by Jim Stevens
“It can’t be that simple.”
“In actuality, it is.”
“I’m in the wrong business,” I admit.
“I don’t think so, Mister Sherlock.”
Herman smiles at Tiffany.
“You have bologna stuck in your teeth, Mr. McFadden,” she is kind enough to tell him.
“Gee,” Herman says, picking at his teeth, “I haven’t had baloney since Tuesday.”
“What else have you found out, Herman?”
“Not much.”
“Why not?”
Herman ignores me, returns his stare at Tiffany. “I’m not kidding you, girls who looks like you could climb the heights of show business in a single bound; but you’ll need an agent and I am willing to take on that role.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Tiffany says, “but whatever it is, no thanks.”
“Herman, anything else?”
“Well, I’m not sure, but there is a lot of shit ready to hit the fan at the Board of Trade.”
16
Where truth lies
A two-bit gangbanger, by the name of Magpie Morris, waits in his orange jumpsuit for the judge to take the stand.
Tiffany sits between Steve and me in the last row of the courtroom. We have been told that Magpie has valuable information concerning the killing of Alvin Augustus, and might consider sharing his thoughts with us. But before he makes his decision, he’s in court to find out how badly the deck is stacked against him.
The first witness is a seasoned gang cop named Gus, which is not his real name.
“I found the weapon in the backseat of Mr. Morris’ car,” Gus tells the Judge.
I whisper to Tiffany, “He’s lying.”
The public defender speaks up, “Judge, my client doesn’t own a car.”
“He’s lying, too.”
Tiffany turns my way, but I silence her with the raise of my index finger.
“I wasn’t in no car, and I don’t got no car,” Magpie throws in his two cents.
“That’s three lies in a row.” So much of life comes in threes, and I have no idea why.
“It was a gun used in a prior killing, your honor.” The prosecutor adds his lie to the total.
The judge calls the attorneys to the bench and speaks to the two in muffled tones.
“How do you know they’re lying?” Tiffany wants an explanation.
“It’s a courtroom; everybody lies.” I explain quietly. “The cop knows this guy’s a crook and the only way to get him off the street is to tie him to the weapon. The defense attorney knows he did it, or did something twice as bad; but he has to lie because that’s his job. Ditto for the prosecutor.”
“But weren’t they all sworn to tell the truth?” Tiffany asks.
The judge waves the two barristers back to their places in the courtroom. “Now, watch what is going to happen,” I whisper to her.
The judge taps his gavel. “The court rules that the evidence is to be recognized and so noted.”
Tiffany nudges my arm. “What happened?”
“The judge lied. He realizes the cop is lying, the defense guy is lying, and Magpie’s a criminal, so there’s no doubt he’s lying.”
“The evidence in the case is substantial, what difference does it make whether he owned the car?” the judge asks.
The defense attorney jumps to his feet. “Objection. There are no other witnesses, no radio transcript of any arrest being made, and the arresting officer is the officer on the stand. The guy could have planted the gun as easily as ordering donuts.”
The judge has had enough. “The defendant is ordered to stand trial with a charge of first-degree murder.” The gavel comes down. “Next case.”
Steve leans over Tiffany and says to me, “No doubt he’ll want to chat with us now.”
We exit the row before the next orange jump-suited criminal enters the courtroom.
“How do you know they were lying, Mister Sherlock?”
“It’s a courtroom, Tiffany; everybody is a liar. That’s the way the system works.”
___
Magpie sits on one side of the table with his lawyer, Lou Barris, beside him. Steve and I sit opposite. Tiffany waits outside.
Shackled at hands and feet, Magpie clinks every time he moves. A young man, mid-twenties, with a nasty scar on his left cheek gives a clear indication of his upbringing. When he opens his mouth to speak, there are at least three openings where teeth used to be. With all the money made in the illegal drug trade, you would think these kids would spend some of the profit on dental work.
“I didn’t kill da some-bitch,” Magpie spits out.
“What difference does that make?” Steve asks rhetorically. “You’ll be going to the joint anyway. It’s just a matter of how long you’re going to stay.”
Barris is already bored with the shenanigans. “Why don’t you tell us what you have to offer?”
“No, no,” Steve says. “You have to tell us what you have to offer. See, we’re not the ones on the way to prison.”
Magpie starts to speak, but Barris shuts him up.
“My client has information on a hit-for-hire contract concerning Alvin Augustus.”
“Sho’ do.”
“And he came across this information, how?” Steve asks, leaning back in the wooden chair.
“My client has many contacts throughout the city,” Barris says, “people in a wide variety of employment.”
I could speak, but Steve is playing this pretty well.
“If you got a name, date, weapon, and tell me something that only I could know, I could see if there might be a reduction to manslaughter in the cards.”
“Man, I don’t want no manslaughter.” Magpie’s clinking so much he sounds like silverware being tossed around.
“Reduction in sentence?” Barris asks.
“Maybe,” Steve says, his negotiation complete.
“All right,” Barris turns to his client, “Magpie, go ahead, tell ’em.”
“Man, you my lawyer, ain’t we supposed to discuss dis first?”
“What would be the point?”
“Dis is bull-sheet.”
Barris shouts, “Magpie, shut the fuck up and talk.”
Steve takes out his pad and pencil. I sit, happy not to have been a part of the discussion.
“Shoota’s name was Clarence…”
Steve interrupts, “Clarence? You trying to sell us a hit man named Clarence?”
“Sho’ nuf.”
“I assure you my client does not have the intellectual capacity to make this up.”
Magpie is not sure what that comment was all about. “Clarence do anybody for five grand.”
“Last name?”
“Clarence, man, I toll you.”
“And how did Clarence Clarence go about shooting Mister Augustus.”
“Wit a gun.”
Steve looks to Barris.
“Magpie, you might want to be a little more specific.”
Magpie rattles big as he puts his hands and arms out as if shooting skeet.
“A rifle?”
“Big rifle, big mean rifle. Blow a hole in ya head bigger than a basketball.”
“Where’d he do it?”
“Don’t know that.”
“Who for?”
“Who fo, what?”
“Who paid for the hit, Magpie?”
“Man if I knew dat, I wouldn’t be dealin’ for no reducement, I’d be dealin’ to get out of here.”
“Okay,” Steve says. “Tell us something only we would know.”
“Dude, I got somethun betta than that.”
“Yeah.”
“Clarence missed.”
“Shit,” Steve pounds a fist for exclamation. “Everybody knows that.”
Magpie smiles big. There is enough room between teeth to hang Christmas ornaments. “Yeah, but dey don’t know Clarence missed on purpose.”
17
Never buy anything that eats
The conundrum continues.
The second-most-popular girl, Lysette, at the second-most-popular table, also has aspirations of moving up in cafeteria classification. She has enlisted my daughter Kelly, who obviously did not take my advice on the matter, to join forces and go as a package deal. Thus, if they are rejected by the popular girls, they can still sit together at lunch and not become lone outcasts to the little girls’ room.
“Kelly, I thought we discussed this,” I say over the phone in my nightly call to the girls.
“Dad, you don’t know what this means.”
“I have a pretty good idea.”
“How could you? You’re not in the seventh grade.”
“I was once.”
“In another century.”
Although she is calendar correct, I do not believe her argument is valid. “Some things in life never change, daughter dear.”
“Dad, you don’t understand.”
“Kelly, what happens if the plan doesn’t work? If they take Lysette and reject you?”
“We’re going as a package deal.”
“So, if you get in and Lysette gets bounced, you’re staying with Lysette?”
Kelly hesitates. If nothing else I have her considering what she has not yet considered.
“Dad,” Kelly says, “Mom wants to talk to you.”
Before I can say “no” my ex-wife is on the phone.
“I need more money.”
“So do I.”
“The girls need clothes for school.”
“So do I.”
“You don’t go to school.”
“Because I don’t have the right clothes.”
“Don’t argue with me, Richard.”
“Why not?”
“Because you know you are going to lose.”
She is correct. She knows it and I know it, but I have to put up a fight. I have principles.
“Maybe if you spent less on horses and riding lessons, they’d have a better wardrobe?”
“The girls love their horse.”
“You should have never bought them anything that eats.”
“They need a healthy outlet to help them get through the divorce.”
“It seems to me they are handling the situation a lot better than we are.”
“They need new clothes.”
“And I give you money each month for you to buy them the new clothes they need.”
“And it isn’t enough.”
“And it never will be, no matter how much it is.”
“Fine, Richard,” the ex cuts to the chase, “see you in court.” She hangs up the phone.
It is too bad that my ex and I cannot get along “for the sake of the children.” Anger can be like weeds in a garden. No matter how many you pull, it just keeps on coming.
___
Tiffany calls the next morning quite distraught. She speaks in hushed tones that are hard to decipher over a cell phone. She tells me she has either a major problem with a French flip or French tip and has to see her manicurist or her mammy before she can rendezvous with me.
“You have your priorities, Tiffany. I understand.”
I take the train downtown and pop in unannounced at the Augustus’ offices. The reception desk is not merely empty, but pushed to the side of the room, as if waiting for pickup. In the inner office area the other desks in the room await the same fate.
“Going so soon?” I ask Millie who comes out to greet me.
Millie has an aura of tension about her. “What do you want?”
“I want to find out who killed Alvin, then I want to go home and relax in a warm tub.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“And it wasn’t me, either,” I confirm.
I hear two voices coming from Heffelfinger’s office, a man and a woman; both I recognize. “Did I pick a bad time to visit?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I walk past Millie towards the accountant’s lair, but pause. “Millie, before I forget, do you remember what Alvin was wearing the Friday before he died?”
She places her finger to her lips, thinks. “An ugly suit.”
“Was it wrinkled?”
“Yes,” she says, “matter of fact, it was.”
I smile and enter the corner office to find Doris Augustus seated across from Horace Heffelfinger.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Doris asks.
“Just dropped in to see what condition my condition was in.” A unique reference to the 1970’s breakout hit of Kenny Rogers and his First Edition, featured in one of my favorite films, The Big Lebowski.
“Get out.”
I take a seat next to Doris.
“I do not appreciate your intrusions into my life, Mister Sherlock,” Doris says. “I have had calls from my bank, phone company, credit bureaus, and friends, telling me my accounts are being audited.”
“That wasn’t me.”
“I don’t care who it was. I want it stopped. You have no right to delve into my personal matters.” Doris speaks tough.
“I don’t, but the other two detectives do. They’re the ones doing all the delving.”
“I want it to cease immediately,” she says and adds, “and I want my share of the twelve million dollars.”
Heffelfinger has been quiet during Doris’ and my friendly meet-and-greet. His fingers tap nervously on his adding machine.
“Why did Alvin bounce you off the payroll?” I ask Doris, though the question is really aimed at the money-man.
“You would have to ask my husband that question,” Doris says.
“He’s not available,” I say. “Would his accountant know?”
“There were fewer and fewer dollars available for payout.” The taciturn man finally speaks.
“Did you come off the rolls, too?”
“No.”
“Millie?”
“No.”
“Seems you got the short end of the stick there, Doris.” I face Heffelfinger. “Why?”
“Alvin’s orders.”
I turn back to Doris. “He was going to divorce you; wasn’t he?”
“No.”
“And I bet you signed one son-of-a-bitch of a prenup.”
Heffelfinger answers me with his eyes.
“No, our marriage was solid,” she tries to argue, “rock solid.”
“Bad choice of words.”
Doris agrees with me, but won’t admit it.
“I bet you curse the day you signed your name to those papers.”
“I’m set for life, no matter what happens,” she proclaims.
“And that’s why you’re here this morning? Trying to get an advance to pay off your tab at the Ritz?”
Heffelfinger answers me for the second time without speaking.
“Should have gone with the junior suite instead of the master, Doris. He who will not economize will soon agonize.”
Doris takes her purse, “You are a disgusting man, Mister Sherlock,” and storms out of the office.
“How could anyone who quotes Confucius ever be considered disgusting?” I ask Heffelfinger who folds his arms across his chest.
He shrugs.
“I have a feeling I just did you a favor.”
“What do you want?”
“I need a record of all the trades Alvin made in the past six months.”
“Can’t.”
“He used a computer, there has to be a record.”
“Gone.”
“How about the clerk who made the trades?”
“Gone, too.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know.”
“What was his name?”
“Joey Villano.”
“Sounds like a character out of a TV show.”
“He looks like one, too.”
I sit back and try to reason with the man. “I know you have copies, why don’t you just hand them over, and I’ll get out of your hair?”
Heffelfinger takes my request as
a personal affront as he runs his fingers over his mostly bald pate. “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone already was here to claim that prize.”
18
Bureau of incompetence
Standard operating procedure was that an applicant had to have earned a law degree or a CPA to get into the FBI. This is not the case any longer, but the uppity attitude the educational requirement fostered remains alive and well inside the Bureau.
There are over eight hundred FBI agents in the Chicago office, more people than an entire day shift at the Ford Assembly plant on the South Side. Must be more crime than Fords around these parts. The offices are in the Dirksen Federal Building in the Loop. I have to visit three floors before I find the correct reception area.
“Excuse me, I need to speak with the agent involved in the investigation of illegal trading at the Board of Trade.” I smile at the camera photographing me as I speak to the receptionist.
“And you are?” She speaks with a lazy, distant timbre in her voice.
I show her my license.
“Are you here to sell insurance? Because, if you are, I have to tell you, we don’t allow solicitation on the premises.”
“No, I’m an insurance investigator.”
She clicks her thumbnail back and forth on the edge of the laminated card. “How would you know, sir, that there is an agent involved in such an investigation?”
“I’m a good investigator.”
“Sir,” she speaks in a drone of a tone, “if there was an agent, and I’m not saying there is, in an investigation of the Board of Trade, and I’m not saying there is an investigation; but if there was it would be classified, and he or she would not be available to outsiders such as you.”
I raise one finger to halt our conversation, pull out my cell phone and dial.
“No cell phones, sir, you’ll have to go outside,” she orders.
I keep my finger raised to keep her at bay until Norbert answers my call.
