Dead Ringer Page 2

  Sergei Seleznyov, the big Russian I’d taken the title from, was screaming for a rematch. He’d been scheduled to fight another opponent, and I’d been a last-minute replacement. Sometimes, when you’ve spent the whole preparation time expecting one fighter, and another one comes in at the last minute, you get shaken. Sergei hadn’t anticipated my speed, and although he’d caught me with more blows than I would have liked, I knocked him out in the eighth round. But it didn’t come easy, and now it was taking me longer than I’d anticipated to fully recover. Part of the problem when you take a fight on short notice. Another problem was that this fight had been under international rules, which allowed leg kicks. Most of my fights used the PKBA rules, which kept all kicks above the belt. Afterward, my legs had been so sore that I felt like ordering a wheelchair to get back to my dressing room.

  And now the promoters were trying to sucker me into the rematch, but training, like the recovery, was going more slowly than we’d hoped. Plus, I had nothing to gain by fighting the Mad Russian again. I’d already knocked him out. The bigger money would be calling if I fought somebody else, like my old nemesis, Elijah Day. But I’d knocked him out, too, in a non-title match. With nobody left to beat, I almost felt like retiring. Going out when I was on top. But I finally was beginning to get a taste of the big money, and I didn’t want to waste it.

  Which meant I had to keep in fighting shape. That had saved me last time. If I hadn’t been ready when opportunity knocked with Sergei, I would have gotten beaten into the ground. Hence, my trip to the gym was more than recreational. It was tempered with necessity. Just like my need to keep the money coming in, and a nice, easy investigative case for Midwestern Insurance, or MWO as Dick called it, would keep me occupied and hopefully out of trouble. After all, I reasoned, how many problems could checking up on a dead guy give me?

  Alex St. James

  Larry Farnsworth was a lot shorter than I remembered him. Of course, the last time I’d seen him, I’d been about eight years old, when every adult towered over me. Despite the fact that he was still a half block down, and his hair had gone completely silver, I recognized him right away.

  As he strode east on Randolph from the direction of his law office on Wells, I had a sudden memory of calling him Uncle Larry. I smiled at that. He wasn’t related to my family at all, but at the time it had been more comfortable than calling him Mr. Farnsworth.

  Larry kept up a good clip for someone his age and size. We’d agreed to meet at a restaurant on the north side of Randolph. Owned by a Greek man who managed his customers as efficiently as his staff, the restaurant’s sea of aqua tables turned over at a rate that kept the lunch crowd moving in and out at lightning speed.

  For the first time, I noticed that Larry wasn’t alone. He turned to address the man walking next to him. Taller, with chestnut brown hair, and a soft jawline, the other man was closer to my age. I assumed he was one of the up-and-coming attorneys from his firm. Both wore business suits despite the day’s warmth. The younger guy’s suit was solid black. Geez, he had to be hot. I wondered why in the world Larry brought him along. I’d been very specific about my reasons for meeting, and there’s no way this other guy could possess any of the information I needed.

  I plastered on a smile as they drew up.

  “Alexandrine,” Larry said, grabbing me into a bear hug. He planted a huge kiss on the side of my head, then stepped back, tilting his head as he assessed me. “I’m so pleased that you called. Look at you. It does this old man’s heart good to see you. Who would have ever imagined that scrawny little girl turning into such a beautiful young lady?”

  Young lady? Of all people outside my own family, Larry should know my age. “Young lady” conjured up images of a lithe teenager—fresh, bold, and a little less cynical than someone who’d crossed into her third decade. I’d been about to make a cute quip to that effect, but Larry had already started introductions.

  “You remember Nicky, don’t you Alex?”

  My mouth dropped open. Nicky Farnsworth? Little Nicky? I might’ve been short and scrawny as a kid, but Nicky had been shorter and scrawnier. Two years older than I was, he’d worn braces before the rest of us got them. They gave him a pronounced lisp and turned his breath rancid. That powerful memory raced up and instinctively I took a step backward.

  “Nicky’s grown up some, huh?” Larry said, slapping his son on the shoulder. “How long has it been since you two have seen each other?”

  My mouth went utterly useless on me. I’d forgotten him. But it all came back in a rush.

  “Alex,” Nicky said, extending his hand. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  “Nicky,” I said, shaking my head in continued disbelief and catching a whiff of pungent after-shave. Resisting the urge to step back again, I couldn’t think of one single thing to break the ice of conversation. Nicky and I hadn’t ever had much in common, and the shock of this unexpected reunion kept my tongue tied.

  Nicky had been a creepy wallflower. At all those adult gatherings where the parents decided “the kids can just go in the basement and play together,” the first ones to the lower level usually commandeered the video games. The rest played Clue, or Monopoly, or if we were feeling particularly exuberant, Win, Lose or Draw. Nicky usually slumped in a chair and stared at everyone else from behind stringy bangs. I’d been the kid who sat near the top of the basement stairs and listened in on adult conversations.

  “I mostly go by Nick these days,” he said. “But you can call me Nicky if you want. My father can’t seem to get out of the habit.”

  The lisp was gone. As was the greasy hair. Nicky here had grown up. He now bested me by at least four inches, and he’d picked up extra poundage along the way. While I certainly couldn’t label him as fat, he didn’t wear the extra weight well. Despite only being in his mid-thirties, this guy had developed middle-aged paunch.

  “Of course,” I said. Then, jumping in with an assumption, I smiled at Larry. “I didn’t realize Nicky—” I grimaced, and corrected myself—“Nick . . . worked with you.”

  That elicited a laugh I didn’t understand. Larry guided me into the restaurant’s revolving door. “We have lots of catching up to do,” he began, but the circling glass swallowed the rest of whatever he said.

  I’d been afraid of this. That Larry might try to avoid the subject. When I first called him, after the requisite pleasantries, I’d offered to come to his office—to treat my request for information like a client/attorney arrangement, rather than a kid/friend-of-family arrangement. But he’d insisted on this luncheon. I thought I’d prepared for every contingency, every argument against his helping me with my quest. But I hadn’t counted on him bringing Nicky.

  Larry had been the attorney who represented my parents when they adopted me over thirty years ago, a fact I only recently uncovered. Memories of my early years included Larry and Nicky, but they stopped abruptly. There’d been a falling out between Larry and my parents, and he’d disappeared from my life. Until I called him yesterday.

  As soon as my aunt accidentally let it slip that he’d handled my adoption, I knew Larry and I were overdue for a reunion.

  Seated at a table for four, I had Larry across from me and Nicky to my left. I ordered a salad, both to compensate for the bag of dark chocolate almond clusters tucked into my desk drawer that I planned to enjoy in celebration if this lunch went well, and because a salad, cut into nice bite-size pieces, makes it easier to converse than if I’d had to work my mouth around a double cheeseburger. But I would have much preferred the double cheeseburger.

  Twice I attempted to guide the conversation toward Larry’s facilitation of my adoption. Twice he winked, patted my hand, and said we needed to catch up first. That we’d discuss that matter over coffee and dessert.

  That “matter.” Oh, didn’t I feel special?

  “I looked you up online,” Larry said, patting his still-chewing lips with a paper napkin. “Nicky here set up my home computer about five years ago. I’ve become
quite the Internet junkie.”

  I speared a piece of lettuce. Smiled.

  “You’re all over the Internet,” he continued. “When I saw your picture, I knew he’d never forgive me if I didn’t invite him along.” He turned to his son. “Isn’t that right, Nicky?”

  “Dad, it’s ‘Nick.’ Remember?”

  Larry ignored him.

  There were a hundred questions I wanted answers for. Most of which dealt with my personal adoption quest. But there was no tactful way to shift the conversation. Not yet.

  I turned to Nick. “Your dad started to say something outside, but I didn’t catch it. You’re an attorney, too, I take it?”

  Nick, mouth full of a particularly oozy patty melt sandwich, shook his head.

  Larry answered for him. “No,” he said, with a wide smile. “Nicky—ah, Nick—has got his own business. That’s the way to do it these days. Nobody can lay you off. You’re your own boss and you have no one to answer to but your own good conscience.”

  “What do you do?” I asked.

  Nicky licked a smear of cheese off his finger. “I’m a funeral director.”

  There are times that—just when I feel as though I’ve gained control of a situation—my feet are yanked out from under me. This was one of those times.

  “Really?” was about all I could come up with. “That’s fascinating.”

  He shrugged one shoulder. “You should come out and visit sometime. I’ll show you around.”

  Larry beamed as I felt another loss-of-control bomb hit.

  “Thanks, but I’ve been to enough funerals to last me for a while.”

  “Seriously,” Nick said. “There’s nothing frightening about preparing the dead for burial.”

  “I’m not afraid.”

  He shot me an indulgent look. “Well,” he said. “Sometimes people are uncomfortable being in the same room with a body’s remains. The first time is especially hard. It’s understandable.”

  “Listen.” I cocked an eyebrow at him. “I’ve watched autopsies.”

  He had the good grace to look abashed. “Then maybe you’ll just come out sometime to visit. We could do lunch.”

  I gathered a forkful of salad, and held it aloft for just a moment. Although Nicky had conquered that gangly uncertainty that plagues teenagers everywhere, he’d not made the complete transformation from Ugly Duckling to swan. Not that he was bad-looking—I’d have termed him average—but he had a stodgy air about him. And the burgeoning jowls didn’t help. His greasy bangs were gone, but the wary stare was still there.

  “What a wonderful idea,” Larry said. “Nicky, give Alex one of your cards.”

  I decided I was wrong about Nicky having grown up if he still needed Daddy to coach him on dating rituals.

  Jammed into the uncomfortable position of keeping Larry happy so that he’d cooperate when we discussed my adoption, and not wanting to lead Nicky on, I accepted the proffered card. Sunset Manor Funeral Home—We treat the dead with the dignity they deserve.

  I mustered a smile and reciprocated with one of my cards.

  Larry grinned with the cherubic joy of an over-the-hill Cupid.

  While there was nothing specific about Nicky that turned me off, his appearance at this luncheon and his father’s almost frantic attention to keeping the two of us talking, led me to believe that Nicky hadn’t been especially lucky in the love department. And I was beginning to see why. He had a professional, if dowdy, appearance. That could be overlooked—or fixed with a couple of good shopping trips. But his lack of confidence was something any woman anywhere could smell a mile away.

  But then again, who was I to judge? I was “single,” and had been for longer than I cared to admit.

  The waitress finished clearing the dishes away. “So, Uncle Larry,” I said, using the affectionate nickname and broaching the subject in as nonthreatening a way as I could, “how long does it usually take to facilitate an adoption?”

  “Well, that depends.” Larry stretched backward to allow the waitress to fill his coffee cup. “I imagine every case is different.”

  “You imagine?”

  “You understand,” he said, “I handled this for your parents as a favor to them.”

  I couldn’t understand what that had to do with anything, but he sighed deeply, then continued, “To be honest, yours was the only adoption I ever handled. I did it as a favor to your folks, and I couldn’t see charging them for my time when most of the paperwork was handled through Catholic Charities.”

  “I tried working through them,” I said. “In fact—”

  Nicky interrupted to ask why it’d taken me this long to start my search.

  I didn’t want to get into a long-winded explanation, so I kept it to the barest of minimums. I told him that I knew that this particular quest of mine bothered my mom. There was little doubt that it bothered my dad, too. Now that they’d moved out of state, I felt a certain freedom. I could start this and move forward without their realizing it. What they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.

  I looked to Larry. “I’d be willing to bet that at least one of my biological parents was Irish, weren’t they?” I hadn’t planned to phrase it as a question, but now I stared at him, hoping he’d answer, straight-on, or inadvertently—a wink, a nod—something. But he gave no reaction whatsoever. He simply stared back and patted his lips with his napkin.

  “I mean,” I added, flipping my dark hair and gesturing toward my freckles, “look at me.”

  Larry sat there—mute, unreadable—and I wondered if this talent came from dealing with recalcitrant witnesses on the stand until I remembered that he was a tax attorney and probably didn’t have a whole lot of court experience. What a waste. The man was a veritable statue when he wanted to be. Finally, he leaned forward.

  I thought for sure he would finally answer me, but he turned to Nicky instead. “There are a lot of Irish in your neighborhood, aren’t there?”

  “Polish, too. Just like you, Alex.”

  I bit my bottom lip. Literally. Walking that tightrope between politeness and indignation, I made myself smile to soften the clipped tone I knew was coming. “Well, Nicky, that’s the big question, isn’t it? I don’t know if I’m Polish or not.” I faced Larry. “Why don’t you tell me?”

  Larry patted my hand. I pulled both hands into my lap so he couldn’t do it again. “In good time, honey.” As though they’d rehearsed it, he then cocked his head toward Nick who licked his lips and sat up straighter. “Did you know that my son is a member of the Chicago Chamber of Commerce?”

  Whoop-de-doo. Half my acquaintances were members of the Chamber, but Larry here made it sound like I should curtsey in the presence of royalty.

  “He was invited to join,” he said, “because of all the pro bono work he does for the indigent.”

  “Dad . . .” Nicky said, shaking his head and smiling. “She doesn’t want to hear about that.”

  These guys were totally scripted. I resisted the urge to turn around to see if there were cue cards hanging on the wall behind me.

  “Nicky makes a lot of money,” Larry added with a wink. “A lot of money. His investment portfolio is probably more impressive than mine. I wish I had his money when I was starting my family. Financially, Nicky’s all set to get married and have kids—and make some woman very happy. That is, if he finds the right woman.” Larry winked again. “But right now, he concentrates on helping those who are less fortunate. Tell her, Nicky.”

  Nicky turned to me. My assessment of him as “average but not attractive” was rapidly deteriorating into “annoying buffoon.”

  “The funeral home business saved my life,” he said. “If it weren’t for old Ketch taking me in as an intern, I might’ve been in one of those caskets myself, instead of preparing them for others.”

  I felt a long story coming on, and my brain screamed at me to get out of there. Except . . . I hadn’t gotten any of the information I wanted. Nothing. Nada. At this point in my life, Larry Farnsworth was
my best—scratch that, my only—source of information about my adoption. Much as I wanted to run out of this restaurant and away from this un-dynamic duo, I kept my rear end plunked firmly in my chair and tried to look interested.

  As I worked out ways to redirect the conversation I caught snippets of Nicky’s story. I wondered if he’d rehearsed his speech in front of a mirror, or if this was his typical spiel when wooing women.

  If so, I could see why he was still single.

  “I learned everything I know from old Ketch,” Nicky said. I must’ve seemed attentive because Nicky added, “Maurice Ketcham. He didn’t think his name was good for a funeral home, so he came up with Sunset Manor. I eventually bought him out, and when he passed, I gave him the best damn funeral you’ve ever seen.”

  “Nicky, watch your language.”

  Nicky reddened. I decided it had nothing to do with saying “damn” but everything to do with having his father correct him.

  “That’s a great story,” I said, shifting in my seat to face Larry. “I know how important it is to have good role models in our lives. That’s why I’m so grateful I was adopted by my parents.” I was forcing the issue here, but I had to. “At this point now, where I’m happy and successful”—I couldn’t resist adding—“on my own, I feel the need to search for my roots. I know you understand,” I said, keeping eye contact with Larry. “That’s why we’re meeting today, right? So that you and I can talk about where I came from.”

  Larry nodded. “Very true.”

  I heaved a mental sigh. Finally.

  “In fact,” he continued, “our roots are so important that when we lose touch with family, there’s no telling what will happen. When individuals are cut off from those who have shaped their lives, they are adrift . . . lost.”

  I opened my mouth, but Larry wasn’t done.

  “That’s why Nicky’s work with the homeless is so very noteworthy.”