1 The Reluctant Dick - The Case of the Not-So-Fair Trader (20 page)

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, y
our 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
. D
itto 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
. I
t’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
. I
f 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 “
n
o” 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, “
s
ee 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 keep
s
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 p
ickup. 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.