The Answer Man

by Roy Johansen

  She sat in the seat across from him. “It’s not polite to stare.”

  Busted. He shrugged. “You must be used to it.”

  “Doesn’t mean I like it. Whether or not I like it depends on who’s doing the staring.”

  He couldn’t tell if she was pissed off or turned on. Maybe a little of both.

  He threw a lazy arm over his chair back. It was supposed to be a casual move, but he wasn’t sure if it was entirely successful.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Myth Daniels.”

  “Miss…”

  “No. Myth. M-y-t-h.”

  He almost laughed. “Myth Daniels. Myth…do you go by anything else? I don’t want to thound like I have a lithp.”

  He smiled broadly and looked to Myth for a reaction. None. Zip.

  He thought for a moment. “You’ve probably heard that one before.”

  “Only three or four thousand times. I don’t go by anything else.”

  “I go by Ken Parker.”

  “I saw something interesting here, Ken Parker. The woman came in with you…and went out with the other guy.”

  “She didn’t have any choice. He’s her husband.”

  “And you’re her…”

  “Friend.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m her ex-husband.”

  She raised an eyebrow. More out of interest than surprise, he decided. It didn’t seem to him that she could be easily surprised. There was a directness about her, an intelligence he found mesmerizing. As if her looks weren’t mesmerizing enough.

  “Doesn’t husband number two feel a wee bit threatened?”

  Ken shook his head. “Bill and I have been friends since junior high. He trusts me.”

  “How did he and she—?”

  “He stole her away from me.”

  “Most men would be bitter.”

  “I got over it. Had to. I could stand losing my wife, but…not my best friend.”

  She laughed. “You’re a walking, talking, breathing country-western song. He’s still your best friend.”

  He didn’t join her in the laughter. It had been six years, and still this was not a funny subject to him. Maybe someday. Maybe not. “I’m talking about her. Margot. She was my wife and my best friend.”

  The smile faded from Myth’s face. She looked around the busy pub.

  “I need some fresh air.” She had spoken quietly, forcing Ken to lean forward to hear her.

  He mouthed his reply. “So do I.”

  —

  “Fresh air” on a May night in Atlanta was hardly that, with the still, humid vapors threatening to smother anyone who dared challenge them. But at least the night offered solitude on a row of shops known as Little Five Points, where mom-and-pop stores attracted tourists and quality-unconscious locals. Ken and Myth walked along the deserted street, occasionally pausing to look in windows of the closed shops.

  “What do you do when you’re not intimidating men in the local saloons?” he asked.

  “I intimidate men in the local courtrooms. I’m an attorney.”

  “Are there any lawyer jokes you haven’t heard yet?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Then I won’t even try. What kind of attorney are you?”

  She ignored the question. “You’re a polygraph examiner. Did I hear that right?”

  He nodded.

  “Those things really work?”

  “Sure they do. It’s people who are defective.”

  She gave him a sideways glance.

  He nodded. “Nowadays people find ways to justify what they do. They rationalize. If someone steals from his company, hell, it’s not really stealing. The company really owes it to him anyway, he figures, and he might as well take it. Whatever it is. That’s not stealing. That’s just getting your due.”

  “Do you think that way?”

  “I don’t know. All I know is it’s getting harder to separate the truth from the bullshit. And the better we get at rationalizing away the things we do, the more useless my job gets. A polygraph can’t catch a liar who doesn’t think he’s a liar.”

  “You’re quite a cynic.”

  “Occupational hazard.”

  They passed a tall dogwood tree, the roots of which had burst through the sidewalk, loosening several chunks of concrete. As Ken guided Myth around the mess, he realized they were entering a neighborhood of recently restored homes. Houses that only a few years earlier were selling for peanuts but now were in vogue for the nouveau-riche baby boomers moving back into the city.

  “Enough about me,” Ken said. “Tell me about you.”

  “I’ll tell you about me when we get there.”

  “Get where?”

  “My house. It’s not much farther.”

  Ken tried not to look as surprised as he was. Okay, so one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen was taking him home five minutes after their first meeting. Just another night in the city.

  As they strolled through the neighborhood, Ken took note of all the little things that screamed money. The neatly trimmed lawns. The garden-club flower beds. The small security service signs pierced into the grass. The Porsches and Jags in the driveways.

  Soon he found himself in front of one of the largest, most impressive homes on the street. Constructed in the style of a French château, it sat on a full acre of land in the middle of the block. A long driveway snaked around the side of the house, and a dramatic, curving set of stairs spiraled up to the house’s main entrance, where a pair of double doors was flanked by towering stained glass panels.

  “No way,” he said.

  She led him up the driveway. “Don’t insult me by asking how I got it. I’ve never been married, no man bought it for me, and I’ve never inherited a dime. I earned it myself.”

  Even the grass smelled sweet. She probably spent more on her monthly gardening bill than he did on his car payment. When he could afford his car payment.

  They walked up the front stairs. Myth fumbled with her keys, trying to insert one into the lock.

  “Relax,” Ken said softly.

  Myth threw the lock. She turned around, smiled, and opened the door.

  He followed her inside. The interior was even more impressive. He was no decorator, but he could instantly see that the furnishings, flooring, and accent pieces were expensive and impeccably chosen. Each room was a showplace, camera ready for a decorating magazine layout. Deep, dark, solid woods ran through the walls and furniture. The house’s lighting scheme was low key, with sharply defined pools of illumination emanating from designer lamps in each room.

  Myth led him into a cherry-wood-paneled study, where she turned on a floor lamp. Ken was startled by the sight that greeted him in the corner of the room.

  A middle-aged man in a large leather chair.

  The man had obviously been sleeping. He looked up at Ken and yawned.

  Ken turned to face Myth. She was calmly hanging her jacket on a rack.

  “Uh, Myth?”

  “Hmm?”

  “There’s a man in here.”

  Myth moved to her desk and turned on another lamp. She put on a pair of spectacles and glanced through a file.

  “Two men. Ken Parker, meet Burton Sabini.”

  The middle-aged man rose and stepped toward Ken. Sabini was thin and balding, probably in his late forties, though his bearing suggested a man much older.

  “Hi, Ken. Nice to meet you.” Sabini smiled warmly at him.

  Ken looked back at Myth, who was still reading through the file.

  “Kenneth Andrew Parker, born in Houston, Texas. You’ve been having a rough time of it, haven’t you, Ken? Two quarters of college before you dropped out. A whole string of jobs, none of which held any long-term prospects. Except possibly this one. You’ve been at it almost two and a half years. You haven’t been doing too badly, but your expenses are crushing you. It looks like you can
last sixty days at the most before you’ll lose your business.”

  Ken looked at Sabini, who was smiling and nodding.

  The night was getting more surreal by the moment.

  “What the hell is this?” Ken snatched the file from Myth’s hands and scanned it. “Christ. My height, eye color, weight, the grocery store where I shop…The weight’s wrong, by the way.”

  “It’s what you put on your last driver’s license application.”

  “You do this for every man you bring home?”

  “Only men I do business with.”

  “Business?”

  “Ken, do you recognize this man?”

  Ken looked at him. “No. Should I?”

  “Burton Sabini. He’s being prosecuted in an embezzling case, and I’m defending him.”

  Sabini was obviously surprised not to be recognized. “You watch TV, read the papers? I worked for Vikkers Industries.”

  Ken studied the man a moment longer. “Sorry.”

  Myth took the file back. “The district attorney has agreed to accept a polygraph examination as evidence.”

  “A stipulated test? That’s what this is all about?”

  “We need your help.”

  Ken looked from her to Sabini. Were they both nuts? “There’s nothing I can do. You get approval on the polygraph examiner, but the D.A. makes the choice. Jesus.”

  “Just hear me out. They have a weak case against him.”

  “They must. The D.A. wouldn’t agree to admit polygraph results otherwise.”

  “That’s the way I see it. If Sabini takes the stip test and passes, they might even drop the charges. We’d be home free.”

  “Yeah, but if he fails, they could use that test against you in court. You’d be an idiot to chance it.”

  “I don’t intend to chance it.” Myth took off her spectacles. “In the early sixties, there was a major study at the University of Chicago. Researchers were trying to determine if it was possible to beat a polygraph.”

  “So?”

  “I’m sure you know the outcome, even if you’ve never heard of this study. It is possible to beat one.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “My client is innocent, but we need to be sure his test reflects that. We’re not about to go blundering into a stip test unless we know he can pass it ten times out of ten.”

  “Then don’t agree to it. There’s too much room for error.”

  “I like that kind of talk,” she said. “Most examiners will sing the polygraph’s praises to the skies, but not you. You recognize that it’s an imprecise instrument.”

  “I recognize the facts.”

  “And you’re up front about it. If you can’t clearly identify a deceptive interviewee, you’ll go back to your client and say so.”

  “All examiners are supposed to do that.”

  “You and I both know that doesn’t usually happen. The client wants results. In most cases, the examiner will point out a likely suspect even if the graphs don’t completely bear him out. That’s how polygraph firms stay in business. They produce results and cultivate those relationships. You, on the other hand, admit it when you can’t spot the liar. Your business has suffered because of it.”

  “One of life’s little ironies.”

  “Maybe it’s time you made the polygraph’s flaws work for you rather than against you.”

  “And how do you propose I do that?”

  Myth smiled. “We would like you to teach Sabini how to beat the machine. Who better than a licensed polygraph examiner to show him the ropes?”

  Ken stared at her. Did she know what she was suggesting? “That’s interfering with the application of a stipulated test. I could lose my license, and you could be disbarred.”

  Sabini stepped forward. “We certainly won’t tell anyone.” He handed Ken a tightly wound roll of bills. “That’s ten thousand dollars. If I take their lie detector test and pass, you’ll get forty more.”

  They knew what they were suggesting.

  Ken fingered the roll of bills. Fifty thousand dollars. Did he hear correctly? Fifty thousand?

  “For that we’re also buying your silence. No one can ever know about this,” Myth said.

  Fifty thousand dollars.

  Ken wished he wasn’t tempted by the offer. He wished he were angrier at Myth for luring him here.

  “What makes you think I’d do it?” he asked. “Your pretty face?”

  “Of course not. The money. I know you need it.”

  He did need it. Fifty thousand dollars.

  Sabini spoke with a slight stammer. “I—I didn’t steal from my company, I swear to God. The firm is pushing through a merger, and they’re pinning this on me to show everyone they’re still in control of their operation. I’m caught in the middle, Ken. It’s torn my life apart. I know I can win this in court, but if this test will make the case go away more quickly, I have to try it.”

  Fifty thousand dollars.

  “You have two weeks to train him to beat the polygraph,” Myth said. “That’s when we have to tell the D.A. if we agree to their stip test. If you work with Sabini and decide he’s not up to it, the ten thousand is yours to keep.”

  “Please,” Sabini said. “I need your help.”

  Fifty thousand dollars.

  The peace of mind that money could buy.

  He needed it.

  But not that much.

  Ken shoved the roll of bills back into Sabini’s hand. “Sorry. I’m not your man.”

  “Why not?” Sabini said.

  Myth frowned. “Not enough money?”

  “More than enough money. If I was the kind of guy who would do something like this, I would’ve settled for half what you’re offering. But you’re asking me to help this man commit perjury.”

  “It’s perjury only if he lies.”

  Ken looked at Sabini. He didn’t look like someone who would have the nerve to rip off his employer. Tending to a butterfly collection or watching travel videos, maybe, but not embezzling.

  Maybe his company was shafting him.

  It didn’t matter. What they wanted him to do was wrong.

  “Listen,” Myth said. “I know this is a lot to throw at you. Sleep on it. Sabini and I will be at Piedmont Park tomorrow night. There’s a playground on the west end. We’ll meet you there at seven, all right?”

  “I won’t be there.”

  “If you’re not there, we’ll take that as a no.”

  Ken nodded. They were both so matter-of-fact, as if they wanted to hire him to clean their rain gutters. He walked out. On the front stairway he stopped and turned around. Myth was standing at the door, her face lost in the shadows. “This evening didn’t turn out quite like I expected,” he said.

  “Life is full of surprises.”

  “You certainly are.”

  “Do yourself a favor. Think about our offer. This kind of money could make a big difference in your life.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “Good night, Ken Parker.” She slid back into her house and closed the door behind her.

  Ken shook his head.

  Fifty thousand dollars.

  He thought about it all the way back to Elwood’s, where his car was parked.

  He hoped.

  He was three months behind in the payments for his 1971 MG convertible, and the repo men were on the lookout. Ken had been successful in slipping them an occasional twenty to pretend they couldn’t find it, but the men made it clear his bribes would no longer be accepted. Until things were squared away, he was parking his car in hiding places several blocks from home and work.

  Fifty thousand dollars.

  How could he turn away all that money?

  Because it was the right thing to do. He knew he could teach Sabini to beat the polygraph; a few tricks, some special exercises, and a lot of practice could do the job. But no matter how much cash they were offering, it wasn’t worth it.

  Things were bad, but they weren’t tha
t bad.

  Right?

  —

  “Thank God you’re here. I can’t do anything with him.”

  Ken had driven from Elwood’s to the two-bedroom tract home where his brother, Bobby, lived.

  “What happened?” Ken asked.

  Tina, Bobby’s wife, nervously rubbed her hands together. She was a petite Asian woman who spoke with a distinct French accent. Bobby had met and married her while stationed overseas in the army. “He got some bad news,” she said quietly.

  “So what else is new?”

  “The doctors at Walter Reed reversed their diagnosis. They told him the V.A. isn’t going to pay.”

  “Can they do that?”

  The sound of breaking glass came through a bedroom door, followed by a string of muffled curses.

  “I can’t talk to him,” Tina said. “He won’t listen. Anything he can reach, he throws against the wall.”

  Back to reality, Ken thought. Myth, Sabini, and their outrageous offer now seemed like part of an alternate universe. Ken knocked on the bedroom door. “Bobby?”

  “Goddamn those bastards! Damn them all to hell!”

  Ken slowly opened the door. The room was dark except for a tunnel of illumination shooting from a lamp lying sideways on the floor. Objects were scattered and broken all over the room. As Ken’s eyes adjusted, he made out his brother sitting in bed. “I was in the neighborhood,” Ken said.

  “Bullshit.”

  “Okay, I wanted to see how you were doing.” Ken strode inside and closed the door behind him. The room smelled of body odor and rubbing alcohol, like his father’s room when he was dying. The memory made Ken queasy. “What did the doctors at Walter Reed say?”

  “They said they’ve reevaluated my case. I can’t keep food down, I got a fever, my heart races in the middle of the night…. Before, they said it was Gulf War syndrome. That my immune system was destroying my own body tissues.”

  “I know. What are they saying now?”

  “Well, I guess I’ve been costing them too much money. Suddenly it’s not that at all. Now it’s somatoform disorder.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Hypochondria. Psychological shit. Goddamn bastards!” Bobby threw a plastic pitcher against the wall.