Liars in Love

by Ian Bull

  “Magic Massage? What’s that?” she asks.

  “I got the same thing in my room in the Tenderloin. It never works.”

  Kath touches the top, sees the coin drop and reads the side. "Come on, let's try it, it might be fun," she says and kisses him.

  He rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. He rips off the rest of his shirt and tosses it aside. He and Kath are in just their underwear now. He scurries to the edge of the bed and finds his pants with his left hand while Kath bear hugs him from behind and nibbles his ear.

  “Hold up, I need to find some quarters," Sam says as he digs through his pants pockets. Kath sticks her tongue in his ear and rubs his chest while giggling, and now he's suddenly giggling too, as he turns his pockets inside out.

  “Four quarters! Victory!" he says, and they dive back onto the center of the bed. Kath lays herself down in the middle of the mattress, ready to receive the full effect of the Magic Massage. He drops two quarters in and the bed, headboard, and pillows vibrate to life. Kath's eyes widen.

  “My God. This is fantastic,” Kath whispers, and pulls Sam on top of her. Their bodies slide and slap against each other like two colliding tectonic plates jiggling across the mattress. They yank each other’s underwear off while trying to kiss, but their lips are moving targets. He positions himself above her and is about to enter the sacred zone – and the bed stops vibrating.

  “Quick! More quarters, don’t stop!”

  Sam rolls off her, tumbles off the mattress and finds the last two quarters on the floor. He slams them into the coin slot and then dives back onto the bed. The mattress roars back to life, vibrating them like astronauts on a rocket ship who forgot to belt in before blast-off. They collide and slam their lips together. Kath grabs on, wraps her legs around his waist, clamps her hands on his torso, and helps guide his vibrating manhood inside her. She moans as her eyes roll back – and the bed stops vibrating. “That was a less than a minute!” Kath screams.

  Sam jumps out of bed and dashes out of the bedroom and into the kitchenette, his erection flopping like a flagpole that broke loose in a windstorm. He finds a knife in the drawer, grabs his shoe and runs back into the bedroom, his unit swinging side to side.

  “I love your look!” Kath howls and pointing. Now she can’t stop laughing.

  Sam glares at the Magic Massage unit and wipes the sweat out of his eyes. He's more intense right now than he ever was during the robbery. He jams the knife into a metal seam on the Magic Massage unit, slams the heel of his shoe against the blunt edge of the knife, and pops the unit open. He stares inside the guts of the machine, which look a lot like the starter unit on a Ford Fiesta. He wraps his hand in a sheet and yanks out the wires. He touches one exposed wire to the metal and then twists the other two together, and the bed roars back to life.

  Sam dives back onto the vibrating bed. They reach for each other, like two falling skydivers who find each other while falling in a hurricane. They’re getting better at it now, however, and Kath wraps her thighs around Sam’s velvet ribs and straps her hands across his engines.

  Their lovemaking is wild, deep, and moving. Literally moving, since they start at the top of the mattress and vibrate to the bottom. If they were a painting, it’d be a cubist abstract called Nudes Vibrating on a Mattress. They both climax…and laugh.

  Sam reaches inside the wall unit and pulls the wires apart. The bed stops, ending the blur. Their shaken eyeballs adjust as their faces come back into focus.

  “My wish just came true,” he says.

  “So did mine,” she answers.

  She remembers what he said about wishes, and wonders if he’s lying.

  Sam also remembers what he said about wishes, and wonders if she’s lying too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  D etective Stone stands in Marjorie's bedroom watching a young officer dust the back of the metal safe with a brush, trying to reveal a fingerprint. He brushes the back, the edges, the side, but nothing emerges.

  Marjorie sits cross-legged on the side of her bed, dressed in a long caftan with bone clasps down the front, with a long silk ribbon in her hair. She lights a cigarette and tosses her head back and exhales smoky irritation, like a burdened Greta Garbo.

  Stone glances at his watch. “It’s 11 a.m. This happened twelve hours ago?” he asks.

  “Give or take an hour. How are you going to catch them?” she asks.

  “It would help if your friend Fredrick would agree to talk to us,” he says.

  “That’s not going to happen,” Marjorie says, rolling her eyes.

  “Was it just cash in the safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “How much?” he asks.

  “That’s hard to say,” Marjorie says and shrugs.

  “Do you remember their names?” Stone asks.

  “He was Victor, and she was Barbara, I think. They were just bartenders."

  Stone points to all of Sam’s gear, still lying on the floor by the window. “They were professional thieves. Very good too.”

  Marjorie blinks as if realizing something for the first time.

  “We’ve had reports of a man and a woman robbery team working in South San Francisco. They may be the same two people. If you can give our sketch artist a description, then look through a mugshot book, that would sure help.”

  “You want me to ride in your car and go to your office?” she says.

  “Yes, ma’am. It’ll take about an hour.”

  Marjorie looks at Detective Stone, sizing him up from head to toe. "You could interview me here if you like.”

  "No thank you, ma’am.”

  She spots the wedding ring on his finger. She shrugs. “Suit yourself. Let’s go then.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  S am and Kath lie in bed together, entwined in the soft, worn white cotton sheets. The sound of the waves on Ocean Beach and a few cars on the Great Highway drift in through the window, on a stream of Sunday morning sunshine. The smell of coffee fills the suite, along with burnt toast and bacon, Sam's favorite breakfast. Used napkins and dirty plates lay on the bed and the floor.

  Sam finishes his last bite of burnt toast covered with blackberry jam, chewing that sweet charred goodness down his throat, followed by the last greasy slice of crisp bacon, and then chasing it with a final sip of black coffee from the mug on the nightstand. He sighs, filled with a bliss he hasn't felt in a long time.

  “You know how the lid on a jam jar can be twisted on so tight it won’t come off?” he asks. “That’s how I felt inside. But not anymore.”

  “I’m glad I could help get the lid off your jam jar,” Kath says. She leans over and rubs her finger on his canine tooth, getting rid of a black piece of charred toast stuck there. “Why do you like burnt toast so much?” she asks.

  “I loved making it as a kid, with butter and dark jam. It just tastes good. I’d put it in the toaster three times, which is how long it takes to cook the bacon.”

  “You cooked it yourself?” she asks. “As a boy, I mean.”

  “I did. And I ate it myself.”

  She stares up at his handsome face, marred only by the long thin scar. “How did you get that?” Kath asks, touching his face.

  "I fell off my bike when I was a kid. I landed on a broken bottle," Sam says. "My mom wasn't home, so I tried to fix it with Band-Aids. I waited too long to go the hospital, and by the time I got stitches, it was guaranteed that I'd have a scar."

  She lays her head on his chest and caresses his right hand, noticing for the first time that he’s completely missing three fingernails. Only his pinkie fingernail and thumbnail are intact.

  “You’re messed up all over. How did that happen?” Kath asks.

  “My first safe cracking job. My dad was teaching me on an old York Cannonball. I got it open without any help, then got so excited I let it slam on my fingers.”

  “My God. How did your dad react?”

  “He laughed at me,” Sam says, forcing a little laugh himself.

&nb
sp; “Your dad taught you how to crack safes?”

  “He taught me everything I know. He and my mom were divorced, and she hated him. She didn't want me to know that he even existed. But people in the neighborhood told me he was around, and when I turned seventeen, I went and found him. He was working at a garage down in the Mission District with a bunch of pals. But they weren't working on cars, they were stealing. They were all smart guys who didn't like to work much. They just hung around and planned different ways to get rich. And they planned robberies. I'd lie to mom when she asked where I was going, and whenever I went over there, he had a new trick to show me."

  She runs her fingers along the tips of his, where the nails should be. “A father teaching a son how to steal? There’s something wrong there.”

  Sam nods. “He could’ve been a brain surgeon, but he preferred being a thief. And he was hilarious. A real charmer. He was great to be around,” Sam says.

  And he was an asshole who didn't care about you, Kath thinks, but she doesn't say that out loud. That's too much for her to bring up this early in the game, whatever game it is that they're playing. “Do you blame him for making you this way?” she asks. That’s a fair question.

  “No. I could’ve walked away, but I liked it. Then I got caught up in it. Then I tried to get out of it, but it was too late. Prison seemed to be the only way to start fresh,” he says.

  “To get away from Paul?” Kath asks.

  “And myself," he says, staring out the window. He narrows his eyes, thinking about Rose, and Carl, and Mrs. Wilkenson, and all his ideas about fancy coffee shops, and people driving their cars as taxis, and pagers that can write messages but also be phones, and all the ideas he has. He wonders if Hal is right, that he is smart enough to make something of himself if he just tried.

  Kath clears her throat, and he glances back down at her, remembering the bliss of the now instead of the regrets of the past. He spots a tiny scar underneath her chin, which he touches. He wonders how many other hidden marks and secrets he’ll find on her body.

  “How’d you get the scar?’ Sam asks.

  “I don’t remember. My mom says I fell getting out of the tub,” she answers, looking away, which makes Sam suspect she’s lying.

  “What about you? Do you have an excuse for this life you lead?” Sam asks, stroking her arms. She has a lot of sun freckles on the tops of her shoulders, probably from too many sunburns as a kid.

  “I blame my mom. She had no clue how to deal with life, or me.”

  “Is she still around?”

  Kath rolls off his chest and lays down next to him, staring at the ceiling. "I haven't seen her in fourteen years. We were in Arizona, in the desert just outside Tucson. She was screaming at me to get in the car, this ugly cream-colored Buick that her fat, loser boyfriend drove. He was trying to fix a flat tire on the side of the road and couldn't get the lug nuts off. He got so pissed that he took the crowbar and was just beating the tire and the wheel, like that was going to make a difference. Then the crowbar bounced off the rubber, and he hit himself in the face," she says.

  This is becoming a big enough story that Sam sits up against the headboard and looks down at Kath’s face as she speaks, watching her beautiful face with the scar on the chin from upside down, with her brown hair spilling to one side on the pillow.

  “Wow,” Sam says.

  “He whacked himself hard, too. Moron Boy had a huge gash on his forehead, and the blood was streaming down his face. Mom pushed him into the passenger seat, got behind the wheel, ready to drive the last ten miles into Tucson with a flat tire. And that's when I knew I didn't have to stay with her anymore. I grabbed my one suitcase out of the back seat and stood there, watching her scream at me, like she was a TV episode I'd already seen way too many times. Then she gave up and drove away. I was sixteen," Kath says.

  She turns over onto her stomach and hugs her perfect breasts into a pillow, with the rest her smooth naked body rising and falling in curves down to her heels at the bottom of the bed. She looks up at him and smiles, her face more honest and open than he’s ever seen.

  “That’s a hell of a story,” Sam says. And it explains a lot, he thinks, but he doesn’t say that out loud, either. That’s too much for him to bring up this early in the game, whatever game it is that they’re playing.

  “Let’s walk on the beach,” she says, looking out the window at the sunshine.

  They get out of bed, throw the dishes in the sink and get dressed. Sam gives Kath a pair of sweatpants and a big t-shirt and a sweater to wear, so she doesn’t have to put her perfect purple dress back on. Sam puts on jeans, a t-shirt, and his leather jacket. They avoid eye contact with everyone as they leave, avoid the office, and walk a block and a half down to the beach.

  It's June the first now, Sam thinks, only sixty-one days since he walked out of prison, and he's back in the same motel. Back then, however, he was so accustomed to being locked in tiny spaces that being this close to the beach made him feel untethered and helpless. Now he can stand in the sun and look out at the blue water that stretches all the way to Japan. He can stare at the clouds and the blue sky and breathe deep without his heart racing so fast that he needs to rush back inside and shut the blinds.

  “It’s nice out here,” he says.

  “I wish the water were warm enough that we could go swimming.”

  “Everyone in San Francisco says that,” Sam says.

  They kick off their shoes, pick them up and walk barefoot. She snuggles close, and he puts his arm around her. There are people on the beach, mostly joggers and isolated families bundled up with blankets.

  “What happened between you and Rose?” Kath asks.

  “Rose was my first real love,” Sam says.

  Kath snuggles closer. This is what she’s been waiting to hear, and she must be ready for whatever he says, she thinks. It’s also what Paul wants to hear too, and she must be ready for that as well.

  “What about your son?” she finally asks.

  “I don’t have a son,” Sam says.

  “I went through your wallet the morning after you shot my bed. There’s a photo of the three of you.”

  Sam exhales, appreciating her honesty. “I met Rose when Carl was two. He’s a great kid, and he was part of my life for nine years, but he’s not my son,” Sam says. “Any chance of that is gone now, which is how I have to look at it.”

  Kath nods. Walking side-by-side is better for talking, Kath thinks. It’s less of an interrogation. But there’s more she wants to know. “When did you first meet?” Kath asks.

  “When I was twenty-one. Carl's dad wasn't in the picture. We fell in love, and I married her. An instant family unit," Sam says.

  To make up for the one you never had growing up, Kath thinks, and imagines Sam as a latchkey kid making burnt toast and bacon for himself while his mom was at work and his dad was busy stealing.

  “But something went wrong?” Kath says.

  “I earned my living as a thief. I was good at it, and I gave them a good life. I had a six-year run and never got caught. I decided I should try for bigger scores.

  “So, you hooked up with Paul,” Kath says.

  “Bingo,” Sam says, pointing at her for emphasis.

  They trudge through the dry sand until their calf muscles hurt, then head down toward the water where the beach is hard. They let the incoming waves lap at the cuffs of their pants, then lift their feet high because the water is so cold.

  “How many years were you with Paul?” Kath asks.

  “Three years. And I made him a lot of money. But he kept pushing me into bigger and bigger jobs. I knew my winning streak wasn’t going to last. And he’d make veiled threats about Rose and Carl,” he says.

  “That he’d hurt them?”

  “That if I quit, he’d tell Rose. She didn’t know about my stealing. She thought I was working for a private trash company. He said that he’d make things hard for them. So, I had to plan my escape.”

  Kath nods.
He planned his escape routes well on their last two jobs, and considering he was escaping from Paul, the plan had to be perfect. “And what was your plan?”

  A Frisbee flies close to them, and Sam catches it with one hand and flicks it back to the group of teenagers playing on the beach. The disc floats in a perfect arc back to them. He is graceful, Kath thinks, comfortable in his skin. But like her, he got caught in a terrible career.

  “Paul kept harping on me about one job. An Asian Import Company that was a front for some Hong Kong criminals who had burned him. Paul found out that they always kept cash in their safe, especially over the weekends.”

  “Let me guess. $500,000 in cash, right?” Kath asks.

  “At least. I made a deal with him – I’d do this one job, and he’d get everything. All the money, revenge against the Chinese guys, and I would walk away. I planned it for months. I even told Rose, and I promised I’d go straight when it was over. She promised to leave me if I got caught. Then the night came, I went in alone, I opened the safe, and it was empty. Thirty seconds later the police showed up, like they knew I was there. I went to prison for two years, and Rose left me, just like she said she would,” Sam says.

  Kath stops on the high side of the wet sand and tugs him to a stop. He turns to face her as the cold water rushes up and buries their feet deeper in the cold sand.

  “Paul thinks you took it.”

  “I know.”

  “Paul will forgive my debt, and give me one hundred thousand, if I find out what you did with the cash and get it back to him,” she says.

  “I know that too,” he says.

  “You do?” she asks, confused.

  “I figured there was some other reason he made us work together, besides wanting us to make him a lot of money,” Sam says.

  “And we have made him a lot of money, for very little work on his part,” she says.

  “That’s for sure,” Sam says.

  Their feet are now ankle deep in the cold sand. Kath lifts her feet up to keep them warm, while Sam stands stock still, letting his feet turn into blocks of ice.