Generation of Liars

by Marks, Camilla

  “Man troubles?” she asked.

  “He’s not that kind of man,” I told her.

  “They’re all that kind of man.” She glided behind the door and shut it, leaving me in a darkened hallway of deserted doors.

  I crept back into my apartment, where I tried to sleep but I tossed and turned until finally I sat up with my neck against the headboard. I thought of Etienne, and wondered if he had come awake yet from his nasty encounter with the absinthe bottle. Then I thought of Pressley, and I wondered what he thought of me, all tarted up in makeup and flashing my revolver like some kind of blackhat vixen.

  Now that he had seen me like this, seen who I had become, I knew there was no way we could ever be together. Every dream I had of destroying the dynamite stick and returning home to my old life were gone. It was a hopeless dream anyways. I had known that all along, even if I couldn’t fully admit it. The words written on the confession inside my shoe made it hopeless. But I had always held out hope. The scariest part was that Pressley was the only person who knew both my real name and my alias. I never trusted Motley with knowing my real name. I was afraid that if I took the wrong step, he would use it to seek out my family for revenge. Success or death, those were the two options he told me I had that first day I met him at Grand Central. He never mentioned those terms again, but they were ever-so-subtlety present every time he announced that he had a job for me to complete.

  Chapter Seven: Hot Coffee

  THE NEXT MORNING I was awoken by the disharmonized screech of someone impatiently pressing the buzzer on my door.

  I threw the sheets off my body and swung my feet onto the floor. I padded across the icy floorboards, crossing the deflated trench coat and pink heels that been tossed asunder the night before. I stumbled over a pink heel lying sideways on blond-oak floorboards, with the note that contained my secret discarded beside it. The buzzer screeched again. I bent down and fished my snub-nose revolver from the coat pocket and rolled the note into my sock.

  I peered through the keyhole and spotted a wisp of Cleopatra’s silken red hair.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “I thought you might want some of the stuff from your old apartment, so I had the boys bring it over.”

  “What boys?” I timidly asked.

  Just then two giant men lurched into view through the peephole, each holding a large cardboard box of my possessions. One of the men was six feet tall with a cartoonish red beard as brightly colored as a crayon. The other man had the physique of a brick; immense muscles built over a layer of fat and packed into a frame that barely stretched out to five feet, and he was crowned with a head so bald it appeared wet. The one with the red beard chimed, “Hello, Alice,” and tipped his cap in a gentlemanly way.

  “Hey, Xerxes,” I said. “Haven’t seen you guys in a few weeks. Motley keeping you busy?”

  “We’ve got goodies for you.” Xerxes had a tongue like stretchy bubble gum that gave him a lisp when he talked. He was part of Motley’s team of paid muscles, along with his equally-Neanderthal partner, Moonboots.

  I undid the locks and swung the door open to let the three of them pass inside. I shot Cleopatra a scathing look. “Motley even has Xerxes O’Brien and Moonboots McCafferty doing your dirty work for you now?”

  “Technically, Alice, they’re doing you’re dirty work.” Cleopatra pointed towards a spot on the floor. “Put the boxes down right there, boys,” she commanded.

  “I thought their job consisted of providing extra muscles for Motley, not serving as your own personal moving crew.”

  “Maybe it’s time for the roles to change around here a little bit.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Cleopatra drummed her cream-lacquered nails over their opposing arm. “It doesn’t mean anything, Alice.” Her eyes shot to the boxes. “That should be everything from your old apartment.”

  “Great. I will be happy to have some clothes to wear again.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Cleopatra replied, looking me up and down, dressed in only my stockings, a ratty tank top, and underwear. My outfit was a stark contrast to her sophisticated chartreuse pantsuit, diamond earrings in the shape of fleur de lees, snake skin stiletto high heels, and the ever-present velvet ribbon with a key around her neck.

  “It’s not so bad, you know, relocating,” she told me.

  “Oh yeah? Did you just relocate to Paris from somewhere? I never saw you around before you picked me and Rabbit up after Rio.”

  “Motley recruited me last week. I was working in the diamond trade in Johannesburg and I got into a little trouble. I decided that working for someone who was good at hiding might be a smart move.”

  “Are you my replacement?” I asked. “Because I won’t go down without a fight. You should know that.”

  Cleopatra let a laugh escape, one powerful enough that she had to throw her head back. “Don’t be ridiculous, Alice.”

  “Then why are you here? Between Rabbit and myself, we have enough people working here in Paris.”

  “When you really want something, the way Motley wants the dynamite stick, you can never have enough people working for you.”

  “And what about you?” I asked aggressively. “Do you want to get your hands on the dynamite stick, too? What does it benefit you to destroy it anyways, when you’re Australian and not American?”

  “Like I just told you, Alice, I got myself into some trouble working in the diamond trade. To put it less delicately, I stole millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds.” A smile came over her face, like the thought of what she had done thrilled her. The revelation of her fiercely white teeth intimidated me. “Now the authorities are looking for me. Motley is able to keep me hidden until the smoke clears.”

  “So, you’re sure you weren’t called in to be my replacement?”

  “Alice, what you and I bring to this operation are two very different things.”

  “Why is that?”

  “You are just a girl,” she said, as her fingers played with the key around her neck, “and I am a woman.”

  “Is that what this is about? I get it now. You and Motley are an item, right?”

  “It’s true. Our working relationship quickly blossomed into a romantic one.”

  “Listen, Cleopatra, I don’t care if you and Motley are dating. Motley’s romantic liaisons are of no concern to me, as long as it doesn’t interfere with the dynamic of how we get our work done. Dating is probably good for Motley. It might actually relieve some of the hatred he has for his ex-wife.”

  “Alice, my being here won’t change the plan, I can tell you that right now.”

  “So you’re just going to help Motley out while you hide out, and then you’re going to go back to where you came from to scoop up your diamonds and live happily ever after?”

  “Something like that. From what Motley tells me, you’re no stranger to running from a secret yourself.”

  “He told you that?”

  “Yeah, except that it sounds like whatever you’re hiding is a lot worse than my diamonds, seeing as you won’t share it with the rest of us.”

  “Listen, when I signed on with Motley he knew I was running from something. Without your meddling, he’s perfectly fine without knowing. In fact, I still don’t even know much about Motley’s past and I’m fine with that. Things run perfectly smooth around here without us overlapping our personal business.”

  “I best let you get yourself situated.” Cleopatra snapped her fingers to reign in the attention of Moonboots and Xerxes. “Let’s go, boys.”

  The two men muscled their way out the door with Cleopatra parading behind them and I shut the door and dropped to my knees to rummage through the boxes.

  I pulled out my favorite pink hoodie, with a trim of fake fur that was ratty from wear, and shrugged into it. Next, I slid my legs into a pair of dark denim skinny jeans, topping off my ensemble with black ballet flats. I tied my hair into a short ponytail and then I rimmed my eyes corner
to corner with black eyeliner. Just a girl, Cleopatra had said to describe me. My thick lashes blinked back at me in the mirror and I made a grimace.

  * * *

  I stepped outside my apartment building and walked towards Rue de Rennes, pushing a pair of gold aviator glasses over my eyes. My new neighborhood was the kind of place you see on postcards from Paris. Manicured buildings, pyramids of fresh fruit selling on the sidewalk, and pigeons staring you down like they knew you tasted salty. I walked along the cobblestone pathway, dotted with quaint townhomes the color of lemon cake.

  I had a mental list of errands I needed to get done, and first on the list was finding a pharmacy so I could swap the putrid bandage on my arm for a fresh one. Then I needed real groceries since I had eaten little more than tuna tartare and chocolate ice cream in the past twenty-four hours.

  Close to my apartment, I found a little pharmacy with a white country door that looked promising. As I swung the door open to step inside, I heard someone call my name from the sidewalk. My hand instinctively clutched the revolver in my bag. I spun around and saw a man waving at me. His face was oddly familiar, but I couldn’t place it immediately. I tried to make a mental checklist of all the people I had pissed off in the last three years.

  “Alice,” the man called again. He didn’t sound particularly pissed off. No, in fact, he sounded wonderstruck to see me. Something about his eyes, burnished like cocoa, and caged beneath a dual set of lengthy lashes, made me remember him. It was the doctor who had cleaned me up at the hospital after Pressley shot me. He was waving towards me, calling out, desperate for my attention. “Alice! Alice!”

  I let the door to the pharmacy shut behind me and I treaded towards him on the cobblestone way, letting my hand slide out of my bag, away from my weapon, to brush back loose strands of hair from my cheek. "Hey, you're that doctor that patched my arm up," I said. “It’s Ben, right?”

  "And you're that girl who fell from the Eiffel Tower like a shooting star." His demeanor was much lighter and more playful than it had been when we parted company at the hospital.

  "Yeah, that’s me." I had forgotten about him and his thick, almost curly brown hair, and dimpled cheeks. He was wearing a gray waffle-jersey shirt and relaxed jeans that fit like they were sewn on a loom predestined for his body.

  “You changed your hair,” he remarked.

  “I always change my hair,” I said, eagerly pushing myself up onto the balls of my feet. He was a tall one.

  “I didn’t know you lived in my neighborhood.”

  “Neither did I.” There was an awkward few seconds when neither of us knew what to say.

  Ben’s eyes, lucent as jewels, shied away and pretended to be entranced by something on the pavement at our feet. His genuine shyness was disarming. "Hey,” he said as though hit by a thunderbolt of an idea, “let me buy you a cup of coffee."

  “Sure.”

  “I know a place,” he told me. My fingers were nervously straightening my hooded collar as we walked side by side. “You do like coffee, right?” he asked. Our shadows stretched out on the sidewalk, guiding us like sun-streaked ghosts in the mid-day shadow play.

  “I love it,” I replied.

  Five minutes later we were seated inside a bakery called Gerard Mulot, located on Rue de Seine. We had a quaint little corner table and two steaming coffees in front of us. The sun streaming through the windows was making Ben’s eyes shine like coins.

  “So, doctor,” I began, as I swirled fresh cream into my cup, “do you always buy gunshot victims a cup of coffee after they stumble into your emergency room?”

  “Only the cute ones, for the ugly ones I only spring for cold tea, or a Fresca, maybe.”

  I laughed out loud. I let my eyes tilt to the side, showing my curiosity. "Seriously though, are you a real doctor?"

  "I healed you, didn't I?"

  “I suppose, but I retain the right to be cynical.”

  He sighed. “You know, Alice, the idea that all Americans working abroad are scam artists is a nasty stereotype, and one that I personally take offense to.”

  “It is a stereotype that has been well earned by some.”

  “The people you’re talking about are only the criminals and scum bags, they’re the only type low enough to capitalize on the November Hit.”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard some tales.”

  “Oh, that’s just the media playing it up with sensational stories. Like that bozo who used to write for TIME, Tisk, or Risk, or whatever.”

  “Elliot Risk,” I corrected. “That’s his name, the guy who invented the term Generation of Liars.”

  “Yeah, well, when is the last time anyone even read an article by him? For the better if you ask me. Do you know how many Christmases and birthdays I got stuck with a stack of those lame T-shirts with the baby’s face on them?”

  “The baby was cute,” I defended. “The slogan was terribly lame.”

  “Never Trust Anyone Over the Age of Zero,” Ben summoned the slogan, shaking his head. “I really hope that guy didn’t become a millionaire over the licensing deals.”

  “What about you, Ben?” My chin rested enchantingly on my fingers as I wandered inside his eyes. “You’re over the age of zero. Can I trust you?”

  “I wouldn’t stake who I trust based on a battle cry used to sell magazines.” Ben poured a cascade of sugar into his coffee, and neatly hedged the rogue sprinkles on the table with his fingers. I remembered how delicately those fingers had smoothed the bandages on my skin. “You know, Alice, they say that only about one percent of the American population engaged in any sort of fraud following the November Hit.” He shook his head and laughed. “I mean it must drive you crazy, as an American, for people to always assume you’re a con artist.”

  "You know, I really have to apologize for what a jerk I was at the hospital. I shouldn’t have accused you. I was having a rough night, which I’m sure was obvious."

  “It’s okay. You were just a little shaken up. I was worried about you though, I mean, the way you were going on about, um, what was it, being shot over a computer disk? It had me concerned you had bumped your head. Trust me, I’ve seen concussions cause some real feisty delusions.”

  “I was just saying that stuff to be a pain in the ass.” I tapped my foot nervously under the table, my mind stirring to invent an excuse to say out loud. “I was embarrassed about what really happened, so I figured making up some grand story would impress you.”

  “I figured as much. People get wheeled into the ER saying all sorts of crazy things, from bar fight stories to claiming they were abducted by aliens.” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to insinuate you were crazy.”

  “No, no, it’s okay. You have permission to use the C word, I was acting crazy.”

  “It’s just that I’ve seen it before, tourists coming down with Paris Syndrome.”

  “Paris Syndrome?”

  “Yeah, it’s a little bit like Jerusalem Syndrome, when a pilgrim visits the holy land and convinces themselves that the guy they’ve just bought a roadside falafel from was really the messiah. It’s a form of intense delusion and hysteria. Well, Paris Syndrome is no different; tourists get caught up in the vivid romance of the city and start having delusions of grandeur. They start seeing Monets in their ketchup stains, or run around crazy thinking they’re starring in a car chase scene from The French Connection.”

  “Well, I’m not a tourist, I live here. But I’ll keep an eye out for Monet or a messiah next time I grab lunch at a falafel stand.”

  Ben’s face got serious and he leaned into the table. "Alice, I have to ask, what were you really doing when that bullet grazed your shoulder?"

  I lurched out a sigh. I was peering out the window, watching people on the sidewalk in order to get some distance from his attentive glare. I saw smoke doodles from chimneys rising like incense over the city. "Oh, you know, the usual, international espionage, illicit dealings, car chases; it was like a scene from The French Connec
tion.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m glad you think so.”

  “Alice, we both know that stuff you said at the hospital wasn’t true, but I need to know, are you in some kind of real trouble? Do you need help? Is there really an ex-boyfriend after you?"

  “I’m fine. I’m sorry that I made up all that crazy stuff at the hospital. I was just feeling exhausted. It’s just my line of work, it’s a little hectic." I felt Ben’s eyes burrowing into me, awaiting me to say more. I knew he was wondering just exactly what it was I did for a living. I blurted out the first lie that popped in my head. “I’m a flight attendant.” Lying about being a flight attendant always seemed like the perfect fit, since it accounted for so much travelling and an erratic schedule.

  “Flight attendants don’t usually have people shooting at them.”

  “No, getting shot had nothing to do with my job, it’s just all the traveling and flying, it’s why I’m so tired.”

  “What about the ex-boyfriend?”

  “Okay, I will admit, the shooting did involve an ex-boyfriend, a very possessive, jealous ex-boyfriend. Things got out of hand, one thing led to another…and bang. He didn’t mean to do it.”

  “Alice, that’s terrible. Have you gone to the police? I don’t think you should be making excuses for him. A shooting is a shooting.”

  “Ben, you seem like a sweet guy, and I don’t want to burden you with this. There’s someone taking care of it, don’t worry.”

  “The hell I won’t be burdened,” he blurted loudly enough to draw the attention of the table next to us. “There is some rabid lunatic out there who gets his kicks out of pointing a gun at you and I sure as hell will worry. Frankly, I think you’re being a little too lackadaisical about this.”

  “Ben, please chill.”

  "How old are you, Alice?"

  "I’m in my twenties, but that’s all I’ll tell, since I can see you’re about to make a comment about immaturity and not taking situations seriously, and I don’t want to provide you with any concrete fodder. How old are you, Ben?"