by JP Bloch
For the moment, all I could do was look at the mess of jazzed up chickpeas on the floor. I wondered how long Esther would brood before she came downstairs to clean up the mess she had made.
ONCE YOU STEP INSIDE the door called “Crime,” all sorts of things happen to you.
It’d been a few months since I stole Jesse Falcon’s ID for money, plus covered up Biff’s death, which I kept telling myself didn’t count as a crime. But that was only the beginning. I never had a dull moment again.
Late that first morning at my mom’s condo, I went to a divorce lawyer. Someone back at 21st Century had praised her divorce attorney, so I figured I’d try the same one. Plus the lawyer in question, R. Ondine Washington, was a woman, and I hoped that would create sympathy for me in court. I didn’t even call to make an appointment. I put on a suit and tie and went straight to Ondine’s office. I was too anxious about Scotty to wait. I told Mom to take good care of him and to hide him if she had to. She replied that I didn’t have to tell her that and to stop treating her like an idiot. Of course, she thought I only meant that Biff or Betsy might come for him. I wondered if I would ever tell her what Scotty did.
But I also left the condo because I had too much nervous energy to burn. I’m one of those people who, once in a stressful situation, will deal with it sooner instead of later. When people say to me, “Don’t worry about such-and-such, it’s not today’s problem,” I have no idea what they mean. How do you sit back and watch TV when your world is falling apart? Not that I was scared, exactly. Oddly, I seemed stronger than I ever had before. It reminded me of those vampire movies, when someone reluctantly drinks blood for the first time and it makes them wise and powerful in a way they never knew possible. After a lifetime of always losing by following the rules, I thought that by breaking them, I might win for a change. For once, I’d give my bad guy side a chance to show what he could do.
There was a secretary posted in front of Ondine’s office, but Ondine’s door was half-open, and I could see she was eating a sandwich, her stocking feet up on the desk. I ignored the secretary’s warning not to enter Ondine’s office, and Ondine herself gave me an icy scowl as she said, “Yes, may I help you?”
I mentioned my former work colleague, who turned out to be a personal friend of Ondine’s. Her next appointment was not due for a half hour, so before long, we were talking like old friends. She even offered me half her sandwich, which I politely declined. Ondine was a pleasant-looking, plus-sized woman with an easy laugh and a razor-sharp knowledge of divorce law. I liked her right away. The most prominent feature of her office was a large poster of Sojourner Truth.
I left out the minor detail of Biff being dead. I almost slipped up and said he was going to the Bahamas, though I caught myself in time. As far as Ondine knew, Betsy and Biff could’ve been screwing the daylights out of each other that very moment.
She did, however, shake her head in disgust when I told her about Biff and Scotty and scolded me loudly for not paying better attention as a father. However, Ondine added that a couple of police detectives owed her a favor, and she would have them put a tail on Biff without mentioning Scotty’s name.
“Attorney-client privilege,” she said. “But obviously this creep can’t keep diddling around with children.”
“Of course not,” I agreed. But I quickly realized this could complicate Biff’s disappearance in a fortunate way for Scotty and me. The cops were unlikely to drop everything to figure out who killed a child molester. And Biff’s parents would probably rather see him missing or dead than bringing this kind of publicity to the family name.
“I know some reporters, too.” Ondine winked at me.
Thus far, Betsy had not called my mom about Scotty. Probably Betsy was too busy shopping on TV for something to wear when her beloved Biff returned to her loving arms. But I knew Betsy well enough to know that at some point she would strike back with all the might she could muster. She seldom retreated into a defensive mode. Instead, she kept the offenses coming, even if they were totally untrue. Winning, to her, was more important than how she played the game. Still, Ondine gave me more than a little reason to hope.
“As the father of record,” she explained, “the laws of our state give you a certain toehold. Normally the biological father can still make a strong case, especially if he is now cohabitating with the biological mother. Even if Biff denies the sexual abuse, he certainly won’t want it coming up at trial. And if the cops find other kids he’s abused, that will pretty much be that. I doubt Scotty will have to testify.”
Ondine stretched and yawned. “As for you, my good client, ever hear of getting a job yourself? Not to mention a place to live. Your mother’s condo is too small for the three of you. Though I assume Grandma loves to babysit?”
“As long as she can watch pro wrestling. I already told you, I have been trying to find a job. For over a year, ever since I got laid off.”
Ondine was unsympathetic in a way that nonetheless communicated that she cared. “You know computers, right? Set up your own online business.”
“In what?”
“In whatever. Keep it clean. No Russian prostitutes. It shouldn’t cost more than a hundred to be convincing. And maybe you’ll make some money. Fancy that.”
“When you say, ‘a hundred,’ do you mean—?”
“A hundred thousand, of course.”
I could tell the question did not interest her. I hoped my fear did not show. “Oh . . . why, yes, of course. I can do that. Thank you for thinking of it.”
“And as for a place to live, first let’s see what we can do about the house. Maybe we can use it as a bargaining chip.”
“Sure, maybe.” But in truth I was disgusted at the thought of Betsy “trading” Scotty for the house. Even if she would do it, I didn’t like what it said about the mother of my son.
“And as for Scotty,” Ondine continued, “I will contact Miss Betsy Wetsy and tell her that you are filing for sole custody. By the time there’s an initial hearing in a week or two—let’s say a month at the most—make sure you have a lil’ ol’ income. Or at least be credibly moving in that direction.”
“Ondine, I swear, you must be an angel.” I had no idea how I was going to pull it together, but of course I couldn’t tell her that.
“I wouldn’t go that far.” She smiled. “Although my retainer is only thirty.”
Having caught on to the lingo, I knew “ thirty” meant thirty grand. I had to think fast.
“Tell you what, Ondine,” I said, without missing a beat. “Let’s call it twenty grand now, and I’ll have the rest by the end of the month. Most everything is tied up. You know—Betsy, one thing or another.”
I think she knew I was full of it, but she let it slide. Money messes were doubtless a common occurrence for a divorce lawyer.
“Sure,” she said. “And the full thirty no later than this Friday. The end of the month is too long to wait. Otherwise, I keep five, and give you back fifteen.” Fortunately, it was a Monday, and when you’re truly desperate, a full business week to get it together can seem like a gold-paved path with a rainbow at the end.
“By the way,” she added, “I only take certified checks.”
For some reason, her insistence on an honest check was the first time I felt guilty about what I’d done. My shoulders gave a quick shiver, which I hoped she didn’t notice.
“I’m here until four every day,” Ondine said indifferently. “Fix the knot on your tie.”
I obeyed as I took my leave, saying to the secretary, “It’s a nice day, don’t you think?” I figured it best not to alienate anyone who might have to be on my side. The secretary feigned intense concentration on her computer, ignoring me.
About a block away was a new branch of the new national bank Jesse Falcon had his accounts in on the other side of the country. The bank had changed ownership so many times that the previous bank—now defunct—was still featured on the awning, while the new bank had to make do with a paper banner
in the front window. Unless through some bizarre coincidence the teller I got happened to know the real Jesse Falcon, there was no reason for the teller to think I wasn't Dr. Falcon. Every day, thousands of people passed themselves off as someone else. Why shouldn’t I be one of them?
Still, I was nervous as I opened the glass door to enter and hoped to God it didn’t show. In a way, I empathized with the fine old building, with its high, copper ceiling. It was as though one hostile bank takeover after another had cost the building its dignity.
“I need to see ID,” the teller said, after I asked for a bank check for twenty thousand and showed her a printout of my approved credit line.
Naturally, I’d expected to be asked for ID. And all I had was a photocopy of Jesse’s birth certificate, which was not officially stamped. But time was of the essence. I figured I had nothing to lose by trying. Besides, I’d already worked out a cover story or two in my head. Ironically, now that I was a criminal I was finally using my psychology training. Quickly studying the teller—a middle-aged, sympathetic, lonely looking woman with no wedding band—I decided how to proceed. I intuitively knew that a cover story should not be overly rehearsed. Improvisation came in handy if you had your wits about you.
I smiled warmly as I handed her the birth certificate. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, ma’am, but you remind me so much of my mother.”
She studied the photocopied birth certificate, but I could tell I’d pleased her. “Surely this isn’t all you have?” She grinned back at me.
“Someone stole my ID.” I leaned forward, as if taking her into my confidence. “Someone is writing bad checks in my name. The police were no help—”
“No, they never are, are they?” She shook her head in sympathy.
“I guess not, no.” I smiled with a sad irony. “I desperately need money to cover myself. That’s why I got this emergency credit line. If you bring up my record, you’ll see I have a spotless credit history. Until now.” I ran my fingers through my hair to signal a touch of despair and got all choked up, as if ready to cry. “My wife is pregnant. With twins. We need this money.”
Deeply moved, the teller patted my hand in a motherly way that my own mother never did. “Well, I really shouldn’t . . . but what the heck. You have an honest face. Let me see the birth certificate.” She smiled understandingly. For several tedious minutes I stood there while she photocopied the birth certificate, withdrew the money for the check, painstakingly counted it twice, gave me a receipt, gave me back my own copy of the birth certificate, and typed up the certified check I requested. I had to repeat how to spell “Ondine,” which rattled my nerves. I wanted to get out of the bank as soon as possible. But then, I would’ve been anxious if the story I’d told her had been true, so I hammed it up a bit more. Then she got a phone call, which lasted less than a minute though it felt like a hundred years.
“Here you are, Dr. Falcon.” The teller handed me the check. “And best of luck. From your mom.”
For a second, I didn’t know what she meant, until I remembered what I’d said.
“Thank you so very much,” I replied, glancing at her nameplate. “Lizabetty, I am forever in your debt. Or should I say Mom?” Having methodically practiced Jesse Falcon’s pompous signature, I signed the check in the teller’s presence and neatly folded it in my suit coat pocket.
I was a far better liar than I’d ever known I was, probably because I’d never really lied much before. It was as if at birth everyone was awarded a certain number of lies they could use through life, and since I was only beginning to tap into my supply, it was in mint condition.
A very attractive girl stood near me as I walked toward the exit door. She had exceptionally beautiful long hair. But I made a point of not noticing her much, in case my old friend the teller was watching. The door was all of twenty feet away, and I knew I’d feel immensely relieved once I made it outside.
There was a loud bang. All the bank chatter instantly stopped. For a fleeting, hopeful instant I thought it might have been a flat tire or fireworks. But obviously—as Scotty would have said—there were no fireworks or flat tires in banks. With a terrible sinking feeling, I realized it was a gunshot. It sounded like it was aimed at the ceiling.
“On the floor!” I heard a voice cry out, and as I instinctively obeyed, I saw three men in ski masks sporting machine guns. The pretty girl was lying near me; our eyes met. The door, the wondrous glass door that meant freedom, was maybe ten impossible feet away from me. Technically, it was the second time that day that someone was trying to kill me.
A security guard took aim at one of the thieves and was immediately shot down in a deluge of bullets. The poor guy jerked about as if he was being electrocuted, and his blood splattered in all directions. I got a sticky spray of red on my suit sleeve, and it gave off a salty smell.
“Give us all your money,” said one of the robbers to the terrified customers, waving around his machine gun while one of his partners approached the tellers. Lizabetty, the teller who helped me, called the robber a hooligan and attacked his face with pepper spray. But her timing was off, and the robber shot her down. Another female teller in the next window burst into tears while the third robber was shown his way inside the bank vault by yet another woman who I assumed was a bank officer.
Fuck, I thought, with the machine gun poised an inch from my face. I handed over the check.
“Damn it,” said the robber. “What do I look like, a check-cashing service? I want cash. Clean, no-fucking-around cash.” He said this as if I were a delivery boy who brought him the wrong sandwich from the deli. “Goddamn certified bank check. Sit up. Are you a cop?”
I felt like I was in one of those dreams in which you need to speak, but you can’t. “Uh, no,” I managed to muster, scrambling to sit.
“Now stand up.” He pointed the gun a fraction away from my nose, and again, I immediately obeyed. “Me and you are going to cash this here check.”
Since he and his pals were already robbing the bank vault, I didn’t see why he needed to cash my check so badly, but I guessed that twenty grand was, after all, twenty grand. Maybe, too, he wanted to prove he was in charge.
I almost tripped over one of the people lying down as the robber led me relentlessly by the necktie to the teller’s window. The crying teller trembled as she took the check and gave the robber twenty grand plus everything else in her drawer. The teller methodically gave me a slip of paper, which I signed, “Dr. Jesse Falcon.” I was careful to use Jesse Falcon’s writing style. Then she stamped the check “void.”
“A doctor, huh? Guess your fancy-shmancy wife ain’t gettin’ no mink coat after all,” the robber said, pleased with his sarcasm.
“No, I guess not.” I didn’t know if he wanted me to smile—kind of one guy to another—but I decided not to.
“Hey, what are you lookin’ at?”
“Nothing, nothing at all.” Yet in spite of everything, I was looking toward the pretty girl. Though a total stranger, she seemed the one source of comfort in the world.
“You’re really full of lip,” said the bank robber. “Mr. Fancy-Talk Doctor.”
It’s hard to know what to say or do when a machine gun is pointed at you, but the task is not made easier when the conversation doesn’t even make sense. In truth, I’d said almost nothing, so how was I to keep this lunatic from killing me? I had a fleeting memory of a grade school bully who used to do this—he’d say anything to keep you off guard and scared.
“I, uh . . . um, I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? Don’t make me laugh. You rich doctors—you’re never sorry for anything.”
He aimed his gun, and I heard a ringing in my ears that seemed to drown out all other sounds. Time seemed to no longer exist. A burning pain came so intense I had to leave my body to escape it. My teeth chattered from a coldness that seemed to permeate the entire world, and I knew I was dying or maybe was already dead.
“Dr. Falcon?”
I was so weak tha
t merely opening my eyes felt like I’d just finished the decathlon. It took a while to adjust to the light; in fact, it actually hurt. There seemed to be vague blotches of ugly colors everywhere, as if refuse from a nightmare had fallen off a phantom garbage truck. In the background was a terrible noise of people scurrying around. I wanted it to stop.
“I’m not Dr. Anybody,” I hoarsely managed to whisper. Whoever was speaking to me said, “Hmm. There’s no indication of memory loss on the chart.” As I turned to look, I saw it was some sort of doctor or nurse; it took an extra moment to focus enough to tell that it was a woman. I figured she was a doctor because nurses usually were not this detached in how they spoke to you. But what was I doing here?
Then I remembered. Identity theft, bank robbers, gunshots. “Yes, I’m Dr. Falcon.”
“Do you know where you are?”
“I’m guessing a hospital. It doesn’t look much like heaven.”
“Yes, quite amusing.” The woman faked an unconvincing grin. “According to your chart, you are very lucky. Of the four bullets that struck you, only one struck major organs. Two bullets were removed from your buttocks and the last grazed your elbow. That was three days ago. Your stomach and spleen were salvageable, but you will be on a restricted diet for one month. You should be able to go home in a week.” She looked at me as though I should kiss her feet for bothering with me. “Any questions?”
I rubbed my sore elbow. “Yeah, as a matter of fact. How’d I get shot twice in the ass?”
“Because God is just.” It was the unmistakable voice of Mom, who’d entered the room—that is to say, my curtained-off half of the room. “And you never could tell your ass from your elbow.”
“I’ll be going now,” said the indifferent doctor.
I was connected to a bunch of tubes and monitors, but the first thing my mom did when we were alone was punch me in the nose. “How dare you,” she began, “stick me and your own son—your own son—in such a crapper full of shit.” She double-checked that the bed on the other side of the curtain was empty.
