The King of Lies

by John Hart

  So I sat and I smoked, and something moved inside me that I recognized from a long, long time ago. The sun rose and put its warm red fingers upon me, and for a moment I was at peace. Then I felt Barbara’s presence and she stepped through the door.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Smoking,” I said, and didn’t bother to turn around.

  “It’s six-forty-five in the morning.”

  “Is it?”

  “Look at me, Work.”

  I turned around. She stood in the open door, wrapped in a fleece robe. Her hair was a mess, eyes puffy above a miserly mouth. I knew that her thoughts, like mine, were on last night. “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  I gave Barbara my eyes as a warning, but I knew that she could not decipher even that pale message. She’d have to know me to get it, and we were strangers. So I gave her my thoughts, spelled them out in flat black letters that any moron could read. “I’m thinking that my life has been hijacked, held for ransom that I could never pay. I’m looking at a world that I’ve never seen before and wondering how the hell I got here.”

  “Now you’re being silly,” she said, and smiled like she could play this off.

  “I don’t know you, Barbara, and I wonder if I ever did.”

  “Come back to bed,” she commanded.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “It’s freezing out here.”

  “It’s colder inside.”

  Her frown deepened. “That hurts, Work.”

  “I’ve figured out that truth often does,” I said, and turned my back to her. In the distance, a man was walking toward us along the street. He wore a long trench coat and a hunting cap.

  “Are you coming or not?” she insisted.

  “I think I’ll go for a walk,” I told her.

  “You’re half-naked,” she said.

  I turned and smiled at her. “Yes,” I said. “Isn’t that a hoot?”

  “You’re frightening me,” she said.

  I turned back to watch my park walker and felt her step out onto the porch. For a long minute, she stared down at me, and I could only imagine what she might be thinking. Suddenly, her hands were on my shoulders, her fingers kneading me. “Come to bed,” she said in her voice of oiled silk and bedroom pleasures.

  “I’m awake now,” I told her, meaning it in so many ways. “You go.” I felt her hands withdraw, and she stood silently—angry, puzzled, or both. She’d spread her angel’s wings, offered to lift me up, and I’d shot her down. Where would she go now? What lever could she trust to move me when the last resort of ready flesh had failed her in the end? I knew only that quiet retreat was not an option for her.

  “Who’ve you been talking to?” she asked, a new edge in her voice. I glanced at the phone at my side, thought of Vanessa Stolen, and marveled coldly at my perspicacity.

  “Nobody.”

  “May I have the phone?”

  I took another drag.

  “The phone,” she insisted.

  When I looked at her, I saw what I expected to see, thin lips in a face gone pale. “Do you really want to do this?” I asked.

  In one movement, she stooped and snatched up the phone. I didn’t try to stop her. She pushed the redial button and I turned away, to the strange man in his long coat. He drew nearer, his eyes downcast, his face all but hidden. I wondered if Vanessa would answer and hoped not; beyond that, I felt nothing, not anger or fear, not even regret. I heard Barbara disconnect, and her voice, when she spoke, was tight with anger. “I thought you were done with her.”

  “I thought so, too.”

  “How long?” she demanded.

  “I don’t want to talk about this, Barbara. Not now.” I climbed slowly to my feet, hoping as I turned that I would see tears in my wife’s eyes, anything to show that she felt more than wounded pride. “I’m tired. I’m hung over.”

  “Whose fault is that?” she snapped.

  I pushed out a deep breath. “I’m going for that walk,” I told her. “We can talk later if you still want to.”

  “Don’t walk away from me!”

  “Walking won’t put any more distance between us.”

  “Oh. So now your adultery is my fault.”

  “I’m not talking about this now,” I told her.

  “I may not be here when you get back,” she threatened. I stopped halfway down the steps.

  “Do what you have to do, Barbara. Nobody can blame you for that, me least of all.” I turned away from her heavy breathing and started down the sidewalk, heading toward the street and the park, which shimmered with cold dew.

  “She’s a dirty little whore. I’ve never understood your obsession with her,” Barbara said to my back, her voice climbing. “Never!” The last word was a shout.

  “Careful, Barbara,” I said without turning to face her. “The neighbors will hear.” I heard the door slam and imagined that she’d locked it, too. I didn’t care. My life dropped away as I stepped off the property and onto the sidewalk. I was a man, like any other. I had taken action, stood my ground. I felt real and it felt good.

  At the bottom of the yard, I waited for this man I’d seen a thousand times yet never really met. I got a better look at him as he approached. He was magnificently unattractive, with melted features and a grimace that pulled his lip over brown teeth, which showed only on the right side of his face. He wore grimy glasses with thick black frames and his hair hung limply from beneath the hunting cap.

  “Mind if I walk with you?” I asked as he came level with me. He stopped and tilted his head at me. Green irises swam in a yellow sea and his voice, when he spoke, was a smoker’s voice. I heard the same heavy accent.

  “Why?”

  There was distrust there.

  “Just because,” I said. “Just to talk.”

  “Still a free country.” He resumed his walking and I fell into step with him.

  “Thanks.”

  I felt his eyes on my naked chest. “I’m not gay,” he said.

  “Me neither.”

  He grunted, said nothing.

  “You’re not my type anyway.”

  He barked a laugh that ended with a snort of approval. “A smart-ass, huh? Who’d have thought?”

  We walked down the sidewalk, past the big houses and the length of the park. A few cars were on the streets and some kids were feeding the ducks. The morning mist was slowly burning off the lake.

  “I’ve seen you,” he finally said to me. “Seen you for years—sittin’ up there on your porch. Must be one heck of a view.”

  I didn’t know what to say to that. “It’s a good place to watch the world pass by, I guess.”

  “Hmph. Better you should pass through the world.”

  I stopped walking.

  “What?” he asked.

  “A blinding flash of the obvious,” I told him.

  “Meaning what?”

  “Meaning I think you are a very smart man.”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think you are right.” He laughed at my expression. “Come on. We’ll walk and you can compliment me. It’s a good plan.”

  “I know your name,” I said as we left the park behind and moved toward Main Street and the poor neighborhoods that lined the tracks beyond.

  “That right?”

  “I just heard it around. Maxwell Creason, right?”

  “Just Max.”

  I held out my hand and he stopped, forcing me to stop alongside him. He held my eyes for an instant, then lifted up his hands to hold in front of my face. The fingers were broken and bent, twisted into claws, and I saw with horror that most of the nails had been ripped off.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  “You know my name,” he said. “And I don’t mean any offense when I say this, but let’s just leave it at that.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Look, I’m glad to talk to you—God knows, it’s been long enough—but I don’t reckon I know you well enough to talk about that.”

&n
bsp; I stared down at his hands. They hung like deadwood at the ends of his arms.

  “But . . .” I started.

  “Why do you care?” he asked sharply.

  “You interest me.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know,” I told him. “Because you’re different.” I shrugged again, feeling the inadequacy of my words. “Because I believe you’ve never asked a person what he does for a living.”

  “And that’s important to you?”

  I thought about it. “I guess so.”

  He began to shake his head.

  “I want to know because you’re real.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  I looked away from his face because there was a sudden nakedness there. “I’ve seen you, too, you know, here and there, walking. But I’ve never seen you with anybody else. I think there must be honesty in being that alone.”

  “And you value that?”

  I looked back at him. “I envy it.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because you don’t know me, I guess. Because for once I’d like to be honest, too—tell somebody that I’d just as soon shoot my wife as look at her again, and that I’d gladly run over her friends on the street just to hear the thump.” I shrugged again. “Because I don’t think you’d judge me.”

  Max Creason was not looking at me; he had turned away. “Ain’t no priest,” he told me.

  “Sometimes things just need to be said.”

  He shrugged. “So do something different.”

  “That’s it? That’s your advice? Do something different?”

  “Yes,” the park walker said. “Stop being a pussy.”

  The word hung there between us, and on the other side was his face, his very serious face; and in the echo of that blunt honesty, I laughed. I laughed so hard, I almost split myself open; and long before I finished, Max Creason joined me.

  Three hours later, I walked up my driveway wearing a blue T-shirt with black letters that read DIG MY ROOT and holding the leash of a nine-week-old yellow Lab I’d decided to call Bone. The Johnsons told me he was the pick of the litter, and I believed them. He was very much like my old dog.

  I walked Bone to the backyard and saw my wife through the bathroom window. She wore Sunday church clothes and was practicing smiles in the mirror. I watched for a minute, then gave Bone some water and went inside. It was 9:45.

  I found Barbara in the bedroom, clipping on her earrings as she bustled about, looking at the ground as if to find her shoes or the patience to deal with me. She didn’t look up, but her voice was chipper.

  “I’m going to church. Are you coming?”

  This was an old trick. Barbara rarely went to church, and when she did, it was because she knew I’d never go. It was a guilt trip.

  “Nope. I’ve got plans.”

  “What plans?” She finally looked at me. No other questions. No reference to our fight or to my infidelity.

  “Guy stuff,” I told her.

  “That’s nice, Work.” She started from the room, then stopped. “That’s just perfect.” She stormed out.

  I followed her through the house and watched her grab her pocketbook and her keys and slam the door behind her. I poured a cup of coffee and waited. It took about five seconds.

  The door flew open and Barbara scrambled inside, locking the door behind her and turning, horrified, to me. I leaned against the sink and sipped my coffee.

  “There’s a bum in our garage!” she said.

  “No,” I replied in exaggerated disbelief.

  She peered through the window blind. “He’s just sitting there now, but I think he made a grab for me.”

  I straightened to my full height. “I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry.” I strode across the kitchen and pulled Barbara away from the door. I stepped outside, my wife crowding behind me with the telephone in her hand. “Hey!” I said. The bum looked up from the old newspaper he’d pulled from our recycling bin. His squint pulled his lips over the dark, rotten teeth. “Come on in,” I told him. Max stood. “The bathroom’s down the hall.”

  “Okay,” he said, and came inside. It took us five minutes to stop laughing after Barbara burned rubber out of the driveway.

  CHAPTER 11

  An hour later, I was showered, changed, and clear in my head for the first time in what felt like years. It may have been years. What I knew was this: All you have in life is family. If you are lucky, that includes the kind you married. I was not so fortunate, but I had Jean. I’d take the fall for her if I had to.

  I made two phone calls, the first to Clarence Hambly; after my father, he was considered the finest attorney in the county. He’d drawn up Ezra’s will. He’d just returned from church but reluctantly agreed to meet me later in the day. Next, I called Hank Robins, a private investigator in Charlotte whom I’d used on most of my murder cases. His machine picked up: “I can’t take your call right now, probably because I’m out spying on somebody. Leave your number so I don’t have to trace it.” Hank was an irreverent bastard. He was thirty now, looked forty on a rough day, and was the most fearless man I’d ever met. Plus, I liked him. I told him to call me on my cell phone.

  I left Barbara a note saying I might not be home that night and put Bone in the car. We went shopping. I bought him a new collar, leash, and dog bowls. I also picked up a thirty-pound bag of puppy food and a box of jerky treats. By the time I got back to the car, he’d chewed the leather off one of the headrests, which gave me an idea. I drove a BMW that Barbara had insisted would draw clients, which, in retrospect, was hilarious. I still owed a few grand on it and resented every payment. I took it to a shade-tree lot off Highway 150 and traded it for a five-year-old pickup. It smelled bad, but Bone seemed to like the taste of it.

  We were having lunch in the park when Hank finally called. “Work, my man! Been reading about you in the papers. How’s my favorite suit holding up?”

  “I have to admit that I’ve been better.”

  “Yeah. Figured as much.”

  “How’s your schedule these days, Hank?”

  “Always busy. I even work sometimes. What’ve you got for me? Another Rowan County tragedy of love and deception? Rival dope dealers? Not another remote-control killer, I hope.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “The best ones always are.”

  “Are you alone?” I asked.

  “I’m still in bed, if that answers your question.”

  “We need to talk in person.”

  “Salisbury, Charlotte, or in between. Just tell me when and where.”

  That was a no-brainer. I’d take any excuse to get out of town and get some breathing room. “How about six tonight at the Dunhill?” The Dunhill Hotel was on Tryon Street in downtown Charlotte. It had a great bar, full of deep and shadowed booths, and would be almost empty on a Sunday night.

  “Should I bring you a date?” Hank asked, and I heard a giggle from his end of the phone, a woman.

  “Six o’clock, Hank. And that crack will cost you the first round.” I hung up, feeling better. Hank was a good man to have on your side.

  Ezra’s attorney had made it plain that I should not arrive before two. I had half an hour. I put the dog bowls and trash into the truck and whistled for Bone. He was wet from the lake, but I let him ride up front. Halfway there and he was in my lap, head out the window. So, stinking of wet dog and used truck, I walked up the wide steps of the Hambly mansion on its sprawling acres just outside of town. The house was huge, with marble fountains, twelve-foot doors, and a four-room guest house. A plaque beside the door announced that Hambly House had been built circa 1788. I thought maybe I should genuflect.

  Judging from Clarence Hambly’s face, I did not measure up to the learned colleague he’d expected to appear on this day of holy worship. Hambly was old, lined, and strait-laced, but he stood tall in a dark suit and paisley tie. He had thick white hair and matching eyebrows, which probably added an extra fifty
dollars to his hourly rate.

  He was genteel, whereas my father had been aggressive, as mannered as Ezra had been bullish, but he was still full of it; I’d seen him in court enough times to know that his Holy Roller attitude never interfered with his shameless quest for high-dollar jury awards. His witnesses were well prepped and slick. The Ten Commandments did not hang on his office wall.

  He was old Salisbury money, and I know that my father had hated that about him, but he was good, and my father had insisted on the best, especially where money was concerned.

  “I would prefer to do this tomorrow,” he said without preamble, his eyes moving up from my scuffed hiking boots to my grass-stained blue jeans and the frayed collar of the shirt I refused to let die.

  “It’s important, Clarence. I need to do this now. I’m sorry.”

  He nodded. “Consider it a professional courtesy, then,” he said, and ushered me inside. I stepped into his marble foyer, hoping that there was no dog shit on my shoes. “Let’s go into my study.”

  I followed him down a long hall, catching a glimpse through large French doors of the pool outside and the manicured gardens beyond. The place smelled of cigars, oiled leather, and old people; I was willing to bet that his maids wore uniforms.

  His study was narrow but deep, with tall windows, more French doors, and floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Apparently, he was into antique guns, fresh-cut flowers, and the color blue. An eight-foot gold-filigree mirror hung behind his desk; in it I looked rumpled and small, which was probably intentional.

  “I’m putting your father’s estate into probate tomorrow,” he told me as he closed double doors and pointed to a leather chair. I sat. He moved behind his desk but remained standing. He looked down at me from this position of assumed authority, reminding me of how much I hated lawyer bullshit. “So there’s no reason we can’t discuss the details now. For the record, however, I was going to call you this week to schedule a meeting.”

  “Thank you for that,” I said, because I was expected to. Never mind the enormous fee he would collect as executor of Ezra’s estate. I steepled my fingers and concentrated on looking deferential, when what I wanted to do was put my feet on his desk.