Liars in Love

by Ian Bull

  “Why did you agree to it?” Kath asks.

  “Maybe I wanted to get to know you.” He flashes her his grin.

  She hits him. “Stop grinning like that! It’s so fake!”

  “I can’t help it. I’ve been practicing it for too long.”

  “Then don’t lie. Just be honest, to me at least. You’re planning something.”

  “I’m not planning anything.’

  She scoffs. “You’re such a coward! Tell the truth! Be a man for once!”

  "Do you want to know the truth? Why I'm not a man? Paul tracked me down the day after I got out! He strong-armed me and threatened to hurt Rose and Carl if he found them. He offered me a gun, and I took it. Two days out, and I'm stuck working for Paul all over again. And I can’t get a real job anyway, I tried! My life was supposed to get better, not worse!" Spittle is flying, his face is red, and he’s loud enough that all the Frisbees and laughter around them all stop.

  “Your life is worse?” Kath asks.

  Sam sighs. "You're not worse. You're the only thing about my life that's getting better," He pulls his frozen feet out of the thick sand and reaches for her hand. She lets him take it, and they turn back towards the motel.

  “All done here, people! Thank you!” Kath yells at the watching crowd. Their laughter starts back up again.

  They walk in silence. Sam bites his lip, embarrassed that he let himself go like that. He spent two years in prison keeping it all under wraps, staying cool, perfecting his wry persona, dodging conflict, and now that the lid is off his jam jar, he’s loses it. Still, he managed to dodge the question.

  Kath bites her lip, wondering if Sam meant what he said. He sure looked like he did. If he didn’t, then it was quite an act, and she fell for his performance.

  “You could leave town,” Kath says.

  “It’s not that easy. I can’t just request a parole transfer,” Sam says.

  Kath knows that if someone were in a lot of trouble and had to leave town, there’s always a way. Something is keeping him here. Or someone. But it’s too early in the game to ask.

  “You could leave too,” Sam says. “It’s a big country, and you’ve seen a fair amount of it. You could leave town and find a place to hide and be done with Paul forever,” he says.

  “I have my reasons,” she says.

  She could tell him about Bella, but she doesn’t. It may not be worth sharing so much of herself with him yet. Or at all.

  Is any of this worth it? she asks herself. If she knew what he did with the money, she could tell Paul and be done with both these men and be free. She’d be debt free and have money to take care of Bella, the only family she’s got. Would she go through with it if she knew?

  “Paul is going to push you to tell him what’s happening with us,” Sam says.

  “What do I tell him?” Kath asks.

  “Tell him the truth. It’s easier that way.”

  “Are you setting up an exit?” Kath asks.

  “I’ve been working on that since the day I got out of prison,” Sam says.

  “Am I part of that exit plan?” Kath asks, stopping in the sand.

  “You weren’t initially, but you are now.”

  “Paul expected me to snitch on you by now. We were never supposed to get to three jobs in this arrangement. He figured we’d have sex, and you would turn into mush and tell me the truth about everything.”

  “I have told you the truth. It’s just not a truth he’s going to believe.”

  “He picks the third and final job. And he’s going to screw us. You know that.”

  “Let me work on it. I can handle Paul,” Sam says.

  He leans forward and kisses her, and she falls into his arms. He feels her naked curves under the sweatpants and sweater and brushes the goosebumps on her arms and legs. He senses her nipples stiffen through the sweater, and he stiffens too.

  “Should we try some more Magic Massage?” Kath asks.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  D etective Stone sits behind his brushed metal industrial desk and watches gallery owner Marjorie McKale slowly leaf through yet another three-ring binder of mug shots. There's a stack of five more binders on his desk, and two dozen more line the shelves along the walls of the crowded and noisy Detectives Pool. Marjorie has only gone through two binders so far.

  “No luck?” Detective Alden Stone asks, ignoring his ringing phone.

  Marjorie turns another page, shaking her head. “They’re all dressed the same. And they all have such bad haircuts.”

  Stone stares at his watch, wanting to get back to his new word processor. He's almost figured out how to run the Wordstar program. Then again, what's the rush? All these mug shots, all the files in his desk, every report, is supposed to somehow end up on a computer? That's never going to happen, he thinks. Meanwhile, there are bad guys out there he wants to catch today.

  “You said it was a man and woman," Stone says, and opens a side desk drawer. He pulls out a plastic baggie with Kath's brown calfskin glove inside and puts it on the table. "Was she wearing gloves like these?"

  “Please, she was working at a cocktail party. That’s not evening wear.”

  Stone sits up straight when he spots Captain Yee striding through the maze of desks, heading right for him. He’s got a young officer in tow, a criminal sketch artist named Yancy Mendoza.

  “Ms. Watkins, I’m Captain Yee, chief detective for the SFPD, and this is Officer Mendoza, our sketch artist. We’d like you to describe to him what this man and woman looked like who robbed you.”

  “Of course,” Marjorie says.

  Captain Yee and Detective Stone trade glances as Officer Mendoza pulls up a chair and sits down facing Marjorie. He flips open his sketch pad and smiles.

  “Can you give me an overall description of the man first? Was he tall, short, skinny, heavy set?” Officer Mendoza asks.

  “He was wearing a light wool blue suit, with a thin pinstripe, I remember that. And he's broad across the chest, but not fat. In good shape. He's got thick wavy brown hair and blue eyes, and he has a thin scar on his cheek. He's quite good-looking actually," Marjorie says.

  Marjorie, Detective Stone, and Captain Yee watch Officer Mendoza sketch away. He bites the inside of his mouth in concentration as his charcoal pencil flies across the page. Mendoza turns the pad around and shows Marjorie a rough sketch.

  “Thicker hair and the scar is thin and long," she says. "And he smirks when he smiles, with one corner of his mouth going up."

  Mendoza nods, erases, sketches more, and turns the page over. It’s a decent portrait of Sam. Marjorie smiles. “That’s him,” she says. “How long have you been doing this?”

  “Three years, ma’am.”

  “I’d like to see more of your work. Have you ever thought about a gallery show? We could build a great backstory for you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  S am walks into the Fior d'Italia restaurant carrying a silver brushed metal briefcase. He spots Paul and Inge in the first circular booth, and slides in next to them. Paul and Inge both wear blue and white tracksuits with matching white and blue bandana headbands, like they're starring in an Olivia Newton-John workout video.

  It’s the same booth where Sam and Kath sat before Kath’s first job, and Sam has a plan. He’s going to have tortellini, a squid salad, some fresh sourdough bread, a glass of crisp white wine, and lots of tiny cups of black espresso. He also plans to irritate Paul to the point of fury.

  “We’ve been waiting,” Paul says.

  “I said 12:30. It’s 12:30 on the nose,” Paul says.

  “Inge is hungry,” Paul says.

  “You could have ordered. I’m sure the kitchen can dig up some skull for her to gnaw on.”

  Paul leans across the table and points his finger at Sam. “Inge is my girlfriend. Be nice to her, understand?”

  “Last time we were all together, she attacked me with the Vulcan death grip, remember? She doesn’t make a very good impression,” Sam says.<
br />
  The same young waiter with the curly hair arrives with a menu. He’s wearing the same black bow tie, white shirt, and long white apron.

  “I’d like a glass of white wine, the salad with squid, and a plate of cheese tortellini with pesto sauce,” Sam says, and hands the menu back to the waiter.

  Sam looks at Paul and Inge. “Are you going to order? I thought you were hungry.”

  “We ordered tuna salads,” Paul says, contradicting everything he just said. “This restaurant doesn’t have the healthy choices Inge wants for us. The health club is better.”

  “I prefer to not meet at your place of business anymore. Being in public gives me some safety from Vicky the Viking over there,” Sam says.

  Sam smiles at Inge, who growls like an angry house cat. Sam slides the silver case to Paul across the red leather tuck-and-roll cushion. Paul opens the large briefcase and inside is a smaller leather case.

  “What are you, James Bond? Where’s the money?” Paul asks.

  “The satchel inside is yours,” Sam says.

  Paul takes the smaller leather satchel and opens it. Inside are a dozen thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills. “Nice little score. Congratulations,” Paul says.

  “That’s twenty-eight thousand. The whole job earned us eighty-four. I am also willing to throw in my cut. You’d make fifty-six thousand, more than Kath pulled in on her entire job.”

  “Why?” Paul asks.

  “Because we should stop now, while we’re ahead. While you’re ahead.”

  “You don’t know how much my job will earn. You haven’t heard it yet,” Paul says as he zips up the leather satchel. “And you and Kath seem to be working together quite well. I think that’s a good reason to keep going.”

  The waiter arrives with salads for Paul and Inge, and a squid salad and white wine for Sam, which is the perfect opportunity for Sam to poke at Paul.

  “We do fine, considering she’s calling me stupid every moment we’re together. Which makes me have to ask – did you ever sleep with Kath?” Sam asks.

  Inge's face turns beet red when she hears Kath's name. The young waiter takes his time placing the plates in front of each of them. Sam sips his wine and enjoys watching Paul twist his napkin like it's someone's throat, until the slow waiter nods, smiles, and leaves.

  “We were together for a little while,” Paul admits, stabbing at his tuna salad.

  “That explains everything,” Sam says, rolling a piece of squid in the salad dressing and then popping it into his mouth.

  “Explains what?” Paul asks, rising to the bait.

  “Why she hates you so much. I had to fight her about giving you your fair cut. The only time a woman wants to burn a man that bad is for love gone wrong. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,'" Sam says, chewing on his rubbery gastropod. He takes another big bite and talks with his mouth full. "You did a real number on her, because she's still not over you. You're all she talks about."

  “You just said she wants to rip me off. Which is it?” Paul asks.

  Sam pushes away his empty plate and takes his time to chew on the last piece of squid. “She hasn’t said anything specific, but she’s planning something. That’s why I think you should take this money now, be happy with two jobs, and avoid the risk.”

  Paul smiles, and shakes his head. “We’re doing the last job. That’s the deal we made, and now it’s my turn. Then we’re done.”

  The waiter returns with Sam's tortellini, swapping plates as fast as he can, then dashing away. Sam takes a bite and enjoys the warm salty, tangy bite of pesto mixed in with the tiny pasta hats. He sighs, closing his eyes.

  “I hate watching you eat,” Paul says, which makes Sam love the food even more.

  “You made me watch you slurp your protein smoothies. You and Cro-Magnon Mary can’t share lunch with me?” Sam asks.

  Inge grabs a steak knife and stabs at Sam with a lightning-fast lunge. Sam dodges it just in time, but she still jabs a hole in the arm of his jacket. He stares at the wounded leather, shocked. He's got two holes now, one in his breast pocket, and another in the sleeve.

  “Like I said, don’t make fun of Inge,” Paul says.

  “I have an idea how to fix your Kath problem,” Sam says, digging back into his food. “Let me plan the last job with you. When she tries to burn you, I’ll be able to tip you off that much sooner. Catch her in the act.”

  Paul stares at him chewing, then leans back. He smiles and pats Inge’s arm. She leans back too, out of attack mode. “My job will make five times more than your Mickey Mouse haul,” he says, patting the leather case on the cushion next to him.

  “Suit yourself,” Sam says, wiping his mouth with his napkin.

  “You must miss Rose. Have you heard from her?”

  “I haven’t heard from her.”

  Paul and Sam stare at each other with blank poker faces.

  “I’m looking for her, you know. I have some questions for her.”

  “Let me know if you find her because I have questions for her too," Sam says.

  “I’ll chat with her someday,” Paul says.

  Sam doesn’t react. Paul smiles and stands up. “I'll be in touch with both you and Kath about the final job, and you'll come to the Health Club. No more meeting in restaurants crap. Come on, Inge, let's go." He grabs the leather satchel with the money, and he and Inge slide out of the booth.

  “What about my offer?” Sam asks.

  “What offer?” Paul asks, looking at the satchel.

  “I offered you my cut to not do the last job. Kath is too much of a risk.”

  “I'll take my chances," Paul says. He and Inge adjust their blue and white bandanas, zip up their tracksuits and head out.

  Sam slides the silver case back over to his side of the booth. He shuts the lid with the napkin and picks up the case like it were fragile.

  “Sir?”

  Sam looks up. It’s the young waiter with the floppy hair. “Yes?” Sam asks.

  “Those two big guys you asked me about? The football player and the Samoan guy in the 49er jerseys? They’re parked across the street.”

  Sam hands him a fifty with some burned edges. "Keep the change. I'll go out the back."

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  S am steps off the 22 Fillmore Muni bus on the busy part of Lombard Street, with four lanes of traffic flowing toward and away from the Golden Gate Bridge. This section of Lombard has two dozen motels for travelers, tourists, and couples who need a room for a few hours.

  Sam walks next to the noisy flow of traffic, carrying his silver briefcase, lost in thought. He ordered squid, and they ordered tuna. Paul wanted a big pelagic predator fish that swims free, while Sam chose a fish that hides in the dark, changes color and shoots clouds of black ink to distract its enemies, so it can escape. Sam wishes he could be more like Paul, the tuna swimming free in the world, and not like the squid, lost in the dark with his strange thoughts.

  The time window is narrowing. Hal, his parole agent, will want to see real pay stubs soon, not cash. And his alibi at the remediation company won’t take his payoff money much longer. Kath is the best thing that has happened to him in a long time, but he can’t tell her everything. He knows she’s not telling him everything yet, either. They are both liars with pasts to protect, and if they get caught the less they know about each other, the better.

  Paul’s job is coming up fast. They will be committing another crime within a month. Until then, he must find Rose, meet with Hal, avoid Cliff and Dozer, handle Paul, and convince Kath to trust him. That’s like shooting an arrow through five rings and hitting a bullseye, while the clock is ticking down.

  Sam walks into the parking lot of the Vista Motor Lodge Motel on the corner of Scott Street and Lombard. He steers clear of the ground floor office and darts ups the wooden stairs without being seen by anyone. He paid in cash two days ago. He explained his house up in Napa caught fire, and he came down to San Francisco to hire some people to help him rebuild. He wore a cowboy hat
and sunglasses and a three-day beard, so hopefully, the manager will remember his fire story and not his face.

  He enters Room 23, locks the door behind him and goes straight to the bathroom, where he holds the silver case up to the light, careful to only hold it by the handle. There, on the metallic edges and on the metal clasps to open the case, are Paul’s fingerprints.

  “Gotcha,” Sam whispers. His plan is taking shape. Sam wipes down the handle with a towel and slides the entire case into a large clear plastic bag he pulls from under the sink, and ties the top shut with a rubber band.

  He exits the bathroom and goes into the darkened motel room and slides the plastic bag into yet another black duffel bag.

  The bedside light clicks on. Sam spins around. Kath sits on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “Tough day at the office, honey?” she asks. She drops her hand and opens the belt on her long silk robe, revealing a matching negligee underneath.

  “It was tough, but it’s getting easier,” Sam says.

  Kath then pulls back the covers to reveal the Magic Massage box attached to the headboard, and a hammer and a screwdriver lying on the exposed sheets. Sam picks up his tools, jams the screwdriver into a metal seam, whacks the butt end of the screwdriver with the hammer and pops the metal box open. He pries the metal apart, twists the wires and the bed roars to life. Kath giggles with happy anticipation.

  “Lucy, I’m home,” Sam sings, in his best Ricky Ricardo imitation. He drops the tools onto the floor and falls into her arms.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  S am and Kath walk along the blustery path of Land's End, a strip of wildness that hugs the northwestern edge of San Francisco. The dirt path hugs a cliff that plummets down to the frothing ocean and sharp rocks below. On the other side are thick Monterey Pines that shield Sam and Kath from view, but the ocean wind whips them and they must pull their wool jackets tight to their bodies.

  “Another summer in San Francisco,” Sam says.

  “I’ve never had a summer tan in my life,” Kath says.