People Like Us

by J. D. Rhoades

  He tried to look sympathetic. “Trouble at home?”

  She was closing up again, he could see it in her face. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  A beautiful young thing with daddy issues, he thought. Perfect. In his college teaching career, he’d had his share of affairs with students, not as many as some of his colleagues, and nothing ever serious enough to get on the administration’s radar. In his experience, the ones with the missing or uncaring fathers were the easiest for an older man, one with his air of authority, to get between the sheets. He resisted the temptation, however, to put a comforting hand over hers. It was too early for that.

  “Angela,” he said, “I want to assure you that I will treat your grandmother fairly. I will pay full value for the sword. If it’s real, I mean.”

  She looked shocked. “Of course it’s real! How could it not be?”

  He shook his head. “Unfortunately, a lot of good people have been taken in over the years by fakes. I’ll have to have it appraised.”

  “No. My granddaddy got it from his granddaddy, who…” She broke off. “Well, it doesn’t matter. It’s not for sale. To you, or to that…to anyone else.”

  He felt both sword and new conquest slipping away. “You said your grandmother was having money troubles. This could be an answer…” Then her last words suddenly sunk in. “Wait. Anyone else? Is there another buyer?”

  She never got a chance to answer. They were interrupted at that moment by the return of Mrs. Morrison, who’d thumped her way back to the table. “So, what are you two young people talking about?”

  Angela had pasted on a fake smile. “Dr. Suddath was just talking about how good the food was here. Particularly the, um…”

  “Oysters Rockefeller,” he slid in with a smile. Angela looked at him gratefully for saving her. She actually gave him a small smile. Just like that, he had hope again. This might just work out the way he wanted. On all fronts.

  Fischer had closed the drapes. The point had been made. He’d taken the pistols out of the golf bag he’d insisted on bringing up himself from the car he’d driven down from his last assignment in Baltimore. After cleaning them, inspecting them carefully, then replacing them in their various compartments, he’d taken out the book he was in the middle of and lay down on the bed to read. It was a book he’d previously been enjoying, a history of the last days of the Roman Republic before it became the Empire, but he was finding it hard to concentrate. The job he had to do was like an itch at the base of his brain, the deadline he’d set like a ticking clock in his head. He kept looking away from the book to the clock on the bedside table, counting off the hours, then, when that got boring, calculating the minutes. After a while, his stomach began to growl, and he sighed. If the call came, he wanted to take it in privacy, but if he waited too long, getting dinner out would be matter of who was still open. He could get room service, but the fewer people who saw him here, the better. The phone rang as he was pulling on his shoes. “Of course,” he sighed. He picked it up and answered. “Yes.”

  “I have an address,” the voice on the other end said. It was a different voice that the one before.

  Fischer hoped this one would be more aware of the need for security. “Go ahead.”

  “250 West Boylan Street. And please make sure the, ah, recipient knows how sorry we are that this delivery has taken so long.”

  Well, Fischer thought, as coded communications went, it was clumsy, but whoever this guy was, he was more discreet than the bumbling goon who’d called earlier. “I’ll make sure they get that message.” He recalled the mention of another party. “Is this package restricted delivery?”

  The answer came back immediately. “As long as it reaches the people it’s intended for, there’s not a problem if anyone else handles it as well.”

  “Understood.” Collateral damage was not going to be an issue. Anyone else on the scene was to be eliminated. “I’ll be changing my office number soon. Better carrier, better rates.” It was time to burn the burner and get a new phone.

  “I hear you. Just call us on the new number with confirmation of delivery.”

  “Will do.” Fischer broke the connection, then turned the phone off and dropped it on the floor. He stomped on it carefully at first, then harder, until the device was a collection of plastic shards and circuit boards. Carefully, he picked up the pieces, being sure to gather up the SIM card that held all of the phone’s identifying information, and dropped them into a black plastic bag taken from his suitcase. He’d scatter the pieces along the way to the target. When he was done, he contemplated the golf bag propped up in the corner and sucked at his teeth thoughtfully. Carrying that down on the elevator at night would draw attention. He took out one of the pistols and a noise suppressor. The pistol went into a discreet holster in his mid-back, the suppressor into an inside jacket pocket. He considered for a moment, then picked out a spring-loaded fighting knife which he strapped to his wrist over his dress shirt. When he pulled the jacket back on and looked in the mirror, Fischer nodded to himself. If they could see me back in Fischer, he said to himself, thinking back to the New Orleans housing project from which he’d taken his name. Then he shook his head. Everyone who he knew from back in those days was probably dead. He’d even done for a few of them himself, especially the son of a bitch who’d…

  He cut the thought off. It had taken him years, but it had gotten to the point where he could drop a steel door between himself and his emotions. That door had become so real to him, he could almost hear it clang. He could shut off the fear, the anger, the insecurity, leaving only himself on the other side. If compassion and pity were trapped behind that door as well, that was a price he was willing to pay. That’s what made him the best at what he did.

  Fischer turned off the lights and made sure the “Do Not Disturb” sign was hung on the door. Then he headed down, out of the tower, and toward his delivery.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Sam and William were in the den, watching Seinfeld reruns on TV when Aunt Sally and Rachel returned. Aunt Sally leaned her cane on the wall by the door and held her arms up like a referee signaling a touchdown.

  “Things went well, I guess,” William said.

  Aunt Sally dropped her arms and plopped down in her easy chair. “Like a charm. That ol’ boy was so took with Miss Rachel here, his tongue was hangin’ halfway to his knees. And he’s more interested in our lil’ item than ever. I’d say the hook is set.” She turned to Sam. “Your gal’s got some moves, Sammy.”

  Sam smiled at Rachel. “I know.”

  “Thanks,” Rachel said. “I’m going to go upstairs and change. These heels are killing me.”

  As she left the room, Aunt Sally asked William, “So does our boy here have his bona fides—” she pronounced it bone-a fy-dees, “—in place?”

  William nodded in Sam’s direction. “Right now, ‘Mr. Winslow Price’ over there is all over the internet as a purveyor of Civil War antiquities. Testimonials, the works.”

  “What about the store?”

  William smiled. “We have it for the next three days.”

  “Good. Sammy, you been studyin’ your lessons like a good boy?”

  Sam nodded. “I don’t think I could fool a real expert, but I can fake it well enough. What’s this about a store?”

  Aunt Sally beamed. “William here found an actual dealer who’s been…well let’s just say he’s been a naughty boy. He decided to take a few days off and leave us the keys to his store, rather than have William send some files from his hard drive to the Feds.”

  Sam looked at William. “And how’d you happen to find out what this dealer had been up to?”

  William shrugged. “A lot of people aren’t as careful or as clever out there on the internet as they think they are. Especially on the dark web.”

  “That’s how we came up with this particular game,” Aunt Sally said. “Once William had this skeezy little fucker on the hook, we asked ourselv
es, ‘what could we do with a store full of old Civil War crap?’ And now, here we are.”

  “So we have a place where you can meet the mark that’ll look absolutely authentic,” William said, “because it is.”

  “Only thing fake in the store—” Aunt Sally smiled, “—will be you. And Rachel.”

  William got up, reached into a drawer in a side table, and drew out a cell phone and a business card. “Mr. Price,” he said. “Welcome to the antiquities business.”

  Sam took the phone and card. “This is the address? And the number for Suddath to call?”

  William nodded. “Suddath’s number is on the back.”

  Sam turned the card over. “So, make the call now, or tomorrow?”

  “I’d say now,” Aunt Sally said. “Clock’s ticking.”

  Sam dialed. After a moment, he looked at Aunt Sally. Voice mail, he mouthed to her.

  Her wrinkled face broke into a grin. “Probably off pullin’ his pud, thinkin’ about our girl upstairs.”

  Sam ignored her. “Dr. Suddath,” he said at the beep. “My name is Winslow Price. I’m a dealer in Civil War artifacts. I believe you and I might be interested in the same item. There’s something about the situation that you need to know. Please contact me at,” he read the number off the card. “It’s urgent.” He broke the connection. “Okay,” he told the other two. “If he doesn’t call back tomorrow, I’ll drop in on him.”

  “Don’t worry,” Aunt Sally said. “He’ll call.”

  Sam stood up. “I’m going to turn in. Big day tomorrow.”

  “Sweet dreams.”

  Rachel was lying on the bed when Sam came upstairs, reading a paperback novel. She was dressed only in the long shirt she used as a nightgown. Sam stood in the doorway and watched her until she looked up. “What?” she said.

  “Nothing.” He smiled. “I like looking at you.”

  “Hmph.” She went back to her novel. “Sounds stalkery.”

  He laughed and slid onto the bed next to her. She looked at him sideways, then back at her book, ostentatiously ignoring him. He nuzzled at her neck until she squirmed. “Stop that.”

  “So, was it really awful?” he murmured in her ear. “Dinner, I mean.”

  She put the book down and looked him in the eyes, putting a hand on his chest. “Honey,” she said, all pretense gone, “I am really going to enjoy taking that creepy son of a bitch’s money.”

  He propped his elbow on the bed and his head on his hand. “That bad?”

  She shivered. “He actually licked his lips one time while he was looking at me. He thought I didn’t notice. But it made my skin crawl.”

  “It’ll be over soon,” he said, putting an arm across her and kissing her shoulder. He kissed her again, moving his way higher toward her neck. She pulled away slightly, not breaking contact but enough to look at him with raised eyebrows. “Really? Here? You want to do it here?”

  He nibbled her earlobe, something she always said made her weak in the knees. “Why not here?”

  She laughed, a little unsteadily, as his hand caressed her side. “I mean…it’d be like doing it at your grandma’s house.”

  “Yeah,” he whispered, and kissed her lips, softly at first, then more demandingly.

  Her lips yielded under his, then her laugh broke the kiss. He pulled back and smiled at her. She smiled back. “Kinky.”

  “Yep.”

  They did their best to be quiet, but the old bedsprings were squeaky, making them laugh all over again. Then they found the rhythm and they stopped caring about noise or anything else except driving one another to their mutual peak. It ended with her on top, grinding against him until they both groaned, muffling the sound with their kiss as they shuddered against one another, melding so perfectly that everything else in the world went away.

  When it was over, she rolled off him, panting with exertion. He pulled her against him and she settled into her familiar comfortable place against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her hair. Neither of them spoke. When she finally did, she said, “You know, Aunt Sally’s kind of a hypocrite.”

  “Hmm?” he said, already sliding toward sleep. “How d’you mean?”

  “She gives you shit about not getting emotionally involved. But what’s up between her and William? They’re clearly living together.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “But he’s not her lover. He’s her brother.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rachel blinked in confusion. “Wait, what?”

  “Yeah. They’re brother and sister.”

  She shook her head. “But he’s…you know…”

  “Black?” He shrugged. “Under the law in place where she was born, so is she.”

  “Is one of them adopted? Or wait…they’re half siblings.”

  “No and no,” he said. “Same parents. Black mom, white dad. She just came out light complexioned. She could pass for white.”

  Rachel frowned. “Wow. That couldn’t have been easy. Back then, I mean.”

  “You could say that.” Sam looked grim. “If her dad had just kept it quiet, kept her and her mom stashed way some place in the black section of the little dipshit town in Georgia where Aunt Sally was born, they might have gotten away with it. But they were in love. He tried to raise both kids as his own. Tried to keep her with him.”

  Rachel sat up and pulled the sheet up to cover herself, as if a thin cotton sheet could ward off what was coming. “I get the feeling this story doesn’t end well.”

  He nodded. “One night a mob…men in hoods…surrounded their house. Aunt Sally’s father came out. Told them where they could get off. He might have just gotten away with a beating if he hadn’t taken a shot at them. They shot back. Killed him on his own doorstep in front of the children and their mother. Then they dragged Aunt Sally’s mom off his body and gang-raped her until dawn.”

  Rachel closed her eyes. “Jesus.”

  “Yeah. Her family found her the next morning, wandering the streets, bloody, clothes all torn. Her mind was gone.”

  “What happened to the children?”

  “They got put into an orphanage. Same one. They grew up together.”

  “Well,” Rachel said, “that explains why she’s got such a thing about racists.”

  “Right. But she’s a pro, Rache. She’s not going to lose her head.”

  She frowned, clearly dubious. “If you say so.”

  “I do. You’ve seen her work. She’s good.”

  Rachel nodded slowly. “She is. I have to admit it.”

  He smiled at her. “Come on. You know there are some marks you enjoy taking more than others.”

  She laughed. “True. True.” She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him. “Let’s get some sleep,” she said.

  Aunt Sally looked up from her knitting and peered at the ceiling. “Sounds like they’re settling down.”

  William was stretched out on the couch, reading a book on computer network architecture. He grunted in absent-minded acknowledgment.

  She put the knitting away in its bag and stood up. “I think I’ll turn in myself. Can you put the food out for the cats when you go to bed?”

  He looked at her over a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses perched on his nose. “You keep feedin’ those strays, we’re gonna be neck-deep in ’em.”

  She smiled at him. “We were strays once.”

  He rolled his eyes and went back to his book. She stood looking at him, still smiling. Finally, he sighed and looked back at her. “I’ll feed the damn cats.”

  “Good. Night night.”

  “G’night.”

  He read a little while longer, then slowly got up, grimacing as his back popped and cracked. Damn, I hate getting old, he thought. Then he grimaced. Like Sis says, though. Only one way to stop it. He fetched the bag of cat food from the top shelf of the coat closet by the front door and stepped out. There was no sign of the pair of feral cats who’d been regula
r visitors for the past few months, but the food that he’d left in the twin bowls earlier was gone. He filled the bowls, then picked up the water bowl. As he turned to take it back inside, he glanced across the street. What he saw made him stop in mid-turn.

  There was nothing immediately unusual about the car that sat on the opposite side of the street. It was a nondescript white Chevy Caprice, a bland sedan like thousands of others in the city. He’d never seen it in this neighborhood before, but that alone didn’t mean anything. But there was something that was bothering him, a feeling of nagging unease. In a lifetime on the grift, he’d learned to trust that feeling. As he stood watching, he thought he saw movement inside the car. The unease deepened.

  Someone was watching the house.

  William went inside and filled the water bowl. Before doing so, he reached up into one of the kitchen cabinets and took a small silver handgun from between the salt and sugar containers. He stuck it in his waistband and pulled his T-shirt down over the butt. As he headed for the front door, he snapped off the hall light, then the one in the entryway. The porch light came last. He opened the door. The Chevy was gone. The bad feeling was not. As he set the bowl down, he heard a rustling in the bushes. He straightened up, yanked the pistol from his waistband, and sprang back.

  A pale-gray shape leaped from the bushes beside the front steps. William breathed out a sigh of relief that turned into a wry chuckle as he recognized one of the strays they’d been feeding. The cat stopped and sat down, staring at him, tail going back and forth. “Almost got yourself shot there, little man,” he murmured. The cat made no answer. He——William assumed it was a he——just sat and stared. He wasn’t going to eat until William was gone. Neither of them had that much trust, even in the people who fed them. William respected that. You couldn’t be too careful in this world. Slowly, he closed the door. He stood in the darkness, listening, ears straining. He could hear the sound of a car going by, slowly. Carefully, he pulled aside the thin curtain over one of the glass sidelights that flanked the door. He saw the Caprice creeping past. Then it sped up and was gone.