The Italian Deception

by Darby Philips

  As he headed toward the cafeteria, he noticed Tiffany standing in a corner surrounded by a group of friends. David hovered near them, an awkward teenager on the outside of a social clique.

  After a few moments, David nervously interrupted their conversation and asked Tiffany, “Hey, I could help you study if you want.”

  It was painfully awkward to watch.

  The girls with Tiffany laughed, whispered something to each other and laughed again. Tiffany surprised him, though. She said, “Thanks, but I think I’ve got it.”

  The group left.

  David stood alone, despair racking his face.

  Once they’d gone, Paul walked over to him. “You know, people treat strangers differently than people they know. If you aren’t friends with someone, you need to spend time talking to them, letting them know you aren’t a bad person, before you offer to help them.”

  “But you said I should offer to help people study.”

  “I know. And you still should, but you need to talk with people first, let them see how nice and smart you are before you do. It’s called ‘breaking the ice.’”

  “Can you give me an example?”

  “Every situation is different but, this is exam week. So when you walk up to people, ask them how they think they did on an exam.”

  He nodded then asked, “How do you know if someone likes you?”

  Oh boy, he thought. He was so not ready for a ‘birds and the bees’ conversation. But he needed to prepare David for the reality of his first crush: sometimes they didn’t like you back. “There’s no real way except to observe how they treat others and compare it to how they treat you.”

  He nodded and his mouth tightened like he was figuring out a math problem. “Thanks, Mr. T,” he said and headed toward the dorms.

  Paul grabbed a pizza and coke from the cafeteria and went back to his classroom. He graded exams for a few hours. He expected Haverford to pop in and spout some gloating monologue. But he never showed. Haverford hadn’t even emailed him since he returned from Italy. Paul wondered how many people even knew he wasn’t coming back. Then again, no one knew the FBI might throw him in jail after the trial either.

  That depressing thought reminded him of Chuck’s invitation this morning. He left his classroom and went to the dorms.

  As he opened the second floor door, he saw Chuck talking with a student in the hall. “Taylor,” Chuck said.

  “Got time to talk?”

  Chuck smiled, shooed the student away and ushered Paul into his room. It was the opposite of Paul’s living space. Pastoral paintings hung from the walls. An ornate desk rested against the left wall while a four-poster bed sat against the other. A large rug covered the floor, and a refrigerator with a coffee maker and all the condiments sat on top of it.

  As Paul closed the door, Chuck reached under his bed and brought out a bottle of Maker’s Mark Private Select bourbon and poured healthy portions into two WVA Mountaineer glasses. “So…you and Erin, huh?” he said in his country twang.

  “Maybe,” Paul said. Then he laughed. “How did you know?”

  “I’ve got eyes and ears everywhere,” he said, handing Paul a glass.

  “You were watching us the other night, weren’t you?”

  He smiled and took a sip of bourbon. “Given that winter break is almost here, and students have pulled pranks in the past, I was making sure no one was outside. I saw you two and cracked the door to listen.”

  “Is that how you get all your gossip, listening at doorjambs?”

  “Usually, people just tell me. Every once in a while, though...” He smiled and chuckled.

  “That ever gotten you in trouble?”

  He shook his head. “I learned early on the difference between what I know and what I should tell.”

  “I knew there was something I liked about you.”

  He smiled. “But what are you gonna’ do about Haverford and this school?”

  As Jacob had mentioned earlier, it was important to think about, but he had more pressing issues. “I don’t know. You thought of anything?”

  “I’m still trying to dig up somethin’.”

  They were quiet for a while. Chuck seemed eager for Paul to talk. When he stayed quiet, he said, “What ‘ya thinkin?”

  Jacob’s gentle reminder, ‘Share your thoughts,’ floated through his head. He chuckled inwardly. “In my last job I had a…project I was working on.” Instead of substituting names and places, he spoke in general terms, trying his best not to lie. “The…customers were bad people. And one of the people I worked with sabotaged the project.”

  Talking to Chuck relaxed him. He leaned back and continued. “I don’t know what happened to the funds and my company fired me. My only chance to…not have repercussions is to remember every detail of what happened and recover the missing funds.”

  As he spoke, Chuck leaned back. He rested one hand on the handle of a desk drawer. “Somehow, I think it’s harder than simply remembering what happened.”

  Paul smiled. “Let’s say I’m missing some of the pieces.”

  Chuck pointed to his own jaw. “The scar on your chin?”

  Paul hesitated then nodded.

  Chuck opened the drawer and reached inside. “You remember where the funds are yet?”

  “Not yet, but I’m close.”

  Chuck’s hand hesitated then retrieved a pen and tossed it on the desk. “Would it help to talk more?”

  Paul realized talking had helped him. But he needed to talk to someone with whom he didn’t have to carefully construct his replies. And there was something about Chuck’s actions tonight that unsettled him. “Maybe later,” Paul said, draining his drink. “It’s late and I didn’t get much sleep last weekend.”

  Chuck nodded and walked Paul to the door. He put his arm on his shoulder and said, “It’s obvious you’re dealing with a lot of stuff in your past. I won’t push, but you need to understand you aren’t alone. When you’re ready, I’ll listen.”

  He gave him a brotherly hug.

  Paul walked upstairs to his floor. He replayed the conversation with Chuck in his head. He couldn’t overcome the feeling that something was off about his friend.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  As soon as Paul left, Chuck reached into the desk drawer and retrieved his handgun. He chambered a round and placed the weapon in his waistband and covered it with his sweater. Chuck had listened to everything Jacob and Paul had discussed and that had changed everything. Somewhere in Paul’s head was the location of $64 million dollars in diamonds. More money than Chuck had ever dreamed. And he was sure his employer had known about it all along.

  After the third month of his assignment he’d asked Anonymous for more money. His employer had refused and Chuck had tried to discover Anonymous’ identity through the website through which he’d been hired, the bank account from which he’d been paid, and Anonymous’ phone number. The web account was a dead end, the bank account was untraceable, and the phone number was a burner with no GPS location data. Anonymous had learned of the attempt and warned him not to do it again. That failure had demonstrated that Anonymous was skilled and had resources. Chuck had been content to play his role and collect his $100k.

  Now that he knew about the money, he was not going to let Anonymous take it from him. He had no idea what his employer had planned, but he would make sure he was prepared to capture and torture Paul, Shelly, Tiffany, and even David to get it. And kill whoever stood in his way. To do so, however, he’d need to isolate each of them. And he thought Paul and Erin’s date provided the perfect opportunity.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Franco sat at a table in a small house outside of Newark, New Jersey. It was a house his contacts in the local mafia had given him. Given wasn’t correct. He’d rented it, using some of his family’s remaining cash. The thought of having so little money left made him angry.

  Before Paul had betrayed them, they’d been on the verge of selling sixty-four million dollars in guns
and drugs. The profit would have allowed them to buy enough men and information to finally win against the Sicilians and the Los Zetas, especially since they’d caught the major Sicilian spy.

  Instead, they’d been left with tons of guns and no men to use them. Then the National Police raided several of their facilities and arrested several of their members. The other mafia had sensed their weakness and pounced, carving away most of the Grimaldis’ remaining territory. Franco had killed several of their leaders, but it hadn’t been enough. Once they’d killed Paul, they could focus on re-claiming their lost territory.

  Franco imagined forcing Paul to watch while he slowly tortured the people he cared about.

  His cell phone rang and he answered it.

  “I thought you said Paul was at Hillcrest!” Antonio yelled.

  “He is.”

  “No, he was here. We saw him.”

  Franco sat up in his chair. “Did you kill him?”

  “No. He got away. But he was with a blond woman. I think it’s the same one that you said got him out of Italy last time.”

  “We have to find him.”

  “I know. We’ve used every resource we have, but they haven’t been spotted since yesterday. It’s possible they’ve left Italy.”

  “If he escapes again, we may never find…”

  “Wait. I just received word from the informant. He says Paul and Shelly are back in the U.S. Paul’s at Hillcrest and Shelly is in New York City.”

  “I’m going to kill them before they can leave.”

  “Wait! If you attack alone, Paul could escape that campus in a dozen different ways. Then he’d be gone forever. You need us.” Antonio paused and said a few faint words, as if he was speaking to someone next to him. “We’re leaving on the next flight out. We’ll arrive at Montreal International Airport at 10 a.m. tomorrow.”

  “I can’t wait.” Franco said, his free hand clenching into a fist.

  “You can because I need you to kill two other people. More payment for our informant.”

  Franco breathed deeply. “Okay.”

  “I’ll text you their addresses. You can be as messy as you like. And be at the Montreal Airport to pick us up. You need all of us to make sure Paul doesn’t escape.”

  Franco hung up. His phone dinged and he clicked on the first of the two address links. It showed a nice two-story house on a middle class street. Franco rotated the image. Across from the house was a park with a blue and red merry-go-round. Children’s toys littered the ground.

  Chapter Fifty

  Paul dreamed of jumbled memories. They flashed quickly with no discernable pattern. It was like peering into his past with a kaleidoscope. One image crystalized in the center: Eric, beaten and bloody, in the boathouse.

  His phone alarm rang and the dream shattered like glass. He raced to his Post-it board to write down what he remembered. “Fuck!” he said, as he remembered the Post-it board was in Conference Room C.

  He quickly dressed and grabbed coffee. As he went into the hall, Paul stared out the window, hoping to recapture the memories. Nothing happened. He took deep breaths and tried to focus on the rising sun as it splashed red, orange, and yellow streaks across dark storm clouds. Nothing.

  “Damn it,” he said. He was trying too hard. He glanced around. No one heard him.

  He did his morning student wake-up routine. Many had already packed for the holidays. Since today was the last day of classes before break, it was a half day. After their last exam they’d participate in Founder’s Day celebrations and leave immediately afterwards.

  Recalling Jacob’s advice, he tried not to think about his past as he took the stairs two at a time. Outside, the cold air assaulted him. The temperature must have dropped fifteen degrees overnight and he’d forgotten to wear a jacket again. The sky loomed large above him. The storm clouds covered half the horizon, obscuring the sunrise. He thought about what he’d do over the holidays. He’d visit his mom, but ten minutes after he left she wouldn’t remember he’d come.

  He grabbed a Pop-Tart, refilled his coffee mug, and graded his never-ending pile of exams until the students arrived.

  They took their exam while he graded. At the end of the period, he dismissed them and they all rushed off to Founder’s Day celebrations.

  He continued grading exams until the early afternoon, when he went to the dining hall. It was empty. He ate some Captain Crunch cereal then walked down the long, sloping hill to the gym. Snow was falling. He squeezed his arms against his sides for warmth.

  As he approached the gym door, he noticed Ralph Chapel, the school custodian, in a heavy coat, faded blue overalls, and a green University of Vermont hat. He stood with both hands on top of a broom handle and leered into the gym through a window.

  “Ralph,” he said. “What ‘ya doing?”

  He spoke with a low, nasally drawl without turning around, “Nuthin’.”

  Paul peeked through the window and saw several teenagers each spinning around a stationary bat trying not to get dizzy and fall down. Erin chaperoned them. Ralph’s eyes darted back and forth between Erin and the girls.

  He wanted to distract Ralph, so he asked him about his favorite topic. “When’s the snowstorm going to hit?”

  The custodian turned to him. “Sometime tonight,” he said in a hugely thick New England accent. “Weatha’ men say it’s gonna’ be a huge Nor’easter. Fo’ once, they’re right.”

  “Well, at least you have time to prepare,” Paul said as he stepped between him and the window, blocking his lecherous view.

  He spat on the ground. A globule of spittle hung from his lip like an icicle. He wiped it off with his forearm. “Snow plow’s busted. Haverford won’t buy the parts to fix it. Says it costs too much.”

  Paul should have felt angry hearing Haverford’s name. Late last night he’d sent him a single sentence email stating Hillcrest would not ask him to return next semester. But he had too much going on in his head to dwell on him. He wasn’t beyond having fun at the man’s expense. “Speaking of Haverford, I think he mentioned something about polishing his doorknobs? You might want to talk to him about it.”

  He knew by the look in Ralph’s eyes that he didn’t get the innuendo, but he thought his statement would do two things: one, stop Ralph leering over students and faculty, and two, annoy the crap out of Haverford, who he thought would get the innuendo. Win, win.

  Ralph grunted and sauntered off to the main building.

  As he entered the gym, a cacophony of sound assaulted him. Students yelled and cheered and booed at the tops of their lungs as they watched their classmates compete against other grade levels. The heat of so many people in an enclosed space made the air feel like a wet blanket.

  The gym had been divided into a dozen different areas, each with their own activity. Some students shot basketballs into a net; others threw darts at a Balloon Bash; and some sampled colonial-era food like wild game, string beans, sweet potatoes, salted pork, and cabbage.

  He checked the scoreboard. The seniors and juniors were tied while the sophomores had a slight edge over the freshmen. Each grade had their own colored t-shirt based on the school colors: gold for seniors, black for juniors, green for sophomores, and white for freshmen. This year, the winners would be able to wear casual clothes for a week, a huge deal on this uniformed campus.

  He meandered past the events until he came to the dunking booth. Chuck was sitting on the collapsible seat in a WVU shirt and swim trunks. A young girl he didn’t know was throwing the baseball and missing every shot. He stepped up to her and adjusted her aim.

  On her next shot, she hit the lever. The crowd cheered. As Chuck sank into the water, he gave him the British two-finger salute. Paul laughed, but none of the students seemed to understand the raised index and middle finger gesture.

  He left before Chuck could get his revenge. As he walked through the gym, students in colored t-shirts darted between events. He spied the roped-off area of the Science Showcase at the right corner of th
e gym. About two dozen people milled about. Some helped their classmates set up exhibits, others gawked.

  He glimpsed David Morales, alone, at the back corner of the area, dragging a large piece of plywood toward the wall. He walked over and took one end of the plywood.

  “Thank you, Mr. T.”

  “What do you need the board for?” he asked.

  He smiled at seeing him. “So I won’t damage the wall.”

  Chapter Fifty-One

  “Damage?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  Paul glanced behind him at David’s assigned space. A canvas tarp covered a long cylinder. As they secured the plywood against the wall and moved a heavy cloth under it, he noticed various grooves cut into the plywood. He glanced at the canvas again and realized the boy’s display would be explosive.

  As they walked back to his exhibit area, Paul glimpsed the two judges, both older teachers, assessing a first science display. It was an automatic grooming station for cats, and the judges ‘oohed’ and ‘aahed’ over it.

  As they reached David’s station, Paul saw him reach under the canvas and retrieve a can of hairspray. He then removed twelve russet-colored potatoes with small squares of silver duct tape securing each end. A dribble of colored liquid seeped out from the tape.

  David then lifted a device which looked like an improvised grenade launcher. It had a red button trigger underneath, a clear plastic tower on top, and a square box at the end.

  David dropped six potatoes into the plastic tower and pulled the slide at its base. A potato dropped into the PVC pipe. He unscrewed the right side of the box, doused the inside with hairspray, and quickly reattached the end.

  He picked up the launcher, aimed the PVC tube at the plywood board twenty feet away, and pulled the red trigger.

  A mighty boom swept through the gymnasium. A foot-long bright blue flame shot out of the front of the device. The potato crashed against the plywood with an eruption of thick, colored liquid.