One Dead Lawyer (16 page)
Authors: Tony Lindsay
“Attorney MacNard is not here!”
“What did you say?”
“I said Attorney MacNard is not here! I'm calling the police!”
Hearing Martin's last name stops me in my tracks. MacNard. That was the family name from the trucking company. I turn around to leave and push the call button for the elevator. The door opens immediately: Martin is on the elevator dressed in a dark brown suit that swallows him up. A tiny dark brother in a dark suit, he barely has a presence. We pass each other, staring. He keeps those pigeon-egg eyes on me as we pass each other. He doesn't say a thing, and neither do I. The doors close and I ride down. The library is my destination.
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Snatching Ricky's truck door open, I jump in and demand, “Get me to a library, man. Didn't you say that the man who ran Aspire trucking, which was the trucking company involved in the church bus accident, was named MacNard?”
“Yeah.” Starting the truck, he pulls directly into traffic.
“Martinâthe lawyer upstairsâhis last name is MacNard.”
“No shit, the lawyer's last name is MacNard? Did you ask him about it?”
“No, I want to check it out first. It can't be that many black MacNards in one city.”
“You right 'bout dat.”
Ricky pulls up to the Harold Washington Library on the Van Buren Street side. He cuts on his flashers and gets out with me. I'm surprised, but I don't object, being that I understand how it is when one is on the trail of a clue. The case is picking up and Ricky wants to be on point with the discoveries.
He insists on finding the information online. Personally, I want to go to the microfilm room, but Ricky's idea proves better. Sitting at one of many terminals in the reference section of the library, Ricky not only finds the information, but he finds it in less than five minutes. The death notice of Matthew MacNard provides us with needed information: he was survived by his wife, Mildred, and two sons, Martin and Michael.
“Good job, bro. I would still be looking through film.”
“You better get with this here digital age; all kind of info is online, partner. Now look-a-here, if I'm understandin' this right, it looks like Martin is Matthew MacNard's son.
And we know that Matthew MacNard ran Aspire Trucking.”
“Right.”
“But this means Martin is working for the people that sued his daddy.”
“It looks that way.”
“Somethin' is goin' on here, D.” We both stand from the terminal. Ricky doesn't close the screen as we both walk away. A kid hops right on the terminal and Matthew MacNard's death notice is gone. Looking around I notice the reference section is now flooded with young students with backpacks. We must have only been steps ahead of them because now there is not one available terminal.
Riding the escalator down, Ricky turns his head to me and asks “Are you thinkin' about this man? Two people who had they lives ruined by the church bus accident are right next to Peal: his wife and one of his partners in business. Now that's a strong coincidence.”
I hear Ricky, but while exiting the library I can't help but think about the great man it was named after, Chicago's first African American Mayor, Harold Washington.
April 12, 1983 was a day of celebration for African American Chicago. Well, most of Chicago partied, but us blacks really partied. We danced in the streets, at our jobs, in churches and all around and through City Hall. We finally had representation. We were finally a recognized force within the city. We, the collective force of black citizens called “The Sleeping Giant,” had made our presence known and picked who we wanted to run the city. Damn, that felt good!
I was swollen with pride that day. You could not have paid me to stop grinning. It was a black man running the city. Not a puppet or a figurehead, but our elected official. For the first time in my life I more than just lived in Chicago; for once I was part of it. I watched city council meetings on TV, read all the political articles in the newspapers and even got involved in my ward. I was a concerned citizen. Then they killed him.
A brother like me is one of those Chicagoans who will go to our grave believing that Harold Washington was murdered. The man meant too much for me to just accept his death. And being mayor meant too much to him to die. In my heart, I will always feel as though he was murdered.
Standing on Van Buren under the El tracks, Ricky hacks a glob of mucus into the street, “You know what, D? In my opinion both of them, Eleanor and Martin, shoulda killed his ass. You got some real suspects now.”
He opens the locks with his alarm pad and we climb into the truck, “Maybe they hooked dis up together? You need to find out if they know each other. I hope they ain't hooked up fo' yo sake. Ain't no tellin' what type of payback shit they could be comin' up with. I'm tellin' you, bro, you better leave this here case alone. These folks is lookin' for retribution.”
I seriously doubt that Eleanor and Martin are cohorts, but it is time to talk to Martin. This time I want Ricky to go upstairs with me; there is safety in numbers.
“Ricky, I need to go back to the law office.”
“Naw, man, you need to rest. You been through enough in one day. I know I have. We will pick up da trail in da morning; just goin' and goin' ain't gonna undo what happened. It's time to rest, bro. I'm taking you home. Besides, my kids is finished with all they programs and stuff and Martha is home alone with them, and she is too strict on them by herself. I got to get home to keep the peace.”
I offer no protest. He is right; merely hearing the word “rest” makes me tired. But I don't want to stop. If I keep going I won't have to think about Daphne or Stanley. I lean back in the seat and listen to Howlin' Wolf the entire trip home.
When I wake, Ricky is in front of my house, parked behind a cleaning van. The lady from the cleaning service is walking down my porch stairs; this isn't her day to clean. I get out of the truck and go to her.
“Hello, Mr. Price.”
“Madelyn, how are you?”
The blood that had run down the steps is gone.
“I am well, sir. I hope you don't mind, but we cleaned your steps. We were scheduled for the Harrises across the street, and once we finished, we did your steps. There will be no extra charge, sir. And we are sorry for your loss. And, Mr. Price, I want to thank for the business you have sent our way; you were our first customer in Englewood. Because you trusted us, a lot of others folks use our service now. Thanks, sir.”
She turns and gets into her van. When she pulls off, so does Ricky. I am left alone, so I go into the house.
This is the emptiest the house has felt in a while. If not for Yin and Yang's warm, stubby-tail-wagging greetings, I would have gone out to a bar and got drunk but I have my dogs. I go into the back yard with them. If it wasn't getting dark I would go work in my garden.
Sitting on the steps, I watch them pee on different parts of the fence and trees that line my yard. They both find spots to squat for a dump. It's like they are rushing to see who will finish their business first. The phone is ringing in the kitchen, so I rise to go answer it.
It's a social worker calling on my bother Robert's behalf. He is about to finish a twenty-one-day treatment program, and she wants to know if my home is a stable, drug-free environment for him. I tell her yes. She asks if there's a problem with him residing in the home. I tell her no, there is no problem, he is welcome here. She tells me he will be released in two days, and they will provide transportation to my address. She thanks me and hangs up.
We, the family, were all worried about my bother Robert; my parents more than my brother Charles or me. No one had heard from him in over two months. Charles and I figured he was with a woman who got high like himâthat has been his MO for a couple of years. We don't hear from him when he has hooked into a woman who will buy his drugs. But, I did feel something was different about him being gone this time. I knew he was getting tired of the crackhead lifestyle and I hoped he was in treatment.
I call my parents to share the good news with them; my father answers. He's happy about the news because he sent twenty dollars to the center two weeks ago for Robert to get cigarettes and candy and my mother sent him new gym shoes, khaki pants and underwear. He wasn't sure twenty-one days was enough time, but he says it's a good start, and I agree.
He tells me my mother has gone to play bingo and poker at the Catholic church around the corner, and all she cooked for him were some boiled potatoes and Polish sausages: “It is a damn shame she waited until she turned seventy-two to start gambling and hanging with white folks. Silly woman didn't even leave no bread for the sausages. Well I got to get on to the market. I'ma tell her you called, David. Love you, boy.”
I tell him I love him too, and that ends our conversation.
I let the dogs in, and the three of us stretch out in the living room. I decide not to go upstairs to my bedroom; it's not that I don't want to think about Daphne, I just don't want to be sad. I flip the channels until I find Sanford and Son and settle on the couch for the night.
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I awake to the dogs barking at the front doorbell. I know it's Ricky; they only bark at him. I open the door and he hands me a cup of coffee and says he'll be waiting in the truck. Yeah, the mystery bug has beaten him good. I drink the coffee in the shower because I am anxious to get back on the trail as well. I slide into a pair of Levi's and a white Polo golf shirt, one big enough to hang over my pistols. I slip into my Cole Haan sandals and head out to the truck.
“To the lawyer's, right?” is the greeting Ricky gives me. He is dressed in a yellow walking suit, with beige bone-colored gator sandals. Most people wouldn't wear a short suit downtown, but my best friend isn't most people.
“You got it, boss. To the Loop.”
Howlin' Wolf is still playing in the changer, and I am glad to hear him, and to be with my boy.
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We aren't off the elevator a good second before the receptionist, Ms. Panic Panties, is dialing the phone, “He's back, sir! And he has someone with him . . . conference room A, right away, sir.”
Keeping what she considers a safe distance, the receptionist stands and says, “This way.”
She takes us to the same conference room Daphne and I were in before. Ricky and I sit at the card tables. “Tacky,” Ricky says loud enough for the fleeing receptionist to hear.
She, Martin and an older white man almost collide outside the door. When I look at the older guy there is something slightly familiar about him that I can't place. He is wearing a well-tailored suit cut wide in the thigh, much like the ones I wear, and the hand-sewn shirt he's wearing has the same style monogrammed letters on his French cuffs mine have. As he walks past me in the conference room I catch a whiff of sandalwood body oil. I didn't know white people wore body oils.
The Rolex on his wrist is the platinum version of my gold one. What's familiar is that this guy dresses like me. Ricky leans to my ear and whispers, “The motherfucker is wearin' gators.”
I look down and sure enough, he is in a pair of black, square-toe gators. Ricky and I give each other the nod. No matter what comes out this white-looking man's face, we agree that he is black.
“Good day, gentlemen, I am Peter Peal, and I'm certain you've met Martin.” He's waiting for our introduction.
“I'm David Price, and this is my associate, Richard Brown.”
“Ah! I know both you gentlemen by reputation. Mr. Brown, you have turned around quite a few failing liquor stores on the south side, and I applaud your hiring of our young men. I served on a combined church board with your wife last summer. We helped with the planning of the Gospel Festival. It is so good to meet you, sir.” Peter Peal extends his hand and Ricky stands to shake it.
“Wait a minute,” Ricky tilts his globe recalling, “is your firm the one that does the taxes and estate planning?”
I have to take a second look at Ricky because he is actually pronouncing the th sound. This hasn't occurred around my ears since we were at the university together. The only time I heard him attempt to modify his pronunciation was when he was speaking to a professor. Very seldom does my friend say, “the,” “this,” “that,” or “them,” he is more comfortable with, “da,” “dis,” “dat” and “dem.” But like most black people, Ricky can turn off his Ebonics when needed.
“Yes,” Peter Peal answers.
“Yeah, I'm familiar, Zondervan and Peal. This guy was your son?” Ricky's emphasis causes Peal to cut his eyes to me; he's trying to understand Ricky's tone. My expression tells him nothing. If he doesn't know his son was a shyster I won't be the one to tell him.
“Yes. Randolph was actually my oldest son. His mother and I were together in college. I have three other sons from my marriage. They have all joined me in the tax firm you're familiar with, Mr. Brown.”
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