Veneer

by Daniel Verastiqui

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I... I reconciled you!” he stammered.

  “You can still do it?” asked Abernathy, rejoining the conversation.

  Deron couldn’t hold back the smile. “I guess I’m only damaged, not broken. I think it’s coming back.”

  “Residual veneer,” said the old man. “It will go away if you don’t try to use it.”

  “But what if I want to? What if I want to reconcile again?”

  “Why?” shouted Abernathy. “So you can go back to the dream world?”

  “Yes,” said Deron, standing on his own. He looked to Timo again, but there was little expression on his face.

  Abernathy made an indeterminate gesture and stalked to the back door. “Throw this one back, Timo. He’s not ready to wake up yet.” He slammed the door and was gone.

  “Come on,” said Timo. As they walked out, he grumbled, “I don’t know one person who has learned the truth and wanted to go back.”

  Stopping outside the door, Deron replied, “But you also never knew anyone who could still reconcile.”

  “Reconciliation is a lie!”

  “I know,” said Deron, calmly, “but I believe in it.”

  Timo shook his head and walked away without further comment.

  37 - Jalay

  “Sometimes, children just snap,” said Principal Ficcone. “You remember what it was like when the hormones started kicking in? Thirteen and full of... full of it, anyway, and nowhere to put it. Then you throw in all these damn video games and synthetic drugs and it’s no wonder we lose a few here and there. Most of ‘em are good kids, but there’s always one little square peg to deal with every year, one little monster that spoils it for everyone else. From the day Russo walked through my doors, I knew he was going to be trouble.”

  They were sitting in the principal’s office after a brief stopover with Nurse Hendricks. She had fixed up Jalay’s face, but didn’t give him anything to stop the pounding in his head. A short gash above his eye had needed a couple of stitches, but with the help of a remote doctor, she was able to sew him up. Now they were just waiting for his dad to come take him home. Evidently, having his face slammed into a locker meant a half-day.

  “He doesn’t know his place,” said the other man, a hint of authority in his voice. “I’m younger than you, but even when I was coming up, we knew exactly where we stood.”

  “I blame the parents. If fathers would only beat their sons, we wouldn’t have any of the trouble we have today.” When the stranger shifted in his chair, Ficcone asked, “How were you disciplined?”

  The man’s chuckle sounded forced. “With a belt gripped by an iron fist. And he beat us for everything. Forgetting to clean my room, laughing at the dinner table. And that was just second grade.”

  “This Rivera kid needs a beating,” said Principal Ficcone, motioning to the set of paddles on his wall. “We’re not allowed to use those, but if I could...”

  “Are you sure we should be talking about this in front of your student?”

  The principal scoffed noisily. “Hey, Chapman, do you think your friend deserves a beating?”

  Jalay nodded.

  “That’s a nasty bump you’ve got there,” said the man, rising from his chair. He approached slowly and sat down on the bench next to Jalay. Offering his hand, he said, “I’m Ruiz. Your name is Jalay, correct?”

  Again a nod, again a throbbing pain in his face.

  “I was hoping to talk to you today about Russo Rivera and Deron Bishop, but I understand you will be leaving early. Are you up for a quick chat now?”

  “What’s there to talk about?” he asked. “Russo attacked me. You should arrest him.” Each word stung his jaw, making his sentences brief and labored. “Are you even looking for him?”

  “One hundred percent yes,” Ruiz assured him. “We would like to talk to Russo about his possible involvement in Deron’s disappearance.”

  “What? When did that happen?” Jalay reconciled the image in his mind: an angry Russo, a cowering Deron, and a second and final conflict. Russo had probably killed him. Killed him and stuffed his body in a dumpster downtown. Anything was possible now.

  “Just yesterday,” said Ruiz, “but we’ve been observing him for a few days now. There’s not much that goes on in this city without us knowing about it.”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Not quite. My organization...” He paused, searched for the right word. “We augment your local police force.”

  Jalay stared back blankly.

  “You can trust him,” said Principal Ficcone. He stood and walked to the window where he surveyed the empty street in front of the school. “Agents have been in Easton since the beginning. Think of them like the FBI or CIA, if that helps.”

  “Is this because Russo was hanging out at the po—” He stopped short, uneasy with the growing interest on the agent’s face.

  Agent Ruiz put his hand on the wall and reconciled a large portal. He brought up various pictures in a slow procession, some of them mug shots, others obvious surveillance footage. “Rivera, Chapman, Bishop, Kahani, Collier, and Yushchenko,” he said, pointing to each picture individually. “You know these people?”

  “Know them? I’m one of them.”

  “Right. What about him?” The last blank filled with the image of an older man who had tags on his collar not unlike the agent’s.

  “Who’s he?”

  “An agent. Like Deron, he was unaccounted for.” There was anger in his voice, professionally subdued. “Unlike Deron, Agent Tavarez has been found.” Suddenly, he turned to Principal Ficcone. “Do you have any objection to me telling him?”

  A shrug. The principal broke from the window and approached with his arms folded. “What do you say, Chapman? Do you want to be a big boy and live in the real world? Or has Agent Ruiz already impressed upon you the seriousness of the situation?”

  What was serious was that Russo had attacked two students. One of them went to the hospital and the other couldn’t think straight due to the spike of hot death boring into his brain.

  “Jalay,” said the agent, his voice steady, “Agent Tavarez is dead.”

  A name called out from his memory. “Eric?”

  The agent’s eyebrows furrowed. “Yes, Agent Eric Tavarez. You do know him?”

  “No. I mean, Russo told me about him. It was a few weeks back. He got busted for trespassing and when they took him in, he said a guy named Eric ID’d him.” He circled his face with his hand. “Like, the real him.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Principal Ficcone.

  “Russo said Eric saw through his veneer.” He pointed to the mug shot on the wall. “That’s what Russo really looks like, but it’s not a veneer he wears.”

  The principal took a second look and after a moment, it clicked for him. “I’ll be damned, he’s right.” It sounded like it pained him to admit such a thing. “That boy always wore the same thing to school and this isn’t it.” He turned to the agent. “How did you get that picture?”

  “Reconciled during his booking, I imagine,” said Agent Ruiz.

  “But how did Eric see under his veneer?”

  “I’m sure he didn’t.” The agent looked squarely at Jalay. “An agent seeing under someone’s veneer is a good story, right? Because if that happened, Russo never caved, right? More than likely, he was scared enough to do as he was told. I know his type. He may act tough, but people like him crumble when they’re cornered.” A shrug. “Everyone does.”

  No, thought Jalay. That was the old Russo, before he became a slave to his obsession. If he had made the whole thing up, he wouldn’t have stalked the agent for three weeks. Someone was lying about something. That he was leaning towards Russo as the voice of reason made Jalay queasy.

  The agent coughed. “You disagree?”

  Jalay reached out mentally for his veneer, checking to make sure it was in place. To anyone observing him, his expression would have been blank, a little apathe
tic. Underneath, there was conflict in his eyes, but no one should have been able to see that.

  “You know, I’m coming to you man to man because I thought this would be easier for you. This isn’t a courtroom; anything you say will not be repeated outside of this room.”

  Jalay parted his lips slightly and drew in as much air as he could. When his lungs were about to burst, he brought his teeth together and began to press. The pain was excruciating, but he kept the pressure on. Without moving his face, he flexed every muscle in his head. Soon his whole face would turn bright red. Principal Ficcone wouldn’t see it, not through the veneer. But if the agent reacted in any way...

  Agent Ruiz stood and walked a few paces away. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. A man is dead!” His voice pitched rapidly. “Does that mean anything to you? I have it on good authority that Russo was stalking Agent Tavarez and that he spent every night last week at the TNC Bank, waiting.” He took a deep breath as he looked away. “I also know he wasn’t alone.”

  By now, Jalay could feel the throbbing in his entire face. He must have looked strange sitting there completely rigid, his head slowly turning into a red balloon. To his credit, the agent seemed unaffected, though there was a glance here and there that suggested some insight.

  “Answer the agent,” urged Principal Ficcone.

  The eyes on Jalay’s veneer jumped to the principal, but underneath, he kept his gaze on the agent.

  “Here’s what I think happened. You and Russo waited at the TNC Bank until Agent Tavarez left the police department across the street. At that time, the two of you followed him home, entered his apartment under false pretenses, and then proceeded to murder him and desecrate his body.”

  “Please!” said the principal.

  “No!” Agent Ruiz’ voice rose again, speaking to some hidden power. “You were there, weren’t you, Jalay? You and Russo cut the eyes out of agent together!”

  Jalay wasn’t even listening anymore, not with the pain buzzing in his ears. It was a battle of wills and after suffering for so long under Russo’s heel, he wasn’t about to submit to an agent with a loud voice. It could have been true, the bits and pieces that Jalay caught. There was something about a body, about his involvement in a murder, but it was probably just an act. The agent was trying to rattle him, make him abandon his silly test. Another idea flashed in his head. If the agent was upset because he saw the rage in Jalay’s face, then...

  Turning wasn’t an option, but there was enough residual memory to recall Eric’s face. Without breaking the tension, he reconciled the fallen agent’s appearance onto his own. There was no initial reaction from the agent, but Principal Ficcone completely lost his shit.

  “Chapman!” He stomped his foot, sent a tremor through the floor.

  Quickly dropping the veneer, Jalay let go of the breath he had been straining to hold. It was all there in the agent’s face, that look of shock at the principal’s sudden outburst.

  “I think that is enough for today,” said Principal Ficcone.

  Again, hesitation, brief but there. “Fine,” said Agent Ruiz. He looked quickly between the principal and Jalay.

  They had gone past the point of civil conversation, but the agent made no attempt to leave. After a few uncomfortable seconds, Principal Ficcone became impatient.

  “I’m afraid you will have to bring him in for questioning under official channels,” he announced. Then to Jalay, “Come on, we’ll wait for your father outside.”

  Jalay smiled warmly at the agent as he followed Principal Ficcone out of the office; his veneer didn’t react at all.

  In the relative seclusion of the hallway, the principal grabbed Jalay roughly by the arm. “What the hell is wrong with you? You don’t reconcile the faces of the dead, especially not one of them!”

  “Agent Ruiz didn’t seem to mind,” answered Jalay.

  “Because he, unlike you, has self-control. Now you’ve insulted an agent. Two agents! If you learn one thing in my school, Jalay, it’s that you don’t fuck with agents!”

  Jalay felt himself drawn in by the principal’s harsh language. Leaning closer, he whispered, “You saw how upset he got just talking about Eric. Do you really think he’d keep his cool if a punk like me reconciled his coworker’s face?”

  The fury drained from Ficcone’s face as recognition took hold.

  “It wasn’t self-control,” said Jalay, staring down the hall as if Agent Ruiz were hiding around the corner. “He wasn’t offended by my veneer because that lying son of a bitch didn’t see it.”

  38 - Rosalia

  There was a cruiser parked on the street in front of Deron’s house, complete with a fresh-from-the-academy uniform leaning against it, every fiber of his being trying not to succumb to the boredom of his assignment. He didn’t seem all too interested in the world around him until Rosalia started coming down the street, at which point his head turned at the welcome distraction. His eyes looked her up and down and even though she stared back, he wouldn’t turn away.

  So brash, she thought, so unapologetic in his lewdness. He probably wasn’t always like that. He might have even been polite and respectful at some point. It was the badge that changed all that. All veneers were masks, but for most people it meant they could hide who they really were. For a majority of the Easton police force, it meant they could finally be themselves.

  If Ilya had been there—and for a moment she wished she were—she might not have been so forgiving of the man’s lustful stare. Ilya would have stripped off her shirt and bra and shoved her chest in his face and screamed, “There! Is that better?!”

  The thought made Rosalia smile, but she did so inwardly, under her veneer. She hid her feelings automatically now, felt it was the best way to avoid questions. The only time she let them shine through was around Ilya, not so much because she liked and trusted her, but because there had to be someone in the world that she could open up to besides Deron.

  It was different with Ilya, though Rosalia wasn’t sure why.

  She seemed to take everything in stride; the Vinestead building was a perfect example. Rosalia had dragged her away from school and into downtown only to sit across the street from an abandoned building and discuss nothing but the nightmarish visions of other Canvas players. A strange feeling had come over her when they crossed the street and approached the doors, that perhaps it was all a lost cause. And as they stood there reading the poorly reconciled notice on the nameplate, she couldn’t help but apologize to Ilya for wasting her time. As expected, Ilya tried to reassure her that it was okay, that she would rather spend the day away from school with her than be stuck listening to Mr. Quan recite the laws of physics.

  The uniform didn’t say anything until Rosalia turned up the path towards Deron’s front door. And even then he had to clear his throat first, as if he had been salivating over her.

  “Can I help you, young lady?”

  Rosalia barely paused to mutter, “No.”

  “Are you an acquaintance of Mrs. Bishop?”

  Stopping halfway up the sidewalk, she turned in place. “Ms. Bishop. And I’m sure that’s none of your damn business.” There it was, thought Rosalia. The quickest way to turn off that sexual fire was to question their domain.

  “Everything is my business,” he proclaimed, subconsciously touching his belt, as if having a dick were some kind of sanction. “Ms. Bishop is not receiving any visitors at the moment.”

  “It’s okay,” said a voice from behind her.

  Rosalia turned and saw Ania standing in the doorway; her body language contradicted the polished veneer she wore.

  “Come in, Rosalia,” she continued, beckoning.

  Casting a triumphant glance at the uniform, Rosalia followed Ania into the house. For a moment, she stood dumbfounded in the foyer. Although she had only been to Deron’s house a few times, she had never seen it so spotless. She looked at his mom with wide eyes.

  “I clean when I’m nervous,” she explained. “I made some tea. Would you lik
e some?”

  “Please,” replied Rosalia, though she wasn’t a bit thirsty.

  In the kitchen, the virginal motif continued. The counters were bare and their black marble veneers had been reconciled to a radiant sheen. On the stove was a solitary teapot; steam was just barely visible rising from its spout.

  “Tea is good for the soul,” said Ania.

  Rosalia had never spoken with Deron’s mom for any appreciable time, so she wasn’t sure if she was just making conversation or not. She had always seen her as a protective mother, unwilling to let another woman tear the last piece of her family away. Rosalia could relate to the fear of abandonment, but she didn’t know how to bring it up, how to expose how similar the two women were.

  “Why aren’t you at school?” She placed a cup on the table in the dining nook and motioned for Rosalia to sit.

  “I wanted to see you,” she replied. “I know how I feel about Deron being missing, but I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”

  “No, you can’t.” Her gaze fell on the patio doors.

  Rosalia didn’t know what to say, how to continue after that. Though Ania had been right, it only took those three words to trivialize Rosalia’s relationship with Deron to an insignificant speck.

  “I miss him too,” she said, mostly to herself. “We went looking for him last night, me and Sebo. Ilya too.”

  “Are they also cutting class today?”

  “I don’t know. Sebo is his best friend, but I don’t think he loves Deron like we do.” Her confidence faltered as Ania narrowed her eyes. Whatever questions she had about the validity of Rosalia’s love went unspoken. “I can’t concentrate on school right now,” she added.

  “You need to,” said Ania in her parenting voice. “You can’t skip out on your education for your boyfriend. For all you know, you would have broken up over the summer anyway.”

  “Maybe,” she admitted. Ania was being cold, but a little placation might turn her around. “But we’re not there yet. I’m not stupid. I know it might not last forever. Just... while I have him, you know? I just want to do my part.” Her eyes drifted during her slow delivery and when she looked back, she saw Ania looking at her. Whether there were tears or even the slightest emotion behind that veneer, she couldn’t tell, but at least the woman was acknowledging her presence.