Trust Me, I'm Lying

by Mary Elizabeth Summer

  “I beg your pardon,” she says with a huff as her heels tromp down a stair or two past me.

  I’ve barely breathed a sigh of relief when she stops and turns. She climbs back up to my level and gives me a searching look.

  “Do I know you?” she demands.

  A lesser con artist would shake her head in a mute appeal for the woman to wave off the nagging feeling of recognition and go. But my father taught me better than that.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I say, adding a slight Boston accent to my voice that Ms. Scott lacked. “I had the pleasure of serving you on one of your previous visits to the club.”

  Is it a risk? Of course; this could be her first time at the Strand. But the bigger risk is answering counter to her instincts. That kind of thing is memorable. And since Mrs. Stratton is the kind of person who is obsessed with appearances, the kind of person who only notices people she wants to notice her, waitstaff would be all but invisible to her. It’s a risk, but a calculated one. Like every other con.

  She hmms and continues down the stairs, casting a final “You are covered in dust” over her shoulder. I have to find Sam and get out before any more “luck” comes my way.

  I’m up and down the stairs and hallways a half dozen times before I finally track him down. He’s in a sitting room in the presidential suite, laying out a tea service.

  “Your newness is no excuse for your deplorable tray preparation,” I hear the manager berating him. “Your doily is hanging half off the tray, your cups are right side up instead of lying on their sides, your teaspoons are in a jumbled pile, and you call that a fan of napkins? Disgraceful.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” I interrupt, clinging to the door as if I’m intimidated by the manager.

  “Fantastic,” the manager says, throwing his hands in the air. “Charles sends me another trainee when I need to have this service set in ten minutes.”

  “Actually, sir, Charles asked me to bring Dwayne back to the kitchen.”

  The manager makes a disgusted noise and waves us away. “Fine, fine. It would be faster if I did it myself.”

  Sam backs away a few steps before turning and making a beeline for the door.

  “What took you so long?” he says as we jog down the stairs.

  “Mrs. Stratton,” I mumble.

  “What?”

  “Never mind. We have to get out of here.”

  I put a gloved hand on his elbow and herd him down the nearest stairwell. Trooping down stairs takes more time than I’d like, but I feel safer in the boxed-in switchbacks of a stairwell than I do in the open lobby. Disguises are great, but avoiding contact altogether is better.

  “Did you find it?”

  “I think so, but—”

  Before I can finish, we burst through the basement door and run into the sous-chef we met earlier, standing next to a pair of security guards.

  “That’s them,” says the sous-chef, pointing at us.

  THE MERRY CHASE

  I barrel backward into Sam, who is still holding the door to the stairwell open. Sometimes bluffing your way out is not an option. The trick is to know when it’s time to turn tail and run. Like now, for instance.

  Sam instinctively pulls the door shut and grabs the crash bar, holding it in the locked position against the pulling and pounding from the other side.

  “Grabbing your belt,” I say as I whip off his belt and then my own. I loop the first belt around the metal stair railing behind me, threading the end through the metal clasp and pulling it tight. Then I loop the other belt around the crash bar and pull it tight. The belts almost reach each other, but not quite. There’s about six inches between them.

  “I can’t hold it much longer.” Sweat stands out on Sam’s forehead as he strains against the bucking door. He puts a foot against the wall for more leverage.

  I drop to my knees and pull my shoelace free. Fastest costume change in the West. I thread the lace through the beltbuckle holes on each belt and double-knot the excess.

  “Let’s go!” I’m bounding up the stairs even as I say it.

  Sam runs after me, not bothering to look back to see if the belts are holding the crash bar.

  I swing out of the stairwell onto the third floor and race to the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be a supply closet packed to the gills with towels, toilet paper, cleaning carts, and other hotel paraphernalia. Sam squishes in behind me and closes the door.

  We’re pressed up against each other so close I can hear his blood racing and feel his breath on my cheek.

  “Why’d we run?” he pants. “We could have let ourselves get caught. What’s the big deal if we get kicked out?”

  “We have a spotless record—never been caught. I’d rather not start getting sloppy now,” I say, thinking about how long his parents would let him continue associating with me once I let him get pinched for doing anything even marginally illicit.

  “Well, what now?”

  We can’t go back for the delivery-guy outfits, since the sous-chef saw us in those as well. I pull off my wig and goatee, which are useless now, damn it. Good wigs are not cheap.

  It is simply time for Plan B, as my father would say. But I hate having to go with Plan B. Plan B is invariably not as strong as Plan A. Obviously, or it would be Plan A.

  “I have an idea.” I speed-dial Mike’s number.

  When he picks up, I say, “How fast can you run?”

  Three minutes later, I hang up with Mike and start stripping. Sam clears his throat and shifts uncomfortably. I’m hoping he doesn’t think to ask who I called.

  “Take off your vest,” I say as I squirm against him, trying to get my pants off.

  “This is not exactly what I—”

  “Stuff a sock in it, Sam. We don’t have time to coddle your delicate sensibilities. Ditch the vest.”

  “Taking off my vest isn’t going to make up for my being the only ethnically ambiguous guy in a sea of white people.”

  “Which is why you’re going to hide in the supply cart.” I finally get down to my bra and underwear and start unfastening his vest for him.

  “No one will fall for that.” His voice catches a little. I don’t blame him—the thought of riding around in a cart, helpless in securing his own escape … must be maddening.

  I tug the vest off him and toss it into the nearest cart.

  “Gloves, too,” I say. “If you do have to make a run for it, I don’t want you looking like a waiter. You might be able to lose them in a crowd in a white shirt and black pants.”

  “I don’t think you’ll blend into a crowd very well in your underwear,” he says.

  “O ye of little faith,” I say, and tug the nearest maid’s dress from a clothes rack on the other side of the door. It’s a stretch, since there are two carts between me and the dress. I pull it on and repin my hair.

  “How do I look?”

  Sam’s face is unreadable. “Like a million bucks,” he says.

  “I was going more for minimum wage.”

  “That, too,” he says, his voice husky.

  A walkie crackles out in the hall as one of the security guards approaches.

  “Quick,” I say, pulling the cart’s curtain aside. It’s empty. Thank goodness for lazy maids.

  Sam dives into place, folding his lanky frame into the cramped quarters.

  “Next time I get the dress,” Sam whispers.

  I shush him and drop the curtain. Then I back out the way we came in, pulling the cart with me, and barely miss bumping into the guard.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, assuming my most oppressed working-class expression.

  “Have you seen two waiters come by?”

  I shake my head and push my cart to the first door I see. I pretend to pull a key card out of my pocket, but the security guard has already moved down the hall and turned the corner.

  “Are we there yet?” Sam asks.

  I kick the frame of the cart to shut him up and move as leisurely as I can to the elevator.

&n
bsp; The smooth jazz in the elevator makes me think of those scenes in comic caper movies where the hero enters some sort of wormhole of calm in the chaos of the chase. Like the juxtaposition is necessary to give the viewer a greater sense of impending doom. The elevator is our waiting-room scene, I guess. It would be amusing except that I have to worry about Mike.

  Sam still doesn’t know that I know about Mike. I don’t like lying to Sam, and I like letting Sam get away with being such a henpecking nursemaid even less. In any case, I can’t have Sam figuring out that I know about Mike and am using him for my own ends at Sam’s expense. Ugh—another reason I’m not a fan of this whole arrangement. Still, we’re in trouble, and Mike is in a position to help.

  When we finally get to the bathroom where we left the coveralls, Mike is already there. He opens his mouth to greet me, but I put my finger to my lips and shake my head sternly. He clamps his mouth shut with no further urging.

  I drag Sam’s coveralls out from where we stashed them and hand them to Mike.

  “Put this on,” I say as I rustle around in the cart for my wig and goatee. The goatee might not stick anymore, but it isn’t really necessary, anyway. If all goes according to plan, the guards will only see Mike’s rapidly retreating back.

  He shoots me a questioning look. I point at the cart and mouth Sam.

  Mike’s eyes widen, but he stays silent as he steps into the coveralls and zips up. They barely fit. Mike’s shoulders and chest are wider than Sam’s, so the suit is stretched tight. But Sam’s taller than Mike, who is closer to my height, so there’s a lot of extra fabric down around Mike’s boots. Oh, well. Doesn’t have to be perfect.

  Mike puts the wig on and attempts to add the goatee. It doesn’t look that trustworthy, but again, it’s not really important. I might be fooled from a distance into thinking Mike is me if I’d only seen me for a split second, the way the guards did.

  “Here’s the plan,” I say in a hurried whisper. “You get the guards’ attention and run out the front while we sneak out the back.”

  He nods and leaves the bathroom. I wait until I hear him shout in “surprise” at being discovered. Then I wheel Sam out the door and down the narrow hall we came through a couple of hours ago.

  My pulse quickens as I turn the corner and see the light from the alley framing the door to the outside. We’re almost there, almost there, almost there.…

  “Hold it!”

  THE MOLOTOV

  I stop, catching my breath, as the sous-chef comes trotting after us.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” he says, his expression angry.

  “To take out the trash,” I say, taking a chance.

  “You’re not supposed to take the cart out of the building. Didn’t Sally train you on the proper protocol?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, thinking fast. “It’s heavy, and I’m afraid I’ll strain my back. Which means I’d have to file a workers’ compensation claim. And I’d hate to have to fill out the forms.”

  The sous-chef blanches a little at that. I gambled that he’d be held responsible for an injury happening on his shift, and I won. Mark one for the grifter.

  “All right, but bring it back in immediately. Have one of the staff help you lift the bin.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, and duck my head.

  He spins even as I say it and marches back down the hall. Infuriating busybody. Not for the first time, I feel a stab of guilt-tempered gratitude that grifting lets me avoid working for jerks like him.

  I push the cart out the door and into the alley. As I suspected, once the “intruder” was sighted, the back door was left completely unguarded.

  I love it when things go according to plan.

  “All right, Sam. Come on out.”

  Sam spills from the side of the cart onto the concrete. He pushes himself up by his shirt-covered forearms, clearly trying to avoid dirtying his hands on the questionable alley floor. I can’t say I blame him; I’ve been through a lot of alleys in my time, and I wouldn’t want to touch them, either, though I still have to roll my eyes at his squeamishness. Rich people. So predictable.

  “Who were you talking to? Who met us in the bathroom?”

  “Never mind that now,” I say, and show him the airplane I found in the secret room.

  He takes it and turns it over in his hands. “Why an airplane?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  He chuckles. “Which is funny, because that’s what it’s supposed to be.”

  I grumble under my breath.

  “What’s this?” Sam asks. He shows me the side of the airplane, where its tiny door-hatch has cracked open.

  I snatch the plane back from him and pry the door open a little farther, peering into the barrel of the fuselage. There’s something stuffed inside. I wedge two of my fingers through the door, trying to get the paper out.

  “It’s too small.”

  “Let me see,” Sam says, and I hand it back to him. He turns the plane upside down and every which way before handing it back to me. “We’ll have to find a pair tweezers.”

  Once we’re safely back in my apartment, Sam heads to the table with the airplane while I rummage around the bathroom until I find the tweezers in a black pouch my dad keeps his shaving stuff in. I feel a twinge of renewed worry. The longer it takes me to find him, the greater the sting when I think of him or see something that reminds me of him.

  I hustle back to Sam and hand him the tweezers. Sam opens the door and carefully extracts the paper.

  THERE IS NO ESCAPE FROM THE DOGFISH.

  “What the hell’s a dogfish? What does it have to do with an airplane? What does either have to do with the mob?” I toss the paper on the kitchen table in frustration.

  Sam gives me a sympathetic look but no answers. Maybe Ralph can help me again. I’d rather keep him out of it if I can. He’s not big enough to be on the mob’s radar yet, but if he starts getting in their way, he stands to lose a lot more than his business. Turf is sacred to the mob. Almost as sacred as family.

  But going back to Ralph is the only thing I can think of, and I’m getting tired of thinking. I rub my eyes and check my watch. Eight p.m. Ralph should be closing up the storefront.

  I look up to find Sam typing away on his laptop, which I didn’t even notice him getting out.

  “What are you doing?”

  “The FBI database. I think I’m almost there. I had to send the director an email from a dummy account with some sleeper code that executes from the email itself.”

  “A virus?”

  “More like a back door into the system. It sets me up with a username and a password from inside their firewall—as if I’m hooked directly into the system.”

  “I didn’t think that was possible.”

  Sam smiles. “It is if you’re me.”

  “Well, I’m off to Ralph’s,” I say, standing up. Then I look down at the maid’s dress I’m still wearing. “After a quick change.”

  “Can I watch?” Sam smiles wickedly.

  I smack the back of his head as I pass by.

  I’m dressed in my usual jeans, T-shirt, hoodie, and jacket in two minutes flat. Sam has already packed his gear.

  “Want company?” he asks.

  Since I’m guessing I’ll already have company, I shake my head.

  “No thanks. It’s better if I talk to Ralph alone this time.”

  “All right,” he says, his reluctance showing in his hesitation.

  “Don’t worry so much, Sam,” I say, giving him a lopsided smile as I sling my bag over my shoulder. “I can get myself out of anything I can get myself into.”

  “Speaking of,” Sam says as we walk out the door and down the stairs, “you dodged my question earlier about who was in that bathroom.”

  I’ve taught him too well. “A friend who owed me a favor. You don’t know him.”

  “How is it possible you know someone I don’t?”

  “I could have a life outside St. Agatha’s.”

&nbs
p; “Do you?”

  “Well, not as such,” I admit. “He’s a friend of my dad’s who owes him a favor.” Now why didn’t I think of that before? Lying to Sam always throws me off my game.

  “You’re changing your story,” Sam says, suspicious.

  “Fine,” I grumble. “He’s a cop who almost busted me on that Skinner job.”

  “What?” Sam nearly stumbles on the last few steps in his shock. “When? For which part?”

  “Remember when I was late coming back from tagging that water tower?”

  “You said that was because you almost got caught by the facilities bureau.”

  “I fibbed.” Actually, I did almost get nabbed by the facilities bureau—specifically, a ranger in a park-issued pickup truck.

  “Why?”

  “I didn’t want you to worry.”

  “Well, I’m worried now,” he says, glaring at me. “Don’t do that again. Just tell me the truth.”

  And now I feel like dirt.

  “Okay,” I say in a small voice, duly chastised.

  “Why does he owe you a favor?” he asks as he holds the front door open for me.

  “I gave him a tip on a big-deal case.”

  “What are you talking about? You don’t work with the police. Ever. It’s con artist rule, like, three-eighty-four.”

  “I know, I know,” I say. “Forget about it, okay? Go home.”

  Sam sighs, opening the door to his car. “Can I at least give you a ride to Ralph’s?”

  “And have you grill me for the next ten minutes? I think I’ll pass.”

  Sam shakes his head and slides into the driver’s seat. Seconds later, he’s pulled into traffic and out of sight.

  “Did you tell him you know about me?” Mike asks as he comes up behind me. He hands me the neatly folded coveralls.