“No, not a friend,” Tom said, “but I know him. What do you mean by pressure?”
“That, I’m not too sure about. Martha says the judge wouldn’t tell her. Do you have any idea what he meant?”
Tom shook his head.
Adjusting the propane to produce a steady blue flame, Fritz said quietly, “Martha wants me to look into it. She thinks because I’ve still got friends in the spook business, I know everything. I don’t. Yeah, you want to know what color shorts the president of Mexico wears, I could probably find out, but I don’t mess in my own sandbox, you know what I’m saying?”
“Sure.” Tom didn’t really, but Fritz had a habit of speaking as though somebody was listening through the fence. In the nineteen eighties, a skinnier Fritz, who had once flown choppers in Vietnam, had been employed by a small cargo airline in Panama. He had never flat-out said he worked for the CIA in Central America, but he had dropped enough hints. Drinking his nonalcoholic beers, Fritz would sit on a folding chair and talk while Tom worked on his sailboat. The old guy missed his days in the spy trade.
Fritz was saying, “People like Barlowe like to stay off the radar screen. You rarely see his name in the paper, but he’s got a stake in The Metropolis, him and people like him. Not Barlowe personally, but a corporation that owns a subsidiary of a company he owns. You know what I mean. People with no connection to the real world in general. They live in their penthouses or behind gates, fat and happy, while ordinary folks work two jobs to feed their kids. We hoped, naïvely, that this time the suck-ups on the commission would do the right thing.”
Tom thought about the implications of what Fritz had said. “I can’t see Stuart Barlowe ordering a hit on Judge Herron.”
“Only if you’re as neurotic as Martha.” Fritz laughed, and the face of Jesus in dreadlocks moved up and down. “It doesn’t work that way. Doesn’t have to. Herron was no threat. The Neighborhood Action Committee might win small fights, but not this one. There’s just too much money. This country is going through a postliberal, antidemocratic phase. But it won’t last. What you do in the meantime is stock up on hurricane supplies, make sure you’ve got spare ammo and gasoline, and throw a cookout now and then. Soon as Martha gets a good night’s sleep, she’ll feel better.”
“I guess so. Listen, Fritz, I need a big favor. I have to sign up for AA. Could you ask one of the guys to be my sponsor and get the paperwork to my probation officer? He’s being a prick.”
“Sure. How about if you paint my back bedroom for me? I’ve been meaning to get to it.”
“No problem. I also need to find an anger management class.”
“That guy must be a prick. Yeah, Moon can hook you up. Her boss at the flower shop has a kid who’s a clinical psychologist. You going to sit with us awhile?”
“I’d like to, but I’ve got things to do. Thanks for the help,” Tom said.
“Anytime. By the way, that dynamite-looking black chick came by today and carried some boxes up to your place.”
Tom’s one-room apartment, built over a single-car garage, was furnished with pieces he had begged off Rose or bought at Goodwill. One corner had been enclosed for a tiny bathroom, and a ready-made countertop marked the kitchen, which had a two-burner stove, a microwave, and a small refrigerator. This being completely illegal, Fritz had installed everything himself. Tom had added security bars to the windows and a triple lock on the door to protect his computer equipment. The telephone company had put in a high-speed DSL line.
Coming inside, Tom saw four banker’s boxes stacked beside the dining table, which also served as his worktable. The lids were taped shut, but clothing was visible through the hand-holes. His extra apartment key had been left on the counter. Tom took off his jacket. As he unwrapped his sandwich, he eyed the boxes.
One night when Jenny was here, she had talked about Royce Herron’s collection. She had especially liked his little county maps of Great Britain with drawings of local flowers and trees in the margins. He had given her one. He had also opened his late wife’s jewelry box and told her to take one of the gold bracelets. Jenny told Tom she had sold it for $200.
Leaving his sandwich on the counter, he walked over, pulled an X-Acto knife out of the coffee mug he kept them in, and slit the clear packing tape on the first box on the stack. He lifted the lid and found clothes, shoes, DVDs, and a Mandarin Hotel wineglass wrapped in a sweater.
It took him ten minutes to look at everything Jenny had packed. He found nothing more interesting than a book of art photos of men’s private parts, a towel lifted from the Delano Hotel, and two books on map collecting she had stolen—maybe—from Royce Herron’s house. They had his name in them.
That there were no maps in the boxes didn’t prove she hadn’t taken any before calling the police. She could have rolled them up and put them in her suitcase. She could have stuffed the cash from Royce’s bedroom into her wallet and pawned the jewelry. Tom would have done it that way...if he were Jenny. And if he hadn’t decided, about five years ago, to go straight. Like Fritz had decided not to drink. One day at a time.
Tom rummaged through the junk drawer in the kitchen and found a roll of packing tape to reseal the boxes. He didn’t feel bad about opening them. If she had put the maps inside, and if for some reason the cops had come in with a search warrant, it would have been his neck, not hers.
He carried a can of Red Bull and his sandwich over to the computer desk and sat down. He figured it would take about six hours to finish what he had to do tonight. The screen saver was rotating through a series of Sports Illustrated swimsuit photos. He bit into his roast beef sub, leaning over the paper so the crumbs wouldn’t fall on the floor. There were roach traps all over the apartment, but massive palmetto bugs with bad attitudes roamed at will.
With a tap on the mouse, the current project came up: revisions to a Web site for a gastroenterology group on Miami Beach. Tom had designed a dozen logos, all rejected. Then one of the doctors had suggested a hot pink stomach and intestines inside a box shaped like a torso. By tomorrow morning, Tom had to make the logo look like art and put it on every page of the Web site, the medical group’s letterhead, and its newsletter.
“This sucks.” The cursor moved to an icon on the bottom of the screen. A double-click connected him to KINK-FM, an indie-alternative station in the Netherlands. Tom ran the volume up and went back to the gastroenterologists’ page. He stared at the intestinal tract and thought of the Corelli map. The bullet holes and smears of blood.
Stuart Barlowe had said, You’re an artist, Tom. You have an extraordinary talent.
The ad agency he worked for was one of his best clients. If he was sidetracked for two or three weeks doing a map for Stuart Barlowe, the client would find someone else. He didn’t have time to do Barlowe’s map, even if he knew where to start.
The music went off and the announcers’ voices smoothly dropped English words into the Dutch conversation. Tom had no idea what they were saying. He copied the hot pink guts and put them onto page one of the newsletter, Horizons in Gastroenterology. The music resumed—crashing drums and a singer who sounded like he was in outer space. We’ll be touching the stars . . . We’ll be kissing the sun....
A palmetto bug scurried across the keyboard.
Cursing, Tom stood up so fast his chair rolled backward and slammed into his stereo cabinet. The glass door cracked and fell into pieces on the floor. “Goddammit!” The bug dived off the edge of the desk. Tom ran for the kitchen, grabbed a can of Raid, and aimed the oily fumes at the wall, then down to the floor. Coughing, he closed the connection to KINK. The speakers went silent. He threw his sandwich into the trash and took a four-pack of Guinness out of the fridge. He put on his jacket and killed the lights before opening the door.
No one on the patio noticed him going down the stairs, crossing the concrete pad in front of the garage, and using the ladder to climb onto the deck of his sailboat. He went aft and sat in the cockpit to open a beer.
This was—or used to be—a thirty-
three-foot, 1974 Morgan Out Island, a good boat in its time. Eddie Ferraro had known the former owner, who had run it aground in the shallows near Elliott Key. The engine was shot, and the sails were rotting, so he let Eddie have it for the price of the tow. Eddie knew a little about boats because he had bummed around as a fisherman in the Keys. Eddie had thought Tom needed something to do besides get drunk, smoke weed, and get thrown out of clubs on South Beach. They had kept the boat at a marina near downtown, stripping out the insides and patching the fiberglass, until the marina went upscale, and the new owners evicted them.
The hull was in good shape now, but the engine still needed repairs. A mechanic over at Martha Framm’s marina would come over with his tools. Then there were sails to buy, a main and a jib for starters. Tom had hoped to get the boat in the water by March 1. It wasn’t going to happen.
The lights of downtown Miami flickered through the trees. The music in the backyard had gone off. The neighbors were going home.
Tom drained his beer and set it on top of the first two he had finished, making a pyramid. Reaching inside his jacket, he found his cell phone, pushed a button. The light on the screen made him squint. He clicked to his phone book, hit a number. He listened to the noise on the other end, not a ring but a brrrrrp.
A groggy male voice mumbled, “Pronto.”
“Eddie?”
“Chi parla?” the voice demanded.
“It’s Tom. Did I wake you?”
“No, I’m always awake at four o’clock in the morn- ing.”
“Sorry. I forgot the time difference. You want to go back to bed?”
“Too late now. What’s up?”
Tom took his time telling Eddie about Gaetano Corelli’s world map. When he finished, he heard clinking noises, running water, and some thuds. “Eddie? You still there?”
“I’m making some chamomile tea. We had a front come through. It’s cold enough outside to freeze the balls off a Christmas tree. Let’s see now. Stuart Barlowe’s map is shot to pieces, and he’s willing to pay you six grand to make an exact copy, three thousand down, three on delivery. Correct?”
“Correct.”
“Here’s what you want to know.” A spoon clinked against the cup. “How can I make a good enough copy so he pays me all six thousand dollars, and this doesn’t come back later to bite me in the ass? Is that what you’re asking me?”
“Maybe.”
A laugh came over the line.
“Well?” Tom heard Eddie slurping tea.
After a while, Eddie asked, “Does Barlowe know you’ve been in jail?”
“He didn’t bring it up, but yes, I’m sure he does.” “No offense intended, but don’t you wonder why a respectable citizen like Stuart Barlowe would hire somebody with a criminal past? I’ll tell you why. He trusts a fellow crook. Writing a check to cash, not adding the sales tax, tells me where he’s coming from. I will also tell you why you’re going to get screwed if you try this.”
When Eddie paused, Tom said, “Okay, why?”
“Because for the risk you’re taking, six grand isn’t enough. You should’ve asked for fifty. At least.”
“Fifty thousand dollars? Be serious.”
“I am. Look. If Barlowe wants you, Tom Fairchild, to make a map for him—to forge a map—then something smells. He didn’t tell you the truth, my young friend, and believe me, this could bite very hard. If somebody finds out the map is forged, they’re going to ask Mr. Barlowe about it. Who’s he going to blame? And who will they believe?”
“No, wait, I’ve been thinking about this.” Tom pulled himself upright. “Barlowe told me the police gave him his map back. They know it was ruined. I mean, if he tries to pass the copy off as real, they’ll know about it.”
“You’re telling me the police are that competent? Or that in a year or two from now they’re going to remember which map? Barlowe will deny everything.” As Tom was mulling this over, Eddie asked, “What’s he going to do with it?”
“I don’t really know.” After a moment, Tom added, “He wouldn’t sell it. People know the Corelli was shot up.”
“Do they?”
Tom thought about that. “Maybe not.”
“You want some advice, Tom? Here it is. Don’t do it.” “That’s basically what Rose said.”
“There you go. She knows when something isn’t right. You should listen to your sister. How is she? Has she stopped hating my guts yet?”
“She doesn’t hate you, Eddie. I think you broke her heart.”
A sigh came over the line. “I’d almost rather she hated me.”
Tom put his elbows on his knees. “Let’s say I’m willing to assume the risk. Would you help me or not?”
“Not.”
“Why?”
“I like you, Tom. I don’t want to see you take up forgery as a career. It’s easy to slide into but hard to get out of. Do you really want to risk your probation? Hell, do you really want to go the way I did? Jump bail, hide out in another country the rest of your life, never see Rose and the kids again? Think about that. The best help I can give you is, don’t do it. Now let me go back to bed, all right?”
The sun was coming up and Tom was wired on Red Bull and espresso when he finished his work for the medical group. He saved everything to a backup disk, then selected the files to upload to his client. At the same moment he clicked on SEND he heard a loud rapping noise.
It took him a second to realize that it wasn’t his computer going crazy; someone was at his door. He walked over and looked through two slats in the miniblinds that covered the window. A narrow African-American face and a pair of rat-gray eyes looked back at him. George Weems. “What the hell?”
Weems called through the glass, “Good morning, Mr. Fairchild. May I come in?”
“Why?”
“I have a right to enter your premises at any time,
with or without your consent. Don’t make it difficult.” “Jesus.” Tom took off the security chain and opened
the door.
The Weasel came inside, bringing a blast of chilly
morning air with him. He looked around, noticed that
Tom was fully dressed, then saw the line of empty Guinness cans on the counter. “Did we have a party last
night?”
“I’ve been up all night working,” Tom said. “What
can I do for you, Mr. Weems?”
“Just dropped in to verify your address. Check on
your living arrangements.”
“Well, this is it.”
“The apartment you pay eight hundred dollars a
month for.”
That wasn’t a question, so Tom made no reply. He remained by the door, hoping Weems would do what he
came to do and leave.
“Your landlord’s roommate, Ms. Sandra Wiley, spent
ten years in the federal penitentiary in Atlanta. I’ve been
doing some background checking.”
“Who? You mean Moon?”
“In the early eighties, she was married to one Pedro
Bonifacio Escalona, a member of a drug gang in South
Florida. Ms. Wiley was charged with providing material
assistance. It’s a violation of your probation to consort
with a felon.”
“I didn’t know Moon was in prison,” Tom said. “Nobody ever told me that. Why should they? I don’t consort
with her. She’s my landlord’s girlfriend, not mine. What
am I supposed to do, Mr. Weems?” Tom could hear his voice getting louder. “Did you come to tell me I’m violated? You’re going to make sure I go to prison. That’s
what you want, isn’t it?”
“What I want is to see you lead a crime-free life, Mr.
Fairchild. That would bring me great happiness, to see
you succeed. If I seem strict to you, it’s because I’m doing my job. Do you know what my job is? It’s not to be a
nice guy. It’s not to make my proba
tioners like me. My
job is to protect the public.”
Tom looked away from Weems’s small gray eyes and
sat at the table to keep from going after him.
Weems walked around the apartment, leaning close
to the computer monitor, peering into the refrigerator,
opening drawers in Tom’s bureau. “No, I’m not going to
file a violation. I could, but not this time. You earned a
couple of points, Mr. Fairchild, for getting your payment
in last week.” Weems stopped in front of the pyramid of
beer cans. “What about AA? Did you sign up yet?” “I’m meeting my sponsor this week,” Tom said. “And
a psychologist for anger management. That, too.” “I hope you’re telling me the truth. Are you telling me
the truth, Mr. Fairchild?”
“Yes.”
The Weasel turned and smiled at him. “Here’s an interesting statistic. Seventy-two percent of the most serious criminals, up to and including your serial killers, are
of above-average intelligence. Their downfall is, they
think they’re too smart to get caught when they lie. I’m
here to tell you, I know what your tendencies are, and if I
think you’re crossing the line by so much as an inch, I’ll
pull you right back.”
Waggling his finger, he walked to the door. “Be good.
I have my eye on you.”
With a Magic Marker Tom drew the Weasel’s face on the heavy bag that hung from the eaves of the garage: receding hair line, eyes close together, small nose and chin, protruding teeth. He put on his sparring gloves and hit the thing until his arms ached and he dripped with sweat,
even though the temperature was still below seventy. A final side kick rocked the bag on its chain. Collapsing into a plastic lawn chair, Tom ripped the Velcro closures open with his teeth and dropped the gloves on the
ground. His cell phone lay on top of his towel. He
mopped his face while his thumb hit the redial buttons. Brrrrp. Brrrrp. Brrrrp.
He got an answering machine telling him to leave a
message after the beep—un messaggio dopo il bip. “Eddie, it’s me again. I’m taking the job. Fuck it. I
The Perfect Fake Page 9
