Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1)

by Tanya Thompson

  The next day at school, I was eager to share my newfound wisdom. My description of the acts described in the book attracted a growing group of spellbound girls. Circled around the largest library table, I explained the whole carnal thing and concluded by telling them, “At the end, something comes out of the man called come. But it’s spelled C - U - M. Cum. It’s white.”

  Never before had I held so many people’s undivided and absolutely rapt attention.

  But then one girl decided this cum nonsense was just one inexplicable thing too many and declared, “Nuh-uh, that doesn’t happen,” and then everyone else concurred. With steadfast conviction, they all sat back and denied it was possible, thinking this was either a terrible misunderstanding on my part, or I was just making it up.

  But I hadn’t even told them what was particularly astonishing, so to give myself credibility, because I had read this in a book and, therefore, knew it to be true, I told them, “The woman mostly swallows it.”

  Now everyone was revolted. Over the sound of a dozen girls groaning in disgust, my biggest critic asked me, “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Because we all need to know it. I mean really, this is going to be expected of us in a few years.” Finally, I imparted, “It happens a lot at funerals.” That is what the book said, that women got “very horny” at death and every man knew it. The men in the book crossed the country attending funerals and consoling young widows.

  And that was pretty much the extent of my knowledge in Dallas.

  I wasn’t fully comfortable admitting I had gotten up to any of the antics mentioned in the book, so every time Patrice brought up sex, I’d roll, tighten, or contort my lips against the thought of what I’d read. It wasn’t a subject Patrice could get very far with.

  She switched topics, asking outright, “Do you believe you were the victim of white slavery?”

  “Slavery?” It was the first time I had heard the term applied to me.

  Patrice explained how it could look as such, “You’ve described being used as a companion to men you only knew as master. Though you’ve traveled throughout the world, you can’t say where exactly because your activities were too closely restricted. You were essentially confined to the house. Do you not think this was a form of slavery?”

  “I don’t know,” but I wanted to fix it. In every interview, be it with law enforcement or here with Patrice, I had meant it to appear I was lying when I said I didn’t know the names or locations of the people I stayed with. I had made all the appropriate expressions: I’d broken eye contact and looked off to the side, then had lowered my voice to become uncomfortably reticent and curt with answers. I’d thought I’d played it brilliantly obvious. But Patrice was telling me it was the opinion of investigators that I had been used as a slave.

  I understood my mistake.

  I’d been actively experimenting with deception for several years. One of the things I seemed to intuitively know was to allow people to convince themselves. Hold back and they would fill in what most appealed to them. I rarely explained myself or made excuses because the best excuse was the one the accuser made for themselves. Let them explain. And I knew better than to try to sway their opinion. Such actions caused friction and you didn’t want to slow anyone down when they were headlong committed to persuading themselves.

  It was a strategy that had served me very well. And it hadn’t exactly failed me in Dallas; it had just taken me in an unexpected direction.

  Patrice asked, “Do you believe you were a slave?”

  I’m quoted in the newspaper as saying, “I’m not going to say positively yes, or no.”

  “So it’s possible?”

  “Anything is possible.” It just wasn’t agreeable.

  ~~~~~~

  It was December and Patrice’s article ran in the Sunday edition of the Austin American Statesman. The title was: “Shrouded past of ‘countess’ leads to lost existence in Collin County.” It told the story as so many agencies had heard it but was punctuated with quotes from Rick, Mike, and a US spokesman for Interpol.

  A common view repeated throughout the article was spoken by Rick: “I’ve really had mixed emotions about it. There are some times when you stop and think about the story and it’s completely outlandish. And there are other times when you listen to this girl talk and you watch her mannerisms and it’s very believable.”

  The article was impartial to my tale, giving the facts and then reminding the reader a state psychiatric hospital had found me sane. It described me as polished and articulate though not particularly forthcoming when pressed for details. It highlighted investigators’ attempts to trip me up, yet I continued to repeat my story again and again without flaw. Patrice either didn’t know, or kindly omitted, I had given my real name while being screamed awake in the mental ward. And the article concluded with the general opinion given by Mike: “I want to believe her and I want to help her. But I don’t believe the entire story. I think there’s more to the story than we know about.”

  It was left up to the reader to decide if the story I told was true, or alternatively, that I might be “a deeply disturbed, very capable liar.” What it did not leave open to debate was that I had been “a slave to wealthy masters throughout the world.”

  I read it once and couldn’t bear to see it again. I didn’t want to be a slave, and I still hadn’t figured out it was a sex slave, which would have disturbed me considerably more. Patrice had been incredibly kind and more than fair, but to ensure no one saw it, especially Sergiu and Daniel, the article had to be buried in the trash.

  Flirting with Violence

  I’d never had a boyfriend, and I’d never been kissed. I’d done quite a bit of flirting before leaving Tennessee, and I knew how to subtly tease older men into a fever, but I had no one to retreat behind in Dallas, and I didn’t dare play that trick alone. And as far as I could see, there wasn’t anyone to play it on.

  Sergiu was more than twice my real age but he didn’t have the lascivious eyes I was familiar with. He didn’t look like the men in Tennessee, the ones who showed such palpable interest that I just had to lure them back to my father. My father was a WWII Marine veteran that no one dared cross, but he would still say to my mother, “I’m going to spend my last days beating them off her with a stick.” And it was all kinds of funny because I knew I was safe.

  I wasn’t about to rile anyone up in Dallas without protection. Save for the ten-minute charge in the Corvette, I was in all ways modest and reserved.

  And Sergiu was a friend.

  I viewed him with an astounding level of ignorance, not at all recognizing that what we were doing was considered dating, or that having been out with him so many times implied a certain interest, which I didn’t have.

  At first I thought I was a burden that Daniel had dumped on him to clear the way to Tricia, and after a while, I assumed Sergiu had simply grown fond of me. By the end of January, I also knew he loved sharing meals with me.

  He said, “You like my private dinner theater. You sit and show starts.”

  This was true. I had a young mastery of the evening meal, and to ensure I remained Sergiu’s favorite guest, I performed. I knew how to make charming conversation about the news, wildlife, outer space, and a thousand other eclectic topics I had collected from books. My family’s dinners had always been an open exchange of ideas and recently acquired information, and as a family, we had known each other forever, so tedious background inquiries were never part of the discussion.

  With the same familiarity, I conversed with Sergiu, wholly avoiding the mundane details of personal histories. The general topics allowed both of us to keep any questions from falling on our past. I knew absolutely nothing of Sergiu’s life before Dallas, and he knew nothing of mine. We neither asked nor revealed.

  Tonight we were talking about the infamous 1976 Société Générale bank heist in France. A gang of militants, con artists, and assassins had tunneled through the sewers into the vault. Over the long Bastille
holiday, they’d had a bit of a party clearing out the jewels, gold bullion, and cash in the safety deposit boxes.

  “Albert Spaggiari,” Sergiu dipped his head in respect to the man who had devised the plan. We laughed over his escape from court. “Spaggiari say, ‘Judge look at this,’ and then,” Sergiu held his hands together to imitate a dive, “right out the window.”

  “Three stories,” I confirmed.

  “No hurt.”

  “He knew how to fall. He used to sky dive.”

  “Ah?” Sergiu hadn’t known that, but he knew something better. “They say the man waiting with motorbike was French minister.”

  “Really? Oh, that’s funny.”

  “Spaggiari live free all his life in Argentina. He have very good girlfriend. She no talk.”

  We both agreed that the break-in had been brilliant, but I particularly respected what the thieves had written on the vault’s wall. I quoted it to Sergiu, “Without weapons, nor hatred, nor violence.”

  Sergiu waved it away. Their passive creed was inconsequential to him. He was more impressed with the haul. “Maybe thirty million,” the balance of his hands tipped low. “Or maybe hundred million,” the scales weighed high. “Me? I be happy with either.”

  ~~~~~~

  It had been a typical and lively exchange, but once the meal was over, so was the show. The table was the stage and I was an actor at a dinner theater, totally on script while food was present, engaging and attentive, enthralled by every subject, but once the stage was left behind, I was off, gone behind the curtain, too coldly removed for Sergiu to enjoy.

  Back in the latest Audi, Sergiu considered my aloof disposition and said, “You no make this,” and dropped his hand over his face to leave only the faint smile and coma eyes he mocked as my expression. “Tonight, I keep you happy.”

  He had moved out of the shabby apartment to a townhouse with a garage. “But you no tell Tricia. She think I live with Daniel and Eugene. Yes?”

  “Yes, of course.” I moved through the rooms barely breathing. It smelled new and synthetic. The furniture was still black leather but bigger, and the tables were black enamel trimmed in metallic gold. Gaudy gold mirrors and framed oil paintings were nearly everywhere. Then, things turned beige. The windows and sliding patio door were covered in vertical blinds, and new Berber carpet abutted taupe painted walls. The neutral tones managed to make the furnishings just that little extra bit vulgar so the whole place felt harsh and jarring.

  The bottle of champagne Sergiu was taking from the refrigerator took an already uncomfortable scene and ran it straight for the cliffs. I didn’t realize I was backing toward the door until Sergiu asked, “Where you going?”

  Afraid I might reveal myself as unsophisticated, because I was certain no worldly woman would be alarmed by anything that was occurring, I smiled away any thought of retreat and took a seat in the corner of the couch.

  When Sergiu gave me a bubbling champagne glass, I put it on the coffee table and he handed it back. I held it explaining, “I’ve never cared for it.”

  “I bring this for you, from New York.”

  “Oh.” I tipped the glass to my lips but consumed nothing, then said, “Thank you,” and held it like a prop.

  Sergiu laughed. He asked suspiciously, “You drink?”

  “Yes,” I was smiling assurance.

  He didn’t believe me, sat down flush next to me so that the smell of leather and patchouli, the distinct heavy scent of Givenchy, was wrapping around me. He pressed, “Show me you drink.”

  I pushed back into the arm of the couch and he followed. I warned, “Sergiu …”

  And he said, “My name no Sergiu.”

  Really? How very interesting. I forgot to finish my appeal for restraint.

  “Ah,” he chuckled, “now you give me eyes.”

  I was smirking, expectantly waiting to hear the rest, but he wasn’t moving or speaking, just grinning and waiting like me until I was finally forced to ask, “Then how did you get the name, the identity, all the paperwork and passport?”

  My question surprised him. He was expecting to hear me ask for his real name. He appeared slightly hurt and disconcerted, saying, “Is name of Romanian.”

  “Yes, I know. You have travel documents. How did you get the name?” The question of how to acquire genuine, federally recognized identity completely possessed me, and whatever-his-name could see it.

  With a little bit of concern, he sat back to call me, “Demonia.”

  “Yes, yes,” I was getting vexed and brushed it aside with hurried aggravation. “Madonna, demonia, my mamma mia, you’re Italian. How did you get Romanian documents?” Then seeing I was causing offense, I tried to undo it by sipping at the champagne.

  He gave a little, “I work in Romania. I drive from Italia for my family.”

  I was smiling encouragement, taking another small swallow.

  “I know a man. He no so good.”

  I turned my head for explanation and took another sip.

  “No so good here,” he touched his heart.

  I frowned, “A bad person? Criminal?”

  “Bad here,” again the heart.

  “Sick?”

  “Yes. He no so good. He no stay long. We agree. I take his name.”

  “Did he die?”

  “Ah,” he rolled it around not willing to confirm it.

  I took another drink. “There’d be a body. A death certificate. A grave …”

  “Ah,” turning his head, “maybe no.”

  No book had ever captivated or intrigued me like this. I was completely enthralled, trying to put it together, absently raising the glass to my mouth and then scowling with disgust to taste the Chardonnay grape, but never mind that, I wanted to know, “Did you just go get a driver’s license in his name? Or communist papers? Did they not have a picture on file?”

  He wasn’t answering, so I tried the drink trick again. He rolled his eyes, shook his head, said, “Stop,” and nearly laughed. “You no like,” he took the glass from my hand and put it back on the table. “I have his work book,” he opened his hands like the pages were large. “Picture,” he licked the imaginary image like a stamp and slapped it into one hand. “Same with military book.”

  “And then?”

  He was pressing me into the arm of the couch again, but I was spellbound and hardly noticed until he put his hand on the back of my neck, preventing me from withdrawing further. He brushed his lips over mine, testing my resistance, but I was waiting to hear how it was done, so let him force a kiss on me to hear him say, “I go home,” then blocked his hand from my breast while he continued, “I say to asylum camp, ‘I am Român. My name is Sergiu.’” I was ducking to the side when he said, “I speak romaneste. Is no problem.”

  It sounded sublimely simple, making me think I had really messed things up in my attempt to get new identification. And it was too late for me now; the sheriff’s department, the FBI, DEA, and Interpol all had my fingerprints. I was tearing everything apart in my head, trying to figure out if there was a way I could fix it, or a way to backtrack and attach it, wondering who in the world would do a similar thing for me, thinking hard when the imposter pressing down on me said, “You no ask why.”

  It occurred to me I hadn’t. I turned my face back to him with interest.

  “But you no ask. Why you no ask?”

  “I’m asking now. Tell me why.” He got his arm behind my back and worked to shift me down while I pushed against his chest, smirking, shaking my head to deny him, yet still wanting an answer. “Tell me.”

  He began whispering a story in my ear that convinced me I should never have turned my face back, and if I hoped to reach sixteen, I’d better extricate myself and forget. I started saying, “Okay, that’s enough,” to both the tale and his advancements. Both continued. “No, no, no,” I was trying to keep it light and frivolous, “That’s more than I require.” But there was more. “Okay, really, time for this to end.” Except it didn’t.

&nb
sp; “I want to hear you say my name.”

  “Sure,” I was pushing myself to the side, reaching for the coffee table, leaning for the floor. “Tell me what it is.”

  Something about the way I said it didn’t settle right with him. He yanked me back, shaking his head, annoyed, on the cusp of becoming angry. His expression was irritated but his voice was formal, “What is your name?”

  It sounded like it came out of an English phrase book. I thought he wanted me to reword my question, so I spoke with indulgence, “Fine. What is your name?”

  “No. What is your name?”

  I nearly repeated it again with sincerity before realizing he was asking me. I reached for the top of the couch, trying to pull myself up, laughing it away. “You know my name.”

  “No,” and he slammed me back into the cushions. “I think about this. You no care my name. You only want to know how I get name Sergiu. You want new name with passport. You tell me,” his hand was tightening around my neck, “what is your name?”

  This was not expected. I stopped moving, returned my face to dead calm with coma eyes, except this time there was no hint of a smile. I looked down over my body under his with contempt and asked, “Would you like to get off me now?”

  The confrontation took a moment but he finally looked away, removed his hand from my throat, started to shift, and I shifted as well. Then he was enraged again and it all went back to the way it was and he was demanding, “What is your name?”

  “Jesus,” I said, and got choked for the sacrilege. “Not my name,” I explained, “God,” and got choked again. “Seriously now, dammit, stop.” Christ.