EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories

by Sean Chercover

  “Okay George, you did very well,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  He shook his head. “My mom’s coming by in the morning. If I’m gone, she’ll worry.”

  “Tomorrow’s Monday. You said the Juno’s goons come on Mondays. Leave her a note.”

  “No, I have to speak to her…explain things. She’ll be here at eight. Come back at nine and I’ll go with you.”

  “You don’t want to risk them showing up.”

  “It’s okay,” said George with a failed attempt at a smile. “They never come before noon. Just make sure you’re not late. I have to say goodbye to my mom.”

  A waning gibbous moon above and Bob Dylan’s Nashville Skyline on the stereo made the drive back to Chicago tolerable. I sang along with Bob to chase George Garcia’s sadness away and arrived at my office just after midnight.

  I transcribed the witness statement from the audiotape into my computer. I made sure to include the coercion by Juno’s legal department. Of course they’d deny it, but with the implied threat of a criminal investigation, a quick settlement was Rik’s for the taking. I printed out the statement and emailed a copy to Rik’s office, feeling pretty pleased with myself. Three days to find a witness who was hiding in another state and didn’t want to be found. Not too shabby.

  But the congratulatory pep talk was impotent and George’s sadness returned and I had a hankering to drink myself to sleep. A bad idea. I tried to focus on just one of the multiple streams of thought that clamored for my attention. The voices in my head were doing just fine without any help from me, so I finally gave up and let them fight it out amongst themselves. As I sat there, George Garcia’s sadness grew and morphed into Sarah Shipman’s sadness. And mine. And everyone’s.

  We encounter people like George and Sarah and Phil (and even Betty) and we say to ourselves: There but for the grace of God go I. Then we are self-satisfied. Look how grateful we are, not taking our good fortune for granted. Look how virtuous. We pity George and Sarah and we wallow in our gratitude, because pity and gratitude reinforce the illusion of a great distance between us and them. We avoid that other thought. The thought that goes: Better him than me. Because we’re all just one bad decision from being George Garcia. One serving of bad luck from being Sarah Shipman.

  And there are nights when the proximity is impossible to ignore. This night, the choice was insomnia or booze and I had a big day tomorrow so I chose tired instead of hung-over. And made it to bed relatively sober.

  I pulled into the dusty driveway at 8:50am. No other cars on the property. Which meant George’s mom had already come and gone, or she was late…or George had been lying to me. The cottage door was unlocked and I let myself in.

  The smell of feces and fear told me all I needed to know. George’s body lay on the couch, an empty bottle of cheap vodka at his side. He’d opened his wrists with a hunting knife, which lay on his chest. The cushions had absorbed a lot of blood and there was a large puddle, dark and viscous, on the floor beneath his right arm, which hung off the side of the couch. Flies congregated around the blood puddle, like greedy tourists at a Vegas buffet.

  There was a note: “Tell the lady I’m sorry about her legs.” Signed, “George S. Garcia, Jr.”

  I snatched up George’s cigarettes and lighter and marched outside and lit a smoke and took a deep drag and got a head rush. I paced back and forth from the cottage to my car, thinking, You’ve got a dead witness, an unsigned statement, and an unverifiable recording of that statement. Thinking, You idiot, why did you leave him alone? Thinking, You’ve still got the touch, Dudgeon … not too shabby. Fuck.

  I called Rik Ransom and his secretary heard the tone of my voice and put me straight through.

  “I just read the email,” said Rik. “Really nice job on the statement, Ray. Outstanding. You may have earned a bonus.”

  “Things are complicated,” I said.

  “Complicated how?”

  “Trust me, you do not want to know. Just call Juno and read them the statement. Tell them that we have George Garcia in a safe place and he is no longer under their control.” Another drag on the cigarette. “And Rik, time is of the essence. We’re expecting some thugs from Juno this afternoon.”

  “So get out of there.”

  “Can’t. And don’t ask.”

  “You’re serious,” he said.

  “Deadly. Look, I know this isn’t normal procedure. You’re the lawyer and I’m just the keyhole-peeper but you’ve got to trust me on this, no questions.” There was silence on the line.

  “All right, Ray. If you say it’s complicated, then it’s complicated.” He cleared his throat. “We go back a ways, you and me. But I have to be frank with you. A rumor went around, after the Amodeo thing...”

  “Yes.”

  “Rumor was, you’d become a little unhinged. Maybe more than a little.”

  I had no idea how to answer that. “It was blown out of proportion, Rik. I’m telling you, I’m acting in your best interest here. Right now you really don’t want to know the details, and you’ll thank me later.”

  “I see,” another protracted silence, “Okay, I’m going to follow you on this, Ray.”

  “Just make the deal fast and call me when it’s done.”

  They rolled up well before noon, in a dark blue Lincoln Continental. The Lincoln pulled into the dirt driveway and came to a stop about fifteen feet in front of me. I held my position—sitting on the top step, cell phone to my left. Pistol in my right hand, pointing casually at the ground about six feet in front of me. They got out of the Lincoln and closed the doors.

  Tough guys in fancy suits.

  The taller one was a trim six-four and pumped iron a couple times a week, I guessed. The shorter one was about six feet and looked like a poster child for steroid abuse. Probably weighed in at a hard 260. I’m five-nine. You could call it almost five-ten with my shoes on. I weigh about 170. With my shoes on.

  But there was gun was in my hand, while they both clutched handfuls of moist air.

  “Hi fellas,” I said with a neutral tone. “My name’s Ray. I’m a licensed private detective and I’ve been retained as Mr. Garcia’s bodyguard. Mr. Garcia does not wish to have any visitors, and you’re on private property. Please leave.”

  “And if we don’t?” said Shorty. His eyes gleamed with a hunger that said he wanted this thing to escalate. But Stretch sent him a glare and I got the picture. Stretch was the boss—maybe Juno’s resident tough-guy lawyer. Shorty was a paid goon, probably had some fancy title like Vice President of Corporate Security.

  “Listen, Ray,” said Stretch with a rubber-band mouth. “We need to speak with Mr. Garcia. Five minutes and we’re gone. History. Out of your hair.” He gave me a rubber-band smile and they took a step forward in unison and I raised the gun and pointed it at Stretch and said, “Hands!”

  They stopped in unison and raised their hands slightly. They were now a dozen feet—four quick steps—away. They’d gained three feet and all they’d given up was about five inches distance from hand to gun. If they had guns.

  “You’re bluffing,” said Stretch. I admired his ability to hold my eyes. Not because my eyes are particularly intimidating but because, when someone points a gun at you, the urge to stare at the gun can be overwhelming.

  “Yeah,” said Shorty. “You ain’t gonna shoot.” His right leg moved forward a few inches.

  “You’ll be first,” I said to Stretch. Thinking, Goddamn, this sucks.

  “Stand down,” Stretch said to Shorty. A quick glance at a duly admonished Shorty, standing down as ordered. Eyes back to Stretch.

  “As I said, you’ll be first. Whatever happens after that probably won’t make you feel a whole lot better.” This was tough-guy talk, which is not really my strong suit. I wondered how I was doing. Stretch had lost a half-inch off his smile and now he put it back but it looked unnatural.

  “All right,” Stretch said, “but we need to hear it from Mr. Garcia.”

  Short
y cupped his hands to his mouth and called, “Hey Georgie, you want us to go? Just come to the window and say the word and we’re gone, buddy!”

  “He won’t come,” I said. Truer words were never spoken. “Look, guys…we all know that either one of you could kick my ass around the block without breaking a sweat. That’s why I’ll have to fire first.” I added my left hand to my right, holding the pistol in a Weaver stance. “So you have to leave the property now, or I’ll be forced to defend my client.” My mouth wouldn’t smile even if I bribed it, so I didn’t bother trying. I just sat there, thinking, This is taking too long…

  Stretch made his decision and, by virtue of some sort of goon telepathy, they both stepped back and opened their doors in unison. “We’ll just park on the road over there,” Stretch jerked a long thumb toward the road about fifty feet away.

  “Fine,” I said, “you guys hang out over there and call your boss. I’ll hang here and call mine. I expect you’ll get instructions to leave but maybe I’m wrong. We’ll see. Meantime, as long as you’re on the public road we’re cool.”

  “We’ll let you know what happens,” said Stretch.

  “I’m sure you will.”

  They got in the car and backed out of the driveway and parked on the road, blocking the drive. I let the gun point at the ground and forced my hand to relax a bit, to keep circulation to the fingers. I took a few deep breaths, picked up the cell phone and dialed Rik Ransom.

  “It’s Dudgeon,” I said. “Got company over here. Two very bad men from Juno. I need you to speed things along.”

  “Jesus, Ray. Don’t get killed.”

  “Doing my best. How much longer?”

  “I’m waiting for a call back. They’re stalling.”

  “Until they hear from Stretch, I suspect.” Back at the car, Stretch held a cell phone to his ear. “Rik, they’re calling it in. Get ready now and make this deal fast.”

  “Why don’t you just get outta there? You’ve got the signed statement.”

  “I didn’t say it was signed.”

  “Well get the fucker to sign it...” There was a pause on the line. “Oh shit. Don’t tell me—”

  “I didn’t tell you anything. Just work fast. Shorten the deadline.” Stretch closed his flip-phone. “He’s off the phone. If they don’t call in a minute or two, you call them.” I hung up and nodded at Stretch. He nodded back at me.

  And we waited. I was glad to be waiting outside. Inside, I’d have to watch the strange spasmodic slow-motion rigor mortis dance. And smell the exotic perfumes of decay. By comparison, Stretch and Shorty were good company. So I just sat in the hot sun, feeding mosquitoes and waiting for the phone to ring.

  An hour and forty minutes later, Stretch got out of the car and walked toward me. I stood and moved off the steps, keeping him between me and Shorty. I aimed at his chest and he held his hands up at about shoulder height but didn’t stop. My sweat-covered forearms reflected the afternoon sun. “Far enough,” I said at about twenty feet. He stopped.

  “We’re all professionals, doing our jobs here,” he said.

  “Right.”

  “Good. See, my associate needs some toilet paper.”

  “You are kidding me,” I said.

  “Swear to God,” he said and smiled, almost like a real person.

  I felt my own mouth smile. “Really?”

  “Hey, don’t rub it in.” He jerked his thumb back toward the car. “He’s gonna be hearing about this for a very long time, I promise you.”

  “Well I hate to give you an even better story to tell, but there’s a gas station a few miles up. He can leave you on the road and come back, or you can both go and come back. Best I can do.”

  “Come on, have a heart. Do it for my sake, I gotta sit in the car with the guy.” The rubber-band smile returned and sent me into high alert.

  “Sorry, no.” I held the gun steady. Wait him out... We stared lovingly into each other’s eyes for a millennium or two.

  “You’re Ray Dudgeon, right?”

  “I am.”

  “You didn’t say so earlier.”

  “Would it have scared you away?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.”

  Stretch shrugged and his smile faded. “Thought you’d be taller,” he said.

  “I’m not.”

  “No. You’re not.” He turned around and walked back to the car and got in. I returned to my position on the top step.

  Another fifty minutes trickled by while I sat there, sweating and feeding even more mosquitoes. It was in the upper nineties and the T-shirt was now plastered to my back. The Juno boys sat in air-conditioned luxury in their Lincoln Continental. Pussies.

  The cell phone rang and I answered it.

  “Ray, we did it! Whoo-boy, we did it!”

  “Close to ten million?”

  “Hell, we passed ten an hour ago. Naturally with our newfound strength, I raised the bar to fifteen this morning. We settled on twelve.”

  “Done deal?”

  “Like dinner. Notarized faxes have been exchanged and couriers have been dispatched with originals. We’re official.”

  “Then why haven’t my friends heard the good news?”

  “Oh, shit. I thought they’d be long gone by now. That’s terrible, Ray. Really sorry about that. I’ll make a call.”

  “Sure would appreciate it,” I said, and broke the connection.

  Ten minutes passed and then Stretch answered his flip phone and listened and bobbed his head. He flipped the phone shut and Shorty reached down and put the car in gear without looking in my direction. Stretch nodded at me. I held up my hand and nodded back. The car pulled away, down the dusty road and out of sight. I picked up the cell phone and dialed 911.

  I’d just found a dead body and it was my duty to report it.

  I wrote “But Not Everything” for a flash fiction website that no longer exists. The assignment was to write a short story that came in under 300 words and that began with the word “Terrified…”

  Sounded like a fun challenge. I managed to bring the story in at 262 words. I was happy with it, sent it in, and thought no more about it.

  A couple months later the publisher of Assa, a crime fiction magazine in Finland, contacted me. He wanted to have the piece translated and published in Finnish.

  Cool.

  And that’s how “But Not Everything” became my first piece of fiction translated into a foreign language.

  TERRIFIED, SHE PUSHED OPEN the door to his past.

  “If you want to break it off, I understand,” he said.

  Thinking: Get out while you can, honey.

  Thinking: God I hope she stays.

  Thinking: Don’t tell her everything.

  But his brain had a mind of its own and his mouth wouldn’t stop. Telling her everything. Then pulling back, just before the precipice. Even his brain’s other mind couldn’t go over the edge. Afraid of losing the girl with the trembling hands, who wanted to know but wanted it to be not too bad. Afraid that her matchstick legs would snap under the weight of it. Afraid that her matchstick legs would walk straight out the door.

  Telling her, but not everything.

  “I can live with that.” When she said it, her eyes darted away. He tried not to notice. He failed not to notice.

  “Maybe you should sleep on it.”

  “Don’t need to,” she said.

  “You sure?” Thinking: Leave it alone before she changes her mind.

  She squeezed out a thin smile. “I’m a big girl. I know what I’m doing.”

  Then there was the red wine and the Calvados and The Gentle Side of John Coltrane. Followed by the warm bath by the light of two candles.

  And then there was the morning. The coffee and the bacon and the soft-boiled eggs. Followed by the question.

  “Last night…when we were talking,” her voice faltering, “was that all? I mean, was anything left out?”

  He sipped some coffee, put his hand on hers, an
d told her a little more.

  But not everything.

  I stole this story from the first act of a screenplay I was writing, and re-wrote the section in prose form for the Thriller 2 anthology, edited by Clive Cussler.

  I never did finish the screenplay, but I really like the protagonist, Tom Bailey. Tom is a former government badass trying to make a new life, and I’m rooting for him.

  Writing “A Calculated Risk” allowed me to indulge in my love of scuba diving and touch on the expat community of people with dark pasts, living one drink at a time in beach bars throughout the Caribbean. Part Travis McGee, part Peter Tosh, with a whole lot drawn from my experiences ‘down island’.

  Maybe Tom Bailey will someday get a novel of his own. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this story, which was shortlisted for a CWA Dagger Award in the UK.

  TOM BAILEY TURNED THE WHEEL over to starboard and guided his forty-two foot power catamaran, Zombie Jamboree, just inside the coral reef, relying on the lower helm’s depth finder and night vision monitor. He stole a glance at the luminous hands of his Submariner: forty minutes until dawn. Perfect timing.

  The man who called himself Diego said, “How’s our timing?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Better be.”

  A threat? Or just a common expression. The man’s tone was even, carried no particular menace. It was hard to tell. And because they were running dark, Bailey couldn’t read anything in the man’s face.

  But he was tempted to say, Or what?

  He said, “Dude, you came to me, I didn’t come to you.” He checked their GPS coordinates, cut the engines. The tide would take them in quiet from here. “Twelve minutes and we’ll be right on Labadee Beach.”

  Labadee was a private beach within a walled compound on the north shore of Haiti. Royal Caribbean Cruise Lines owned the beach, and the compound. The whole place would be empty until the next cruise ship arrived on Thursday. This was Tuesday. Zombie Jamboree drifted in on the tide and the men didn’t speak until they arrived at Labadee.

  Right on time.

  “Can we get close enough?”