after one. I’m back here taking calls and cleaning, getting the home ready for tomorrow.”

  “That’s very nice of you.”

  “It’s what family does,” she explained. “I went to the church, but I don’t much care for cemeteries.”

  Like the rest of us enjoyed them. “Okay, then. Thank you, Miss…”

  “Dutton. Missus Sarah Dutton. Gloria’s cousin from Virginia.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Dutton. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You better, young man. I know Gloria’s expecting you especially. And I’m sure there’s a whole buncha others who would like to meet you.”

  “I guess that settles it then.”

  “It most certainly does. Oh,” she said. “Don’t eat a big breakfast.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  I hung up the phone, threw my sneakers, a pair of shorts, and a shirt into my gym bag, and grabbed one more cup of coffee before heading out to Muscles’s. I was trying to locate my keys when I remembered one more call I wanted to make. It took me a minute to find his card.

  “Murcer,” he said.

  “Dennis, it’s Raymond.”

  “What can I do for you, Ray?”

  So much for small talk. “I just wanted to check in, see how the article was received on your end.”

  He laughed. “My end received it just fine. Any piece that says how hard we’re working to solve a case gets received just fine. It didn’t hurt to have your name—your uncle’s name—attached to it.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “It gets me into restaurants all the time.”

  He waited a few beats before saying, “What’s that?”

  “Nothing. Hey, about the gang angle?”

  “I told you yesterday,” he said, “the Family’s got a loose structure. It’s hard to get a handle on it, and the word on the street ain’t been much help.”

  Okay, I thought. Let’s see how he receives this. “I may have some information related to the Family.”

  I thought I heard him swallow. He may have been eating. “What’s that, now?”

  “A former student of mine,” I said. “He turned me on to a guy who has an inside track on the Family.”

  “Interesting, Ray. And what did you do with this inside track?”

  “I had breakfast with a guy this morning.”

  “And…?”

  “The guy I spoke with said he—the Royal Family—had no connection with Douglas Lee.”

  “And I should believe that why?”

  “Because the guy didn’t have to meet with me, and had no reason to lie.”

  “Everybody’s got a reason to lie, Ray. Your uncle taught us that. This guy you spoke with, he a member of the Family?”

  “I promised not to tell.”

  Another laugh. “Jesus. You’ve had quite an astounding two days keeping your nose out of this business. You get to check out a crime scene with a reporter and the investigating detective, your name and picture get in the papers, and now you’re cultivating confidential informants. Tell me again what you do for a living these days.”

  I ignored that. Largely because I knew where he was going, and he was right.

  “I did find out something I can tell you, Dennis. If you’re interested.”

  He swallowed again. “Enlighten me.”

  “One reason it might be hard to get a read on the Royal Family is they seem to have different leadership on each side of the bridge.”

  “You’re going to have to explain that. I’m just a cop.”

  “One of the people I spoke with,” I explained, “told me there’s Family on both sides, and they don’t exactly see eye-to-eye on Family business.”

  “This just hearsay, or you got something to back it up?”

  I gave him the sketchy details of my meeting with Tio—without mentioning his name or the location—and about my encounter with the ladies. I had to pronounce China’s name twice.

  “Rhymes with Tina.”

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” he said.

  “Can you check her out with the gang unit?”

  “What the fuck, Ray? Why don’t you just come across the river and do my goddamn job for me?”

  “You’re right, Dennis. I’m sorry. Sometimes my mouth gets ahead of the brain. I was just thinking out loud.”

  As I waited for him to answer, I took another sip of coffee and walked over to the sink. The clouds were really coming in now.

  “Okay. I’ll run her name by my guys. You done playing cop now?”

  “I’m not playing cop,” I said. Then, to prove my point, I added, “Can I ask about Dougie’s phone records?”

  “You’re too much,” he said, but a few seconds later he added, “The call he got that night was made from a disposable phone. Not traceable.”

  “Shit.” Just to cover my bases, I thought of something else to tell him. “I’m going to the Lees’ tomorrow. The family’s holding a … I don’t know, a reception.”

  “Enjoy,” he said.

  Before I could come back with an answer, he’d hung up.

  With too much Dougie in my head and nothing to keep my mind occupied at the apartment, I tossed my phone into my gym bag and was about to head off to Muscles’s when it rang. I would have let it go to voice mail, but the caller ID told me it was Rachel.

  “Little sister,” I said. “I got your message and was going to call you later.”

  “I’m sure,” Rachel said. “How’d you get mixed up with Denny again, Ray?”

  “Wow,” I said. “That didn’t take long. Fate, I guess.”

  I explained the situation to her, and she seemed to believe me. After a few moments of silence, she said, “How’d he look?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Denny. How’d he look?”

  “The same, I guess. Little bit of gray in the goatee, and he’s wearing a better quality of suits these days. Why is that your first question?”

  “It was my second, actually. Just curious. We were pretty close for
a while.”

  “And then you weren’t,” I reminded her. “Things didn’t end so well, Rachel. Remember? You asked me to step in and break it to him.”

  “That’s not exactly how I remember it, Ray. I seem to recall you asking me if I wanted you to talk to Denny.”

  “And you said yes, so what’s the difference?”

  “The difference,” she said, “is that it was my responsibility to end it. I shouldn’t need my big brother to come in and do it for me.”

  “But you did.”

  “No. I needed to do it myself. I just couldn’t.”

  “Again, Rachel. What’s the difference?”

  “I was a big girl, Raymond. You made me feel like I was back in high school, unable to protect myself.”

  “The point is, Rachel, the relationship needed to end, and it did. Case closed.”

  “Real sensitive. Maybe it never felt closed to me. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Oh, come on. You’ve dated lots of guys since Dennis.”

  “And look how well those turned out.”

  I took a deep breath. “So, what are you telling me? You shouldn’t have ended things with him?”

  “No,” she said. “I don’t know. Maybe it just feels like I didn’t end it with him. It feels like you did.”

  “I don’t get that, Rache. I’m sorry, but I just don’t.”

  She paused. “That’s because you have a penis.”

  Not knowing how to answer that one, I just said, “Sorry.”

  “You should be.” She laughed. “You all should be.”

  “We are.” I looked at the clock. “Listen, I got to head off to the gym, get back home, and be showered and out of here before eight.”

  “Hot date?”

  “Sort of. I’m not sure how hot it’s going to be.”

  “Want me to call up the girl and ask for you?”

  “Drop it, Rachel.”

  “I love you, Raymond.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

  Chapter 7

  I HAD BEEN WALKING BACKWARD on the treadmill for ten minutes before Muscles finished up with one of his clients. He came over with a clipboard in hand and a disapproving look on his face. He wore his usual outfit: a black T-shirt and black track pants with his name and his logo on both—MUSCLES over a bright orange bicep. He watched me for a half minute, wrote something, and spoke.

  “Saw you in the paper this morning.”

  “Really? I didn’t get to the sports section yet.”

  He laughed, but not like he meant it. “That’s almost funny. What’s not funny is I haven’t seen you in here since Monday. You too busy playing cop again?”

  He sounded just like Murcer and my uncle. “I’m not playing anything, Muscles.” I gave him the rundown of why the article was in the paper and how that was the end of it for me.

  “Good,” he said. “Because my biggest fear with you is, you get distracted from the rehab and find excuses not to come here. I don’t have to remind you what’ll happen to your knees and the surrounding area if you don’t come here three times a week.”

  You don’t have to remind me, I thought, but you just did. I kept walking.

  “How’s it feeling, by the way?” he asked.

  “Like I haven’t been here for five days.”

  He smiled his I-told-you-so smile. “You taking any of the supplements I recommended? Omega–3s? Hyaluronic acid?”

  “No,” I said, like a kid being asked where his homework was.

  “Good. Wouldn’t want to speed the process along any faster than this.”

  I gave him a hard look and missed a step, almost slipping off the treadmill. “I just think I’m a little young to be taking pills for the rest of my life.”

  “You may be young,” he said. “But your knees are in their sixties. I’m not sure exercise alone is going to do the job. Especially if you only come when you feel like it.”

  “I’ll get better at coming.”

  “Right.” He looked at his clipboard again. “You got any interest in making a thousand dollars?”

  “Who do I have to kill?”

  This time his laugh was real. “A company I know, they make supplements. I have some for sale behind the desk. They got a new product they been working on, and they’ve been approved to start some limited clinical trials here in the States.”

  “What’s the product?”

  “Supposed to help rebuild damaged cartilage. You’d be a perfect subject with the damage you did to your knees. They want to see how it works in conjunction with a rigorous physical therapy regimen, though.”

  “Oooh,” I said. “I love it when you talk like that.”

  He ignored me. “You’d have to undergo some tests, another MRI. If you’re chosen to participate, you go into one of two groups. One gets the supplement, the other doesn’t. It’s all legit and, except for the MRI, very little hassle on your part.”

  I considered that. “You sure it’s safe?”

  “Hell, yeah. They have to go through a bunch of hoops to get to this point. They run it through computer models, study past models of similar supplements, and then test it out on animals. Mostly rats. The FDA goes over the results and determines whether it’s safe to proceed to the next level.”

  “And this is the next level?”

  “Yep. Most drugs and supplements don’t even get this far. It’s a good company, Ray. I wouldn’t do business with them if they weren’t, and I definitely wouldn’t ask anyone I care about—even you—to get involved in a trial if I didn’t trust them.”

  “Let me give it some thought, Muscles.”

  “Sure. Just let me know as soon as you can. They wanna start the trials after the first of the year, and you’ll need to go through some blood tests beforehand.”

  “What’s that about?”

  “They have to be real careful you’re not taking anything that might interact badly with their product. They have to know what you’ve got in your system, even if you’re just taking ibuprofen or some other over-the-counter meds.”

  I raised my hands. “I’m clean.”

  “Stay that way,” Muscles said, making a few notes on his clipboard. “Okay. Now finish up this easy stuff and hit the machines. You got a few days to make up for.”

  “Sir, yes, sir,” I replied. He didn’t find that funny, either.

  *

  It was after two when I got back to the apartment. I took a long, hot shower, made some iced coffee out of what was left in the machine, and sat in front of the TV, surfing the channels until I found a show about animals surviving winter in the Himalayas. The next thing I knew, an old couple was telling the story of how their border collie saved their lives during brush fires in Los Angeles. I looked at the clock. It was almost seven. An hour before I had to meet Allison at the hot new club.

  I went to my closet and found the hippest clothes I owned: a long-sleeved black shirt, my newest jeans, and a pair of sneakers with a blue stripe across the side.

  Oh, yeah.

  Chapter 8

  ALLISON’S CAB DROPPED HER OFF just as I approached the back of the line outside the club. There were a few dozen—much younger—people in front of me. I hate lines, which is one of many reasons I don’t do the club thing. Or Disneyland. I waved to Allison. I noticed she wasn’t wearing her glasses tonight. Contacts? She stepped over to me, surprised me with a kiss on my cheek, and leaned into my ear.

  “You clean up well,” she stage-whispered.

  “You, too.”

  “We don’t have to stand on line, Ray,” she said. “I am the media.”

  “Don’t you want the full club experience?”

  “Normally, sure. But in thirty-degree weather, I find my press credentials keep me very warm.” She took me by the hand. “Let’s go.”

  We walked to the front of the line, and Allison flashed her press pass at the guy working the door. He checked his clipboard, checked us, apparently liked what he saw, and let us in. Just like how
my uncle used to get us into Yankee Stadium.

  Inside the club, we were assaulted by blaring house music, flashing lights, overheated air, and the distinct smell of desperation. The line at the bar was three-deep and looked to be made up of busloads of kids from Long Island, New Jersey, and an MTV reality show. Allison grabbed my hand again.

  “I bet you absolutely hate this,” she said, getting close to my ear again.

  “No,” I said. “This is totally my kind of scene.” I looked around. “Except I’d probably be teaching half these kids if I worked in the suburbs.”

  She laughed. I liked that. “Thirty minutes,” she said. She saw the look on my face and added, “C’mon. That’s one beer.”

  I looked at the crowd by the bar. “That’s standing in line for one beer.”

  “Don’t be so negative, Ray. It’s not your best quality.” She let go of my hand. “Get us a couple of beers while I walk around and soak up the vibe. I’ll be right back.”

  She left, and I realized she was right. Being negative wasn’t going to make this any more pleasant. Besides, I was out on a Saturday night with an attractive woman. It could be a lot worse.

  After only a few minutes, I got the bartender’s attention. It must have been the mature, relaxed aura I was giving off. I pointed to the guy next to me who—I was pleasantly surprised to see—was drinking a Blue Point Toasted Lager. I raised two fingers. He gave me the universal bartender’s double-finger-pistol shot. A minute later, I had my two beers and was out eighteen bucks. The price of maturity, including tip.

  “Somebody in trouble?”

  I turned to face a young, attractive brunette standing less than a foot from me. Her brown hair had streaks of pink running down both sides. Her T-shirt—and her bare midriff—advertised a gym, which was located on the other side of Brooklyn. I did my best to keep my eyes on hers when I shouted, “What’s that?”

  She leaned in closer. “Is somebody in trouble?”

  I looked around the bar and checked out the customers. Young men and women in various stages of dress, leaning all over and into each other, some of them making me wonder how carefully the guy at the door was checking IDs.

  “My guess would be yes,” I said. “Why are you asking me?”

  She smiled. “You’re a cop, right?”