Who is Charlie Conti?

by Claus von Bohlen

  ‘Charlie, I love your grandmother too, and I know she lets you play with the clean sheets. But let me tell you about something that happened when I was a little girl. It was the night of La Befana’ – that’s when Italians give each other Christmas presents – ‘I’m not sure how old I was but we still used to live on the first two floors, where the Paravicinis now live. It was a time when even the rich people in Naples were poor. My father wanted to give me a beautiful present but there were few beautiful things in Naples in those days, at least not for children. So he ordered something from Germany. I unwrapped the present in front of my parents. Inside the wrapping paper was a large wooden box. Your grandfather had to get a hammer to prise open the lid. Inside the box, cushioned by hundreds of balls of scrunched up tissue paper, I saw the most beautiful porcelain doll. I fell in love with her the moment I laid eyes on her; she was the most perfect thing I had ever seen. I played with her all evening and when it was time to go to bed I asked your grandmother whether I could take her to bed with me. Your grandmother said I could, but only if I was very careful. I climbed into bed that night and tucked the doll in as far away from me as possible. I would have loved to hold her but I wanted to be extra careful. I woke up early the next morning because I was too excited to sleep; I wanted to play with the doll before breakfast. But she wasn’t there any more. I looked over the side of the bed and all I could see were shards of broken porcelain. I cried and cried because I had broken the doll I loved, the beautiful porcelain doll which my father had ordered for me from Germany. When your grandmother came in to wake me up and saw what had happened she screamed at me and lifted me out of bed and laid me across her knees and spanked me until she was exhausted.’

  All this flashed through my mind when I saw the crying girl with the doll on the sand dune. It was strange; I hadn’t thought about the porcelain doll since, well, since my mother told me the story on some distant afternoon in Naples.

  XII

  I POINTED THE car back west and drove through the night and the following day and the following night back to LA. When I was really tired I slept on the back seat, but never for more than a few hours. I felt a nervous energy which made it hard for me to eat, though that was pretty lucky because I needed all the cash I had for gas. I refilled at a gas station a few hundred miles from the coast then went to shave in the rest room; my beard was getting intolerably itchy. I got my dop kit out of the trunk and went to the first sink in the rest room. I was horrified when I saw myself in the mirror. My eyes were swollen and bloodshot and had big dark rings around them. My neck was red and pustular where the hairs were in-grown, and my face was greasy as hell and sunburned from sleeping on the beach. How had I got like this? I guess all the drugs I’d done with Jeanine and the lack of sleep and the nervous energy were taking their toll. I’d kind of lost track of myself, which is pretty ironic, given why I’d come on this trip. But anyway, I washed and shaved as well as I could and promised myself several days beside the pool when I got home.

  I had to pick up a hitchhiker because I needed the money for gas. He was a jock who’d been celebrating his stag in a bar in Malibu. Next thing he knew, he was waking up in a gas station in the middle of the desert, naked except for his pants. Any other time I’d have found that funny, but now I was more concerned about getting the ten bucks which the guy had found in his back pocket. I guess he felt kind of jaded too because he was not talkative at all. I was grateful for that. I drove him to Malibu as I’d promised and so I didn’t get back into the Hollywood Hills myself until early evening.

  As I drove along the familiar, palm-lined avenues I felt myself begin to relax – I was nearly home. I turned left into Stanley Hills Drive and was about to swing into my own driveway when I saw a strip of red and white police tape tight across the entrance, the ends flapping in the light breeze. My stomach turned. I guess at the back of my mind I’d been afraid of something like this, except I’d been trying not to think about it. I mean, Jeanine’s disappearance, the stolen cards, the stolen passport, the deleted cell phone numbers and the disconnected home phone… None of it really made sense. I didn’t know why the police tape was there but suddenly I was pretty sure that whatever had happened two nights ago on Pensacola beach was part of something bigger. I didn’t know what to expect but I knew it wouldn’t be good.

  I drove past the driveway a couple hundred yards, parked the car then walked back and ducked underneath the tape. I approached the house, hugging the shadows at the side of the road. Everything looked pretty normal from the outside. It was almost dark; I guessed that if Ray had been home there’d have been a light on, or at least I’d have seen the flickering of the TV through the sitting room window. I snuck up to the front door and saw that the lock had been broken – the wood was splintered around it, as if someone had kicked it open. I pushed the door and it opened easily. I wondered whether to switch on the lights. I kind of wanted to find out what had happened before I alerted anyone – Ray or the police or whoever – to the fact that I had returned. But I couldn’t really see anything in the gathering darkness, so I flicked the light switch anyway.

  The house was very tidy, much tidier than I’d left it. That was partly because a load of stuff had gone: no TV, no hi-fi, no pictures. Here and there were other strips of police tape and notes of paper with numbers on them, the kind of notes you see in police photos. I went to Ray’s room. It was totally empty; even the furniture had been removed. I went out to the swimming pool and sat down on one of the sunbeds. I tried to work out what had happened. If the house had been burgled and Ray had been there, then why hadn’t he called me? If he’d been away when the burglary happened, then why was the house so tidy, and who had alerted the police? A horrible possibility slithered its way into my mind: perhaps Ray was himself involved with the burglary? The more I considered this, the more I felt my chest tighten, as if a big yellow Burmese python were wrapping itself around my body, slowly constricting its oily coils and squeezing the life out of me.

  It took some time before I was able to breathe normally. I tried to compose myself and to approach everything logically. I had to prioritize. The car was pretty much out of gas, my cell was almost out of credit and I didn’t have anything left in my wallet; I needed money. I still had to cancel my old cards and get new ones sent to me, but in the meantime I could arrange to pick up cash from a local branch. I’d need my bank account details and some kind of ID – my passport or social security number or whatever. Once I’d sorted out the money problem, I’d telephone the police to find out what had happened in my house. Then I could think about Ray and Jeanine.

  I kept all my bank details and statements and so on in the top drawer of the desk in the sitting room. I opened the drawer; it was empty. Come to think of it, I hadn’t seen a statement for a long time, though as far as I knew they were sent to me monthly. Depending on when Ray had last checked the mail – in fact, depending on whether he had checked the mail – there ought to be at least one statement in the mailbox. I went to have a look; the mailbox was in the gloom at the end of the driveway. There were a load of letters which I carried back into the house. I flicked through them but there were no bank statements. However, there were a number of letters from Los Angeles County Electricity who were threatening to turn off the power unless I paid the most recent bill. As with my home telephone, this should have been paid automatically. I hadn’t cancelled anything and I should have plenty of cash – I only had one bank account which contained all my available funds.

  I sat on the sofa in the almost empty sitting room, holding the letters in my hand and thinking what to do next. There seemed to be so many possibilities but I just didn’t have enough information to commit to one of them. However, I also knew that I had to do something, to act positively in some way. If I didn’t then the panic would soon rise up again and the next time I might not be able to control it.

  It was Friday evening so, even if I could find an acceptable form of ID, I wouldn’t be able to present it in
a bank until Monday morning in order to pick up cash. I decided to phone my bank to try and order new cards and to find out why the direct debit had been cancelled. I sat down on the sofa and picked up the home phone but the line was dead. There wasn’t a lot of credit left on my cell – I hadn’t recharged it since Pensacola – but I thought it might be enough so I got the phone book and dialled my bank’s number.

  A woman’s voice answered cheerfully: ‘Good evening, this is Marcia speaking. How may I help you tonight?’

  ‘Hi, my name is Charlie Conti. I’d like to check my balance please,’ I said, picking nervously at the weft of the carpet.

  ‘Sure. I just need you to confirm your address and your account details.’

  Beep… You have one dollar and fifty cents remaining on your Verizon touchtone phone…

  ‘Er, of course…’ I’d do the easy bit first, then worry about the account number after. ‘My address is Ocean View, 21 Acacia Avenue, Los Angeles, CA –’

  ‘I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Charlie Conti.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir, I don’t see any Mr Conti living at Ocean View, 21 Acacia Avenue.’

  ‘Conti, C-O-N-T-I. Charlie Conti.’

  ‘Yes sir, I got that, but I don’t have –’

  Beep… You have fifty cents remaining on your Verizon touchtone phone.

  ‘Charlie Oscar November Tango Indigo, Conti? Look, you’ve been sending my bank statements here since last summer.’

  ‘Yes sir. I can call the statements up on the system if you have a statement reference number.’

  ‘I don’t have it with me right now. Can you look up whether you have any clients registered at 21 Acacia Avenue?’

  There was a brief pause. ‘Sir, I’m afraid that information is confidential.’

  ‘Ok. Let me ask you a question. If a client of yours woke up from a coma but didn’t have any of his banking details and couldn’t find any of his cards, but he knows that he has an account with you, then what should he do?’

  ‘I’m sorry sir, this isn’t my area,’ said Marcia.

  ‘Please, just tell me, what should he do?’

  ‘Well sir, I think he should probably go to one of our branches with his passport and his social security number and I’m sure –’

  ‘He doesn’t have either of them. They’ve both been stolen.’

  ‘I’m sorry sir –’

  ‘PLEASE tell me, what should he do?’ I could hear my own voice fraying. I guess Marcia heard it too because she replied, ‘Sir, I guess a police report would be a good start. I am sure the police could confirm the client’s identity and we could take it from there.’

  Then the line went dead. I was out of credit.

  *

  I wondered whether I should drive directly to the police station. The thought of it made me nervous. I wanted to know why my house was covered in police tape, but how could I explain my situation? I’d have to tell them that I’d been driving through America, that I was out of touch with everyone I knew, that I’d been doing a load of blow, that my girlfriend had disappeared overnight taking my credit cards and passport and that I was only going to the cops about it now? Every bit of it was so drawn out and required so much explaining that even the explanations required explanations. It would take ages to get the story straight. And that’s assuming that the cops were patient enough to listen, and prepared to believe me.

  To find out what had happened at my house I decided to call the cops and pretend to be someone else, someone off the street. I dialled 911 from my cell. Even though I was out of credit I could still call an emergency number. The telephone rang just once before someone picked up.

  ‘LAPD, is this an emergency call?’

  ‘Er, no, I guess not,’ I said.

  ‘Then please call General Information on Los Angeles 213-485-8121. They will forward your call to the department you require.’

  The line went dead and I thought that, when things are going badly, there’s really no one to throw you a bone. I couldn’t call an LA number from my cell, but I knew there was a payphone on Acacia Avenue a few minutes walk from the end of my driveway. Next problem was, I didn’t have any quarters. I got up off of the sofa and lifted the cushions and sure enough found a few quarters that had fallen out of people’s pockets. Then I switched off the lights and made my way to the payphone.

  *

  There was a phone book chained to the payphone. I looked up ‘LAPD: General Information’ and dialled the number. It rang for a little longer than when I’d called 911 but eventually a girl’s voice answered:

  ‘LAPD, how can I help?’

  ‘Hello. I live on Acacia Avenue and I’ve just got back from holiday. I’ve noticed that the house just down from mine is cordoned off with police tape and I was wondering what happened there. The owner of the house is a friend of mine. I mean, not really a friend, but I know him.’

  ‘I’ll stop you there, sir. We are not allowed to discuss outstanding cases with third parties, unless, of course, you could help us with our investigations. I’m sorry sir, where did you say you lived?’

  ‘Acacia Avenue, number 24 Acacia Avenue.’

  ‘Oh, right. I guess this case is in the public domain. You don’t read the papers?’

  ‘Usually, but I’ve been away for a while,’ I said.

  ‘There was a big bust about a month ago, photos in all the papers. Federal agents followed two Mexicans from the border and arrested them unloading 10 kilos of cocaine in the garage. Didn’t catch the brains behind it though. Say, if you know anything about the owner of the house you should speak to the Narcs…’

  Mercifully the last quarter dropped at that moment. I leaned my head against the payphone with the receiver still in my hand. I closed my eyes for a moment but I felt like I was falling into the darkness in front of me, so I opened them again. I suddenly felt very tired, like I could sleep for a hundred years. I figured I’d drive the Buick up to the viewpoint on the hill where couples go to make out and I’d sleep in the vehicle, again. I didn’t want to risk being in the house in case the police came by, and I didn’t want to speak to the police until I’d thought things through.

  Right then my head was full of thoughts and I didn’t know how to order them. I could see that the fact that Ray was a friend of mine, that I had let him live in my house while I threw wild parties, and that I knew he was a drug dealer, well, I could see that none of that would look good. At all. It made me look like an accomplice. Could I prove to the police that I had nothing to do with dealing? Hell, no; I’d just been to Mexico myself, the girl I was travelling with had got all messed up on coke and my car would have traces all over it. But I had to talk to the cops; I needed their help to prove that I was who I said I was. Which, right now, didn’t seem like someone I really wanted to be. At least, I didn’t want to be who Charlie Conti seemed to be. I wanted to be who Charlie Conti was. Except I was getting pretty confused about that too.

  *

  When I woke the next morning it was pretty bright in the car. I opened my eyes and looked out of the window and saw the sea in the distance. Then I closed my eyes again and slipped in and out of dreams until my phone started to ring in my pocket.

  ‘Hello?’ I mumbled. My mouth was dry and my voice was very croaky.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Conti. This is Special Agent Kramer, FBI. Please don’t hang up. I’m here to help.’

  I have often heard people say that they didn’t know whether they were awake or dreaming. Usually it’s just an expression but, on this occasion, I really didn’t know.

  ‘Please listen to me, Mr Conti. I work for the Bureau’s Identity Theft Department. Your case has been allocated to me. We believe you’ve been the victim of identity fraud perpetrated by a man you would have known as Ray Celador. Did you know a Ray Celador?’

  ‘Yes, um, yes I did. But, I mean, how –’

  ‘We’ve been monitoring Celador for a while, tracing his calls, that kinda thing. Yours is the
number he used to call the most, up until you left LA five weeks ago. State law prevents us listening in on your conversations, but we are able to see exactly what numbers you dial. I’ve just been informed that you dialled 911 last night and I know that a vehicle whose license plate is registered to you was refuelled at a gas station yesterday off of Interstate 10. I also know that Ray Celador left from LAX two weeks ago. Celador leaves, you get back, you call the police… It all fits. We know that Celador is an identity fraudster, and I’m guessing that you’re his latest victim.’

  I had just woken up after one of the worst days of my life, and now it seemed I was being offered a lifeline out of the blue. And yet I still wasn’t quite sure. I mean, just because this man Kramer said he worked for the FBI didn’t make it true. But then, who else could know things like that about me? My car registration, the phone calls, Ray’s departure from LAX – only the FBI could have access like that. Surely. But at the same time there was no harm in being cautious.

  ‘How do you know all that about me? I mean, why have you been watching me?’ I asked.

  ‘Mr. Conti, I work for the FBI. You have to trust me – I’m one of the good guys. Like I said, we’ve had our eye on Celador for a long time. You did know him as Celador did you not?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, that wasn’t his real name, or at least, it wasn’t the name he was born with, and it is unlikely to be the name he now has. But, when you knew him it was what people called him.’

  ‘So what about now?’ I asked.

  ‘Well Mr Conti, I’m afraid he has probably changed his name to Charlie Conti.’

  My heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Mr Conti? Charlie?’ said the voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Yes, I’m here,’ I said.

  ‘Look Charlie, Ray Celador is an identity fraudster,’ said Special Agent Kramer. ‘He will choose a victim, generally someone who is slightly… Someone with a trusting nature and financial security. He will befriend his victim and ingratiate himself. He will collect all the information he can about them – bank details, credit card details, passport details, social security numbers, cell phone accounts, previous addresses, closest relatives, that sort of thing. This process is the most time-consuming part of the fraud. Obviously the greater the proximity to the victim, the easier the information gathering process. Sometimes a fraudster can even be a partner, or they can use a proxy partner. Once the information has been gathered, the fraudster will redirect all financial post – bank statements and so on – to a new address. The information they have gathered enables them to assume the identity of their victims, though of course it is also helpful to have the victims out of the way, send them on holiday – or worse, sometimes. The fraudster will then open new bank accounts in the victim’s name, siphon off his funds, run up huge debts; this can go on for months without the victim ever realizing since all warning letters will be sent to the new address. Now, Celador is a very sophisticated fraudster. He is wanted by the FBI on a number of very serious charges, but he perpetrates his crimes under different identities, all of which are fully documented by stolen personal profiles –’