Who is Charlie Conti?

by Claus von Bohlen

  ‘I don’t understand, how –’

  ‘I’m going too fast, I’m sorry. I understand how confusing this is. Please realize, you are not alone. I’ll explain everything to you when we meet, and we’ll sort out your situation. But you are also in a position to help us. What we require are any documentary effects of Mr Celador; any photos you may have of him, anything like a drivers license, anything bearing his signature… Do you have anything like that?’

  I thought for a moment. ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I mean, I have files on my laptop. I scanned his drivers license and I have some photos which he’s in, not that many though…’ I suddenly remembered Ray’s hatred of being photographed, the number of times he ducked out of shots at the last minute. Could he already have been thinking ahead, thinking of ways to minimize the traces he left in my life? It was a chilling thought.

  ‘I’ve got it all on my laptop, which is here in the glove compartment of my car,’ I said. ‘Is that useful?’

  ‘That is very useful. Now, the sooner you can get the laptop to me, the sooner we will be able to prove the falsity of Celador’s identity and establish the truth of your own.’

  ‘I could email you the files.’

  There was a short pause. ‘I’m afraid our specialists need to examine the laptop themselves,’ said Special Agent Kramer. ‘It would be best to hand the computer to me personally. And please do not speak to the LAPD. They don’t understand the intricacies of identity theft and they’ve bungled a number of our operations in the past. Charlie, promise me you’ll only speak to me. I say this as much for your benefit as for mine; if you go to the LAPD they’ll lock you up until you can afford lawyers who can prove that you are not the same Charlie Conti who was running a cocaine smuggling operation in 21 Acacia Avenue. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘I’d also suggest that you get out of California for the next week or so. If you get picked up by the LAPD – and they are looking for you – you will not only jeopardize the FBI’s operation but it’ll be a lot harder to clear this mess up. This goes way beyond state boundaries; that’s why we’re here.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ I repeated. I did think it was a bit strange that the FBI couldn’t work together with the LAPD, but then I’d seen enough cop movies in which that happened. And in any case, I just felt relieved that someone was taking control of the situation. If Kramer wanted to be in charge then I wasn’t going to let the politics of law enforcement get in the way.

  ‘I suggest you go on a trip, go visit a relative, until we catch Celador. Is there someone you can stay with until then?’

  ‘Not really…’

  ‘No brothers or sisters?’

  ‘I guess I could go visit my sister,’ I said. ‘But it’s quite a way and I can’t get any money.’

  ‘We have an emergency fund for the victims of identity fraud. I’ll have to get you to sign a few forms, then I’m authorized to advance you whatever cash you need until your accounts are unfrozen. I’ll be in Las Vegas on Monday; I could meet you on Tuesday, but like I said, it would be best for you to get out of California for now.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘I know a diner just over the border in Nevada. It’s about thirty miles past Jean airport, right where Highway 91 meets Interstate 15. You can’t miss it, it’s called Joe’s diner, big aluminum thing. I’ll meet you there at midday on Tuesday, you give me the laptop and I’ll advance you the emergency cash, ok?’

  It was Saturday morning. Tuesday was three days away and I would have to eat during that time. Also I needed money for gas to get me to the diner in Nevada. There was no one I could stay with until then; school was still out, everyone I knew was away and in any case I no longer had any phone numbers. Short of begging with the homeless down by Venice beach, I really didn’t know what to do. So I said: ‘Excuse me sir, I’m afraid there’s still one problem. When I said I didn’t have any cash, I mean, I really don’t. Like, nothing at all. My friends from school are away for the vacation and, like you said, I guess it’s probably better not to draw attention to the fact that I’m back here.’

  ‘That’s right. Ok, I’ll see what I can do; we’ve got a couple of agents in LA. They should be able to help. I’ll call back this afternoon. Keep your cell with you at all times, and one more thing: I’m sure I don’t need to tell you, but don’t talk to anyone about this, not even your friends, ok?’

  ‘Yes sir.’

  ‘Good. Ok, expect my call this afternoon.’

  *

  I wanted to get out of the city and away from other people so I took the Pacific Coast Highway up to El Matador beach in Malibu. I descended the little trail to the beach and took my shoes and socks off and went for a walk on the sand. It was pretty empty and I was grateful for that. There are lots of amazing rock formations on El Matador – big arches and towers that look like giant drip castles. I remembered how I used to make drip castles with Izzy back in Italy. You get a handful of wet sand and let it drip slowly through your fingers and you can build formations that start like little worm casts and then grow bigger and bigger. On El Matador the rock formations all look like drip castles but in summer you get a lot of tourists striking corny poses underneath the arches and taking photos. There weren’t any tourists now though and it was calming to walk there by myself, until I started thinking about Ray again.

  I knew that I’d really screwed up about Ray. I mean, I’d known next to nothing about his past except that he’d failed to finish his thesis and that he was somehow involved with adult entertainment; that was hardly a great character reference. I also knew he sold small quantities of blow, but he was a user himself so I’d just kind of assumed that he did it out of, I don’t know, maybe convenience. I had no idea he was involved in smuggling kilos of it from Mexico. I guess I should have thought about it a bit more, but it’s easy to look back and say that.

  The other thing about Ray was that he was the guy you trusted. I mean, with his jeans and his lumberjack shirt it just didn’t seem like he was out to kid anybody. But it wasn’t just that he dressed the part. He was always himself, even when he was really drunk or when young actresses were giving him the eye. There was something about his big wood-carving hands and the way he knew how to build a log cabin that inspired confidence.

  And there was Jeanine, too. I mean, it had become pretty obvious to me that I was with Jeanine for some pretty bad reasons. I used her because she was hot and liked to fuck and I got a kick out of having a pornstar girlfriend. She used me for money and drugs, and sex too. So I guess we both used each other, it just turned out that she’d been playing for much higher stakes.

  Ray and her must have been planning this from the very first time we met. It was an awesome performance, it really was; all that stuff about the need to travel, to discover the great US of A and thereby to come to understand who I was. It was a great set-up. Ray sent me to go find out who I was and at the same time he stole who I was. It was so neat I would have found it funny if it hadn’t happened to me.

  And it hurt. I liked him, I really did. He made life seem more important, like I’d just sort of been flitting over the surface until I met him. The other thing that now makes me feel sick is that Ray practically told me not to trust him. I mean, all that stuff about the instinctive animal nature of man and the absence of choice, well, I guess it was a warning. Maybe not a deliberate warning, but a warning all the same. When a guy tells you he doesn’t believe that people should be held responsible for their actions, well, I guess you ought to be careful.

  Ahead of me I could see a large black object in the water. The waves were washing over it and each time it rolled a little from side to side. I didn’t know what it was until I got close enough to see the flippers, then I realized it was a dead seal. I walked into the water to get a closer look. It seemed to have died of old age, and only recently because there was no smell. The fur was very black and very slick all over but the eyelashes were long and strangely white, as if they had been frosted. Maybe sea
ls get white eyelashes when they grow old, or maybe it was a salt deposit from the brine. I guess if you’re a seal you’d be happy not to end up eaten by a shark or caught in a fishing net or whatever; but still, I felt sorry for that sleek old body with its friendly face and frosted eyelashes, gently rolling this way and that with the waves.

  I wished I could stop thinking about Ray and Jeanine and the mess I was in, but my mind insisted on returning to the same ground again and again.

  I wanted Special Agent Kramer to call back as he’d promised. He knew that I was the real Charlie Conti and that I had nothing to do with the Mexican smuggling operation. In fact, I kind of got the feeling he knew everything about me. I tried to picture him. I saw him in a white shirt with suspenders, square-jawed and tanned, in a darkened operations room, top secret reports filtering through from various agents in various states. Special Agent Kramer; he’d run five miles on the beach before work every day, with his dog which he’d rescued when the owner died in a shoot-out. Special Agent Kramer, kissing goodbye to his ex-cheerleader wife after a wholesome home-cooked breakfast. Special Agent Kramer, his bronzed brow set implacably against the dark forces of dishonesty and treachery. That’s what I imagined.

  I ran through my options, thinking I should do something and not just sit around waiting for Kramer to call. I realized I had two problems: the first was how to contact anyone at all, since I didn’t have any numbers and the school was closed and I had no money and I didn’t want to go to the cops. I might be able to find Sammy, the make-up artist from the school who lived in West Hollywood, or Jeanine’s friend Candice. But for all I knew they could be in on the whole thing. And if I could find them, and even if they did testify that I was Charlie Conti, they wouldn’t be much good for saying that I had nothing to do with Ray’s drug smuggling. In fact they would probably think I was in on it, seeing as they knew me as being pretty close to Ray. So that was the second problem – to find someone who could testify that I was Charlie Conti and that I had nothing to do with Ray’s drug smuggling.

  I needed to find someone who knew me separately from Ray. I thought of old Hartfelder, but after his strokes he might not recognize me and, in any case, he could no longer speak. Mikey Katzounnis’ parents would recognize me but I had no idea how to find them. And also they might not be prepared to vouch for my character given that Mikey had got kicked out of Belmont on my account, and for drugs too. Mrs Oppenheimer? She was such an old wacko, I couldn’t imagine anyone would ever believe her. And anyway, vouching for my character sounded pretty vague to me. What I really needed was someone who knew I had nothing to do with the ten kilos of blow unloaded into my garage. The only people who knew that were Ray, Jeanine and Special Agent Kramer; that’s why I was so anxious for Kramer to call back.

  There was one more thing I was worried about, and that was Ray finding out that I was back in LA and that I knew what he was up to and that I was helping the FBI. I was afraid that Ray might track me down, or at least send someone else to do so, in order to intimidate me into keeping my mouth shut.

  I walked on the beach until sundown but Kramer didn’t call. I got back into the Buick. I wished I could stop thinking about things just for a short while but really there was nothing else to do and I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if I never heard from Kramer again. It’s a habit I have, always to imagine the worst-case scenario. Reality is never exactly like the stuff you imagine, so if you imagine the worst case scenario then you know that things won’t turn out exactly like that. Anyhow, in my scenario I’d go to the police and get arrested first up. Then there’d be a load of interrogating and they’d ask me all these sarcastic questions:

  ‘So, this man who lived with you, what did you call him, Mr Celador?’

  ‘That’s correct. He lived with me for about three months before I went on a roadtrip and then he looked after the house for me.’

  ‘Right, yes. And you say that you knew he was a drug dealer, and you took drugs from him, and yet you have nothing to do with ten kilos of cocaine unloaded into your garage?’

  ‘Correct. I mean, for one I’d been on the road for three weeks when that happened.’

  ‘Of course. And you were on the road with a pornstar called Jeanine Walters’ – that was in fact her name, at least as far as I knew – ‘and you were maybe going to meet her parents, except you don’t know where they live, and then your girlfriend robbed you and now you don’t know where she is?’

  ‘Yes, but I know Jeanine’s parents lived somewhere near Beaufort, South Carolina.’

  ‘Near Beaufort, Ok. And to corroborate this story – now let me get this right – you would advise us to speak to the curator of a voodoo museum in New Orleans?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Returning to the cocaine in your garage: it was smuggled over the border by two Mexicans, though your recent visit to Mexico has nothing to do with this?’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘And the brains behind the operation was this Ray Celador, who has full access to your bank accounts…’

  ‘Yes, because he stole all my banking details, and he also opened other accounts in my name.’

  ‘And Ray Celador now goes by the name of, let me see, Charlie Conti?’

  I could see that it really didn’t look good. I could also see that the journal of my trip together with Ray’s license and the photos of him that I’d taken could be important evidence. But to complete the worst case scenario, I would not be able to pay my bail so I’d be kept in a cell up until my trial. I’d heard some pretty nasty stuff about what goes on in prison cells and I didn’t think much of my chances with a load of rapists. But as I say, that was worst case.

  *

  I slept in the Buick the next night too. I woke up pretty hungry since I’d only eaten some beef jerky the day before. I was really starting to worry that I would never hear from Kramer again. Maybe my cell phone number no longer worked, or maybe something had happened to Kramer. I thought about driving to West Hollywood and going to Sammy’s apartment. I knew roughly where he lived. I could stake out an area, maybe I’d get lucky and he’d walk by. And then what? I was still thinking about Sammy when my cell phone rang. I whipped it out of my pocket and answered. It was Kramer: ‘Look Charlie, I’m really sorry I wasn’t able to call back yesterday. Some important stuff came up regarding Celador.’

  I was too relieved to be angry, so I just said, ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah, but the good news is that I’ve organized a pick up for you. We’ve got an agent working at The Hog’s Back in Venice, on Pico and 4th Street. He’s expecting you this afternoon. Ask for Jim and tell him that you’re an old friend of Ray’s. Don’t say anything else; it’s taken a long time to get him to where he is now and I don’t want you to blow his cover. Jim will offer you a cigarette; take the packet. There’ll be two hundred bucks inside the packet. That should be enough to get you to the diner; I’ll meet you there on Tuesday at midday. Is that all clear?’

  ‘Yes. But if something goes wrong, like my vehicle breaks down or whatever, how do I get in touch with you?’

  ‘If anything goes wrong I’ll know about it. Don’t worry Charlie, I know you’re nervous but you’re in safe hands. We’ve got all bases covered. We just need the laptop as soon as possible. And, of course, we want to get you out of the mess you’re in, so just do what I say, ok?’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘The Hog’s Back, Pico and 4th this afternoon. Then Tuesday midday at Joe’s diner, Interstate 15 and Highway 91. See you then.’ The line went dead.

  Special Agent Kramer was not the most charming man I’d ever spoken to, but I didn’t care about that right now. He was professional and to the point, and that gave me more confidence than the most polished telephone manner. I was looking forward to meeting him. Then, depending on the sum he advanced me, I’d either buy a flight up to Baltimore and go visit Izzy at Happy Lives in Maryland or I could take a greyhound up there. Once the FBI had cleared my name and my identity w
ith LAPD, then I’d fly back to LA in preparation for next semester.

  I was looking forward to seeing Izzy too. In fact, I was looking forward to it a lot. I’d get a room in Paradise and spend a few days with her. We’d go for walks by the Susquehanna river with a jumbo bag of tootsie rolls. Maybe Izzy would remember stuff about Italy and mom that I’d forgotten. I felt bad that I hadn’t seen her since I went to the barbecue with Martin, but then Izzy’s concept of time is different from normal people’s. Like when she tells stories she doesn’t differentiate between stuff that happened yesterday or fifteen years ago. That can get kind of confusing. I usually know what she’s saying because I was there fifteen years ago, but it’s pretty hard for anyone who wasn’t. Of course, I might find her more recent stories confusing because I haven’t seen her for so long and so I don’t really know what she’s been doing. She doesn’t explain stuff; she just kind of tries to jog your memory, but if it’s a memory which you don’t share, well, obviously it can be tricky.