HE WAS REMARKABLY BEAUTIFUL, especially from a distance. Her new smile glistened in the sunlight; a half-pound of makeup blanketed her tired, crusty, sun-baked shell; a piece or two of expensive-looking costume jewelry, another new dress, and, all combined, it did the trick. She had become a genuine, elderly, elegant old matron. That is, until she opened her mouth to speak. “Can’t say a blasted thing, these confounded chompers keep fallin’ out!” Nurse huffed, her characteristic soft, toothless whistle now more of a steam engine blowing its stack.
The Alley Team stood in awe at the miraculous transformation wrought by a set of ceramic ivories. “You look incredible, Nurse,” Sound was the first to say.
“Mrs. Lambert, to you!”Cap’n stepped into the fray, playfully applying a big elbow to Sound’s rib-cage, sending the skinny, bird-legged man sprawling across the floor. “She looks kinda’ like Eddie’s daughter, but much older. An’ now,” he continued, “she’s even tryin’ to talk the same language.”
“Ouch!” shrieked Sound, straightening himself up and brushing his ruffled chest feathers back into place. Then he turned on Cap’n, only partly in jest. “Don’t you have any tact? She doesn’t look that much older. . . . And you shouldn’t go around poking me like that!”
“She just better keep her flap shut, is all I can say,” Cap’n chuckled.Greg, standing near the door a pace or two behind Nurse, shot both of them a look that could scare a Halloween witch.
“S-see,” Nurse said as she yanked the uppers free. “Ain’t no use wearin’‘em if’n no one’s gonna believe a word I says.”
Smitty seemed most intrigued by the removable teeth. Staring at the dentures Nurse had clutched in her hand, he brushed lightly at his own rotting cuspids with the end of his fingers.
Greg patted the old woman on the back. “They’ll just take a little getting used to.” But Nurse wasn’t at all convinced. She thrust her tongue up to the roof of her mouth and started to gag, then yanked the bottom set free. “Feels like I’m gonna puke. This trash they call cream is more like peanut butter mint. Can’t stand th’ taste a’ mint.” The matron-to-be stuck her finger in her mouth and scraped it along her gums, extracting a spitladen residue of green paste. She gagged again and went to wipe her finger on her dress. Stopping herself, she looked over at Sound, who shook his head.
Greg shook his own head as he observed the faces of the little team. Cap’n’s smile had turned into a sour scowl–as if he himself were about to gag–poor Smitty looked like he’d just had all hopes of a new mouth of his own dashed to pieces with a giant sledge hammer, while Sound’s face mirrored absolute disgust. He reached into his shirt pocket and brought out a crinkled paper napkin and held it out to her.
“I have an idea,” Greg said. The entire team turned as one, as though looking away from a classmate throwing up on the gym floor. “What if we send Sound everywhere Mrs. Lambert goes–her butler, if you will. We could dress him in a fancy servant’s outfit or something that made him look the part. Then he could do most of the talking.”
Smitty nodded enthusiastically, and Cap’n’s sourpuss expression bloomed into a big grin. “A tux with tails,” he laughed. “White gloves, too.”
“Get serious,” Sound grumped. “It’d never work.”
“We could get a suit for Cap’n and a girdle to slim him up a bit,” Greg continued. “The flecks of gray in his hair and a nice suit would make him look like a gambler on the prowl. He’d just hang around, keep the two of you safe if anything went wrong.”
If he’d had a voice, Smitty would have laughed out loud. Sound, however, was tittering enough for them both. Hands on knees and ‘funny-tears’ leaking down his face, this time he made sure to stay out of reach of the big black man’s burly elbows.
“‘At mean I don’t got to wear these darn things?” Nurse jiggled her set of new teeth in her hand.
“No, it just means you won’t need to say much.” Greg turned to Smitty. “I almost forgot, did you go see Eddie?”
Smitty nodded, bent over and rammed his hand in the front pocket of his baggy pants. He jerked out a new Nevada driver’s licence and three false credit cards and handed them to Greg. Nurse peered over Greg’s arm at the fake ID, an impressive piece of work. “Ain’t bad, for a cheap passport photo. Ain’t bad at all. Maybe ‘at boy a’ Eddie’s got a bit a’ good left in him after all.”
Sound gave a start. “Oh, I almost forgot to tell you. Last night Ritter was by the T-bird, looking for us. He told my friend he’d be back tonight. . . . Oh, and he was wearing a new suit himself.”
“I don’t like it,” Cap’n thundered. “‘Less he stole some a’ Lightnin’s money, he’d never be able t’ afford a new suit. He’s two-timin’ us, I know it. A double-agent two-timer. The day’s comin’we hang that boy on the long arm where everyone can see his . . .”
Nurse stopped Cap’n in his tracks. “‘At’s enough. Don’t know nothin’ yet. We best give Ritter th’benefit of th’doubt.”
“Do you think he’d turn on us?” Greg asked.
“Don’t think so, Sunny, but like I said ‘fore, he always did run on a diff’rent track ‘an ever’one else. But I never once caught him lyin’ t’ me.”
Greg remained cautiously neutral. “I still suggest we don’t let him know where we’re staying.”
“Agreed,” Nurse answered.
Mitch was on his third city bus, now headed up Sahara Avenue. The last thing he wanted to do was lead a pack of disgruntled Federal agents to the team’s doorstep–thus the bus-hopping. The quick escape from the convention center had been a fluke. It was unlikely his ingenuity would again prevail over the government’s best. Maybe Stephanie was right. Maybe it was time to turn the whole mess over to the FBI. Surely they’d see that he’d been set up, wouldn’t they? They’d understand how his prints got on the gun that killed Mike–maybe. But how would they respond to the fire that sent the body shop up in flames, or his destroying evidence, or his inciting a major panic at Three Queens. Not a chance. They hadn’t believed his story about the convenience store robbery . . . this absurd chain of events would blow their socks right off.
After exiting the bus, Mitch walked to the apartment building, took the elevator to the 5th floor, and gave the door a gentle rap. “Who is it?” Cap’n boomed from behind the door.
“Mitch.” He could hear the muted voices of Cap’n and Nurse, arguing whether or not he should use the ‘Lightning’ moniker. “For crup’s sake,” Nurse ranted. “You knows who it is. Jus’open it up.” Cap’n cracked the door, then turned sideways to let Mitch squeeze past.
Piles of cash and miscellaneous receipts cluttered the kitchen floor. Sound held a notepad in his hand, a pencil crammed behind his ear. His mood was somber, fretful. “How much cash do you still have?”
“I don’t know,” Mitch replied, a bit startled. He felt like a nickel arcade employee whose cash drawer had been found short.
Sound sensed Mitch’s minor annoyance. After all, it was his cash in the first place. “Ritter stopped by the T-Bird, wearing a new suit,” he explained. “We need to know where he got the money. The only way to decide if it came from us, is to account for every dollar.”
Cap’n reiterated his venomous view of the situation. “I say he’s a twotimin’ double agent. Need to hang him for treason.”
The rest of the team, tired of Cap’n’s constant diatribes, ignored the intrusion. Mitch plucked his wallet from his hip. “Fifty-three-dollars and change,” he said, pulling out a handful of coins from his pocket.
“How much have you spent?”
Mitch turned his head in thought. “Ten bucks in change for phone calls . . . about five for lunch. You paid for the apartment and deposit . . .”
“I’ve got that. Anything else?”
“Not that I can think of.”
Sound, his interrogation complete, began to count in a whisper. His pencil tapped the notepad, at least some of the calculations being performed manually. “Carry the one . . .” he muttered under his breath, “. . . thirteen, plus nine . . .” Finally he slid the pencil to his ear. “That makes us only thirty dollars and twenty-five-cents short. Not enough to buy a suit.”
Cap’n barged into the breach. “See, I told ya’. He’s on the other side . . .”
“Cap’n!” Nurse carped, her voice adamant. “I ain’t goin’ t’ tell ya’ ‘gain. We’s tired a’ hearin’ yer jaw flap on an’ on ‘bout Ritter. Let’s give the boy a word a’ his own ‘fore we toss ‘im in th’ pig slop.” Her harangue ended, Nurse turned to Sunny. “You got any ideas?”
Greg looked around the room. It was strange how the money scattered about on the table didn’t seem to bother the team. They had nothing, yet in their minds they had everything they needed. Even with half of the $20,000 gone–more than any one of them had earned in the past five years–they were only thirty dollars short. Thirty measly dollars, he mused. It’d be interesting to see if the best, most scrupulous of corporations could come so close. With no formal accounting system, half-a-dozen different people dipping into the stash, and no one in charge of dispersements or doling out change, it was a remarkable thing.
“First I need to say,” Greg began, “I am deeply impressed by the honesty and dedication of your little family. I’ve never seen such loyalty among friends. I want you to know that no matter what happens during the next few days, I’ve learned more from you than you’ll ever know. . . .”
Cap’n swallowed hard, Sound was starting to tear up, Smitty stared down at the floor, and Nurse listened intently, each absorbed in thought, each feeling guilty for the secret they kept tucked deep inside.
Greg continued. “I always thought success in life was governed by the amount of money I made, the car I drove, the size of my house, my job title. You’ve taught me so much more. I got caught up with things. Things don’t make one happy–it’s all an illusion. You live on the streets of a city full of false dreams, yet every day you rise above it all by your character.” He looked Sound in the eye and blinked back his own feelings. “Thank you.” An awkward stillness settled over the room, a warm chill. Like being wrapped in a familiar blanket on a winter’s night, then finding that the blanket has been torn to shreds, a cold sliver of deceit pierced what should have been a celebration of friendship.
After a long pause, Nurse broke the silence. “Now ‘fore we gets mushy, best we get this cash put away and figure out what we plan on doin’ with Ritter.”
After going over a dozen instructions and executing a quick trial run of Sound’s new listening equipment, the team, each with a giant bowl of ice cream, sat down to listen to Mitch’s latest exploits. They roared with laughter and “ooohed” and “ahhed” in turn as he related his escape from the convention center, his multiple bus rides, how he and Smitty had managed to purloin Vinnie’s car, the 220-mph chase up the freeway, and his bumpy ride through–and culvert nap in–the desert. When Mitch described his future plans, how he would return the Ferrari to its original owner by way of a quick wash and wax at the car wash before delivering it, the team laughed until they cried.
By quarter to eleven that evening Ritter was on his way to the Tbird. The pleats in his pants and suit coat, unlike the night before, were gone, replaced by wrinkles, having served as his pajamas through a long, painful night under the Rio bridge. The throbbing in his little finger was a vivid reminder of the brutal nature of his new bedfellow–who now, unbeknownst to Ritter, was ordering his death. The Feds too, now lingering in the shadows, held out hope that the Englishman would lend a clue as to the whereabouts of Mike’s body.
Smitty waited on the tattered couch in the T-bird’s foyer. It had been a simple choice to whom the task should fall. The mute had volunteered before being asked. He was the most expendable of the team, and if he were caught he couldn’t be coerced to give up any information. Wearing his old street clothes, consisting of some tattered brown pants cinched high by a pair of red suspenders, he was still mostly clean-shaven, with only a day or two’s growth of straggly whiskers clinging to his broad face.
In his report to the group, Mitch had commented on Smitty’s singular bravery and quick-thinking. Now, waiting for Ritter to show, he sat reveling in his heroic deeds. Nonchalantly, he reached up to press his earpiece tightly in his ear. Sound’s device was working well. Each member of the team was posted within a few blocks, scattered at several preassigned spots. Cap’n was the first to report Ritter’s movements. “I got him,” he whispered into the cheap, two-way radio strapped under his shirt. “He’s walkin’ east on Imperial.” Cap’n, too, was dressed in his familiar Army garb. After being free of the rags for a few days, however, he now realized how bad the old shirt and faded coveralls smelled–not to mention the too small heavy coat choking his large torso. Sweat coursed down his head and neck. He longed for his ice-water-filled cooler.
Nurse, meanwhile, hobbled unnoticed to an intercept course. Snug in her old clothing, despite the smell, she smiled her toothless grin. She’d take an old pair of boxer shorts any day over the repressive garter belt and girdle she’d been forced to wear. The old woman peered through the darkness, her eyes still struggling to adjust to the bright flashing headlights.
Ritter paused on the sidewalk outside the T-bird and rocked back on his heels, looking around warily. The long walk had flared up his bunions again; the new footwear made it all the worse. His rags had been properly discarded by the maid at Three Queens. His old pair of comfortable shoes had been the greatest loss.
Just inside the door, Smitty’s mouth twitched nervously. His neck tendons tightened and relaxed as he watched Ritter wobble up the sidewalk. He pressed the transmit button on his own radio, locking it in place, and pulled the earpiece out and tucked it under his shirt.
Suddenly the radio whistled. “I got a bogie! I repeat, I got a bogie!” Cap’n shrieked. “Someone’s on his tail. Get out, Smitty! I repeat, pull out!”
Smitty uncrossed his lanky legs and wiggled his foot. Ritter entered the lobby and glanced around the room. Then he fixed his gaze on his tonguetied friend.
“Crimony, Smitty, I didn’t expect you to meet me.” He gave the mute the once over. “Ya look right sod, mate, wit’your whiskers gone.” Smitty nodded and stroked the lapel of Ritter’s suit between his fingers. “That’s right– hit the lotto. That Mr. Vinnie’s a right cheeky devil, he is. Can smile at ya’ an’stab ya’in the back in the same instant.” He held up a bandaged finger. “He chopped me pinky off pert near at the joint. Told me it was a warnin’ not to cross him. Stupid bloke thinks I’ll give it up, where we deposited the merchandise.” The Brit plopped down on the couch next to Smitty.
Two blocks away Mitch was on a dead run; Greg was on his way from a different direction. Smitty didn’t deserve to take the fall for them. Skidding to a stop at the neighboring business’s dumpster, Mitch gasped, “Where is he, Cap’n?”
Cap’n pointed down the street to a man dressed in ragged clothes and talking into his shirt collar. Mitch squinted at the figure. “Who do you think he is?”
“Shhh,” Cap’n said. He pressed his earpiece tight, eavesdropping on Ritter’s one-sided conversation.
“You remember me mum, don’t you, Smitty?” Ritter asked, his tone softening.
Smitty nodded. He’d seen the photos before.
“Me mum’s in the hospital. She ain’t got a soul t’keep an eye on her no more. I’d move me blooming butt back to Yorkshire today–if me brother wasn’t in such a fix. He ain’t quite right in the head, you know. . . . I figure fifty-grand’ll get him off the dole an’in a program. Once he’s better, he can take care a’me mum. When the money’s in the Midland Bank, then I’ll take Mr. Vinnie to the merchandise, but not until the money’s there. That ought to give you time to make a switch. Mr. Vinnie’s a bad one. If I don’t get a chance to tell the others, you tell ’em goodbye fer me, okay?” Ritter stood. “You watch your back. Some feller’s been tailing me.” Smitty nodded. “You’re all right, pet.” He gave Smitty a slap on the back and turned to walk from the building.
From across the parking lot, Cap’n, his face leaking big tears down onto his heavy, green coat, stared at the T-bird’s front doors. “What is it? Greg asked, still breathing too hard to hear what had been said.
“He’s goin’ to get himself killed, the stupid bloke. He’s decided to take Mr. Vinnie on himself. He knows someone’s followin’ him, too.”
Still lounging in the foyer, Smitty snapped the medical tape that held the small radio to his chest and slid it out of his shirt to the couch, where he shoved it between the cushions. He then got up and followed Ritter to the street. The Alley Team looked on helplessly as a gray van pulled up alongside the curb and a couple of Federal agents got out and shoved Smitty inside. Mitch started off to help his friend, but Cap’n caught him by the arm. “We knew it weren’t safe when he went in,” he said. “We don’t need t’ worry. They can’t do much to a man that can’t talk.”
Into the wee hours of morning Barnes and Horne interrogated the man who, they figured, could shed some light on the whole mess. It wasn’t until two a.m. that they came to the conclusion that Smitty truly couldn’t talk. Horne, however, still held to the notion that it was more a case that he wouldn’t talk. They still had no idea who he was or where he’d come from–no records of any sort. Neither had he demanded to be released. On the contrary, he sat through the barrage of questioning, sometimes curling into a fetal ball if the voices became too loud.
“Call the department shrink,” Barnes ordered. “Get him out of bed– get him in here. This guy’s either nuts or the toughest nut I’ve ever seen.”
Meanwhile, crouched near the door leading to Ford’s Frozen Food Locker’s basement, Cap’n held a flashlight while Mitch struggled to crack his own tough problem. The lock just wouldn’t cooperate. Finally the big man’s patience had worn thin. “Step aside! I’ll break it in!”
“I’ve almost got it. Hold your horses,” Mitch replied, only slightly distracted by Cap’n’s bluster.
“You been tellin’ me that for thirty minutes. We ain’t got all night.”
Mitch threw back his shoulders and stretched his arms. “What? You think Mike might get up and walk away?”
“Hey, you said ya’ could pick the lock . . .”
“I can. I just didn’t know it would take this long. Now please be quiet and let me work in peace.”
Cap’n leaned back. Steadying the beam on the doorknob, he angled his legs down the small concrete stairway that led to the door, resigned to watching the man work. The team had taken a vote and decided that it was time to move the body. The only problem with the move was that it might be a few days before a new home could be secured. Cap’n’s job had been to secure a big-screen television box, which he pulled from the Hilton’s dumpster. Mitch, after finding a car without a locking wheel, had hot-wired an old Ford Falcon in the Hilton’s employee parking lot. The feat had taken 15 seconds flat. After their caper was finished, a hundred-dollar-bill would be left in the car as payment to its owner, along with a note of apology for taking it without asking.
Everything had gone as planned, except getting at the body. Without Smitty, it was a long-shot. Cap’n released a drawn out sigh, then an involuntary shudder. “Don’t know if I’ll be able t’sleep with your friend there in the house.”
“I haven’t been able to sleep since we brought him here,” Mitch replied as the door popped open. Then he said, “This isn’t going to be easy.”
Cap’n scrambled to his feet. “But it’s open.”
“I don’t mean the door. I mean seeing him again.”
“I know what you mean,” Cap’n said with a note of melancholy. “I killed my best friend when I was sixteen. Back then I had a terrible temper. Sometimes I didn’t even know what I was doin’.”
“Is that what happened to the guard the other night?”
“Guess so. I don’t remember much when I go off like that. See, me an’ Lou–he was my best friend–we grew up together in the slums of Jackson, Mississippi. Our mamas both worked, so after school we found ways t’ keep ourselves occupied. One day I found an old, stray mutt. . . . Man, I loved that dog. Called him Buzz,” Cap’n chuckled. “‘cause he was always buzzin’ round after his tail. Taught him how to sit. Saved half my supper beans ever’ night to share with him.” They stopped a little over halfway down the dimly lit hall. Cap’n pointed up at the numbers above one of the lockers. “This the one?”
Mitch nodded and went to work on its padlock–a much easier task. “You had beans for supper every night?”
“Weren’t nothin’ else.”
“So what happened?”
“After a few months Lou found some new friends. They made fun a’ me an’ my dog; said he was nothin’ but a worm-infested mongrel. I didn’t really care what they said, but Lou’s new friends told him that if he wanted to be part a’ their club, he needed t’ kill my dog. Even loaned him the gun.”
Mitch tugged on the lock’s hasp and it broke free. “What did he do?”
Cap’n clicked open the handle on the big freezer, swung the door open, and gazed distantly into the dark box. Both men thoughtfully busied themselves moving cuts of beef. “I heard a shot and come runnin’ from the projects. I found Buzz. He was twistin’ ‘round on the ground, bitin’ at his leg an’ hip. Well, when Lou raised his gun and let loose with a second shot, I guess I grabbed him. Next thing I knows I was watchin’ Buzz bleed to death. Lou was layin’ right there, too. I lost both my best friends the same day, right there in the alley. They let me off; said it was a crime of passion. About that time all my friends were headed to ‘Nam, so I tried t’ join up with the Marines. They wouldn’t take me. Said I was crazy. The next year my little brother and mama were killed in a drive-by shootin’. After that, I up and left Mississippi.” Cap’n stopped to remove his coat. Like casting the memory out of his mind, he tossed it on a stack of meat. “We best finish up. We want t’ get some sleep ‘fore sunrise.”
“The man can’t speak, Agent Barnes. He’s a mute. From the size and shape of his head, I’d guess he suffered trauma to his head or spine as an infant. Regardless, I’ve never met anyone like him before.”
“Do you think he knows what’s going on?”The psychiatrist shrugged. “It’s hard to say. He could be marginally functional or very bright. From what I can tell, he’s never learned to sign or read or write. I say you drop a microchip in his back pocket, turn him loose and see where he goes. He’ll probably go back to where he came from, and just might help you catch your man.” Barnes nodded.
In conformance with the collected wisdom of the FBI’s best, it was decided. With a donut clutched in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, Smitty was led out the building’s rear door and wished a pleasant morning.