Fake Alibis

by Frank Sibila

  Fake Alibis

  An Almost True Novel

  Frank Sibila

  with Adam-Troy Castro and Caren Kennedy

  BenBella Books, Inc.

  Dallas, Texas

  PROLOGUE

  GEORGE YORICK WOULD HAVE FELT BETTER had his night of uneasy dreams ended with the discovery upon waking that he’d turned into a giant insect.

  At least that kind of early morning discovery comes with the awareness that you’re the victim of cosmic forces beyond your control. You have the consolation of thinking, This is God playing with me. You can’t think, as Yorick had thought all too many mornings during his forty-two years of life, I got here by being an asshole.

  Now waking from dreams in which he’d been hanging over the edge of an abyss populated with demons screaming at him in the voice of his dear wife to discover that his head was actually hanging over the edge of a hotel room mattress, he kind of knew that the fault didn’t lie with the Almighty, blessed be He. It was his own.

  That was even before the hangover hit—hammering, colossal, Brobdignagian in its insistence on opening his skull from the inside. He moaned, tried to deny consciousness by sheer force of will, then surrendered to the inevitable and sat, fighting a wave of vertigo that would have unmanned him even without the damning sight of his own face appearing in the full-length dressing mirror on the wall beside the entertainment center.

  Yorick had never liked his own face, with its tiny little eyes and the lower quadrant that proceeded from lower lip to neck without much of a stopover at the chin. His complexion was not just milk, but skim milk, with the slight yellow tinge that liquid develops when it starts to go bad. This, combined with the slight stammer that afflicted him at moments of stress, largely limited his success with women to only the compassionate, the patient, the similarly desperate, and just last night, the paid-for. But he had never, not even on the worst day of his life, sported on his wide expanse of freckled forehead the word LOSER. But there it was: not even backward in the mirror, as it should have been, but properly situated, indicating that his bed partner of the previous evening had been thoughtful enough to apply the purple lipstick with pre-reversed lettering.

  She had been so adorable, too. Everything she’d been advertised as. Cheekbones just so, turquoise eyes just so, a mouth that had suggested this and that while promising many happy hours of the other thing. She’d worn a spangled top that had hugged her perfect breasts so tightly it might have been afraid of being abandoned by them, and she’d had black hair so sleek that, as she’d strolled with him through the ocean of neon and glitz, he hadn’t had to look at the canopy of coordinated lights above them to follow the precise pattern of the light show. But it was the purple lipstick that had gotten him most. He had never seen purple lipstick before. It was like she’d just had a grape popsicle, and it was thick and shiny, and it made him weak in the knees and totally helpless when she’d asked, “Hey, you know what we can do?” and then, instead of leaving that to his imagination, had told him. A simple whisper in his ear had created an instant tension between the urgent need to rush back to his suite at the Excalibur as soon as possible and the painful logistics of managing to walk until his pants adjusted. He remembered getting back to the room, remembered apologizing to her for the musty smell of the carpet, remembered her shoving him back on the bed and snapping his belt like a whip as she tugged it from his pants in a single practiced motion. He remembered her making him a drink from the fixings in the mini-fridge bar, remembered it hitting him like a sledgehammer, remembered closing his eyes just for one moment (a moment that he now knew lasted all night long) as she crawled toward him on all fours, showing her teeth. It had been sexy as hell. And how the hell was he supposed to have known that the wickedness of her grin as she hovered over him was not lust, either genuine or simulated, but actual evil?

  He was beginning to think he hadn’t had sex at all.

  He moaned again, stood, and went to the chair where his trousers from the night before hung like a flag draped over a soldier’s corpse. Yorick was not unsurprised when he found upon opening his wallet that she’d also taken his Visa, MasterCard, and American Express. Further searching established that Desiree had also taken his driver’s license and his two other forms of photo ID, though she had been kind enough to leave him with his Blockbuster rental card, which would no doubt be of immense help getting him back home to his wife in Connecticut. If, in fact, he still had one. Given the surreality of the day, he could not be sure, because his wedding ring was gone, too. And his ticket for tonight’s flight on Delta.

  He made his way to the bathroom, a walk that felt as arduous as crossing the Sinai. Another message for him covered the mirror over the sink and read, THIS IS WHAT LIARS GET.

  For the life of him he couldn’t remember what he’d lied to her about.

  He closed his eyes, almost falling asleep as he stood, and then opened them again, aware from the insistent pounding on the door that things had just become exponentially worse.

  ONE

  ON THE OTHER END OF THE COUNTRY, in a brightly lit restaurant filled with beautiful people and those who could afford a few precious moments in the reflected glow of their company, a man Yorick thought he knew well echoed the same journey from nirvana to sheer panic.

  Just a heartbeat earlier, Keith Custer had been flashing his best smile, a showing of teeth that were big and gleaming and lined up all in a row almost like blank business cards. That smile had earned him a little over four million in the last two years, selling commercial real estate that wouldn’t have looked quite as bright or spacious when seen in light other than that reflected by his personality; that smile had lured any number of women just as dazzling to any number of beds during any number of lunch hours or late-night assignations. It didn’t say anything in particular, that smile, but when reflected back upon a speaker in conversation, it supported the illusion that Keith found whatever was being said by the other person just as important as anything he had ever heard in his life.

  At the moment before nirvana changed to panic, he had been listening to a beautiful twenty-something blue-eyed redhead named Tiffany Watson talk about the private gallery showing of her sculptures opening in Soho this upcoming Friday evening. Given ten tries and a compass, he could not have guessed what she was going on about, because he was thinking about what she was soon going to look like flat on her back with that long, streaked hair of hers covering the pillow like a corona.

  He was fully aware that Tiffany, who was no idiot, but indeed quite brilliant, and no stranger to the phenomenon of a man only pretending to listen—familiar to the point of being able to discern the slightest flagging of any lothario’s attention by the flickering of his gaze—was nevertheless entirely taken in by him. This was because he had perfected the trick of being able to discern the delivery of witticisms or funny stories by body language alone and therefore never missed the cue to chuckle, nod, or shake his head in appreciation, even if he only had to maintain that illusion for another couple of hours at most.

  Then the smile had drained from his face, his warm and caring eyes had bulged from their sockets as if trying to escape, his complexion had turned dungeon pale, and he had dropped the champagne he’d just ordered back into the ice bucket. “Holy crap.”

  It wasn’t the first time Tiffany had seen such symptoms in older, well-to-do men. Though he hadn’t mentioned a cardiac condition or a matrimonial one, she asked him right away, “Are you having a heart attack, or is it your wife?”

  To Keith the two options were congruent. “It’s her, dammit!”

  Monica was beautiful, blonde, fifteen years younger than he, and the only human being who frightened him. Five years
earlier, chancing upon her in a bar, he’d been dazzled not only by her golden-girl beauty, which was still in Tiffany’s class, but also by her world-class skill at detecting and deflecting the bullshit flung her way by every male in her vicinity. She’d been such a challenge to seduce that he’d resorted to a previously untested and radioactive tactic: honesty. Within six months he’d not only wooed her away from Columbia Law, but also woken up one terrible morning two weeks into their honeymoon with the horrible realization that he’d married her.

  Keith had always lived by the motto that no man should ever marry any woman who—well, that had pretty much been the extent of his motto. But now he had another one, deeper and richer in consequence. No man should ever marry any woman who sees him for what he is.

  Especially if his demands on her time derail what, it turns out, would have been a much-desired career as a federal prosecutor, thus forcing her to sublimate.

  Monica always knew when he was planning to go off the reservation. He didn’t know how she knew, but she knew. Over a period of six months, ending three months ago when he’d put a certain business on retainer, she’d mysteriously shown up at five separate seductions-in-progress, each time seemingly by coincidence, each time with a grinning cat-caught-the-canary relish that unmanned him more than any amount of tears and fury would have. Keith had another motto. No man should ever marry a woman scarier than himself.

  Tiffany was awed. “Look at you. She must be something.”

  “She’s the Antichrist,” Keith said.

  Across the room Monica chatted with the maître d’. She had not yet swept the room with her gaze, not yet given any sign that she saw her husband, but the sheer there-ness of her, the sheer it’s-happening-again of her, crowded the elegant dining room in a manner that no mere elephant stampede could have managed. At one horrific moment, she almost looked Keith’s way, and Keith almost died. “Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

  “Gee,” said Tiffany, who was inconsiderate enough to enjoy this. “I honestly didn’t expect to hear that for a couple of hours yet.”

  “Sssshhh! She could have heard that!”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes. “We haven’t done anything, Keith. We’re just considering doing something. A consideration that is growing more remote with every second.”

  “Oh God. Oh God. She’s looking.”

  Tiffany rolled her eyes again. “Why don’t you go hide in the bathroom or something?”

  Keith found that to be a good brainstorm and, after somehow managing to rise to his feet, executed the even more impressive trick of making a beeline for the restroom, bowed at the waist like an operatic baritone thanking a concert hall audience for his standing ovation.

  The men’s room attendant goggled at Keith’s posture and urgency, probably assuming a bad case of food poisoning, jumped well out of the way of any potential splash zone, and allowed Keith unfettered access to the center stall between two patrons whose errands were more traditionally excretory and whose Guccis could be clearly seen planted before their respective thrones. Keith, who didn’t trust the vestibule and the outer door clearly marked MEN enough to protect him, bolted the stall door and then hopped onto the toilet and squatted there, birdlike, regarding the door before him as if expecting it to disgorge a tiger at any moment. Panic made his hands tremble as he jabbed at the buttons of his slimline cell phone.

  Tiffany picked up. “Hello, Mr. Inconspicuous. The whole room’s talking about that exit.”

  “Listen to me, Tiff. Stay where you are.”

  “Why would I leave?” she asked. “I haven’t been served yet.”

  “Just stay there, and don’t say anything if she comes over.”

  “That’s going to be awfully rude if she asks any direct questions.”

  “Pretend you’re deaf-mute. Anything. I’m calling for help.”

  She said nothing.

  “Tiffany?”

  She still said nothing. He wondered if they’d been disconnected, but he could still hear the lugubrious violin music and clinking sounds of cutlery on the other end.

  He was going to call her name again, but then he thought about it, wondered whether she was enjoying herself a little too much, and said, “Yes, like that,” and hung up.

  Ten minutes later, Frank Sibila, founder and CEO of Fake Alibi, Inc., hopped out of his Jag and tossed a folded twenty at a valet who recognized him from TV and grinned with deep appreciation. “Duuuuuuuuuude,” the kid said. “Ain’t you that guy?”

  Frank allowed his cocky grin to fall. “Damn. I thought you were.”

  “You, like, on the case, dude?—No, no, no, don’t answer that. I already know. If you told me, you’d have to kill me, right?”

  Honestly, Frank had not been about to say that. “Thanks for keeping my secret, dude.”

  The kid shot him a thumbs-up and attempted the same insouciant hop into the Jag, not quite managing the leap without wreaking a six-inch tear in his inseam.

  There were times when Frank deeply regretted the People magazine interview, and the appearances on Oprah (who hated him) and The Clark Dilton Experience (Dilton being the right-wing pundit who called him a sign of America’s deep moral crisis, but afterward put him on retainer). True, the infamy led to more referrals, and more referrals led to more money, but the recognition factor made personal involvement in the business more difficult. That caused problems on days like today when every other service rep on his staff was out on assignment and he had to get personally involved to help out a client whose needs were immediate. He hoped the wife, described to him as a shark, piranha, and several other varieties of sea-based predator, didn’t watch TV. It would make things much easier.

  Before he passed the red carpet and the two brass cherubs guarding the front entrance, he flipped open his phone to dial Keith Custer, but the dulcet tones of “Tell Me Lies” announced an incoming call before he had the chance. Of course. It had been a full ninety seconds since Keith last dialed demanding to know where he was. “Hello, Keith. Legs cramped yet?”

  “Where are you?” Keith demanded. “You said you were almost here!”

  “I’m afraid that’s no longer true, Keith.”

  The anguished moan at the other end was probably the only thing Keith had said or done in that toilet stall those last ten minutes to support the illusion that he had a legitimate reason for being there. “What did you do, make a wrong turn?”

  “No, actually, I made every correct turn, sped through every yellow light, and got here in record time. Relax. It’s all under control. You still perched with your feet on the toilet, or have you come to your senses and assumed a less incriminating position?”

  Keith was still dancing on the edge of panic. “You mean I should be standing?”

  A nexus of pain formed at the bridge of Frank’s nose, right between his eyes. He massaged it between index finger and thumb. “No, really, I think you’ve blown any chance you might have had of roping the attendant and your fellow men’s room users into your uncannily persuasive deception. Listen. You need to sit down, get your breathing under control, flush the toilet, then wash your face and pull yourself together. You said this Tiffany is still out there waiting for you?”

  “She’s having a great time. She says she’s on her third glass of champagne.”

  “Where’s your wife?”

  “Tiff tells me she’s sitting at a table by herself, staring daggers at my empty seat. I don’t know if she’s ordered anything. Probably not. When she gets a look like that, waiters get scared of her.”

  “Have you told her I’m on the way?”

  “You mean Monica?”

  “No,” Frank said patiently. “Telling Monica would be counterproductive.”

  “You mean Tiffany.”

  “Thank Heaven for the process of elimination.”

  “Yes, I told her. She’s looking forward to seeing
you work.”

  “All right,” Frank said. “Wait two more minutes. Then go back out, kiss Tiff on the cheek—not, for pete’s sake, on the lips—apologize for leaving her for so long, and then return to your seat. Be charming. Make yourself conspicuous. If you make eye contact with your wife or if she comes to the table, act delighted to see her. Introduce Tiffany and me. I’ll provide your cover story before she has time to ask you any questions.”

  Frank flipped the phone shut imagining, as always, the distant sound of an orchestra tuning up while the actors behind the curtain reviewed their opening lines and inspected their front teeth for pieces of spinach left over from lunch. It was showbiz, really. Improv. Except on a larger stage and with fewer drunks in the front row responding to any request for an occupation with raucous cries of “hooker!” It was just a matter of getting into character….

  He entered the restaurant and strode past the muted tones of the foyer with the coat check and lounge. The sizeable population of midday drinkers, already alerted to the presence of a fourth-tier celebrity of the moment by the jungle drums that always spread such rumors as fast as electronic communication could, swiveled on their stools to witness the drama they expected to ensue. He stopped at the maître d’ long enough to say he was there to join a party already in progress and then used his expert eye to scan the dining room for Keith or the two women he knew would be otherwise dining alone. He spotted an elegant redhead hiding a half-smile at a table with two place settings. Ten tables away sat a fuming predatory blonde whose fingers were lined up at the edge of her tablecloth as if she intended to shred it. He had not asked Keith for physical descriptions of Tiffany and Monica, but the body language was not exactly cuneiform etched into ancient stone blocks. Stamping a broad grin across his face and extending a hand, he made his way directly across the room and cried, just a little too loudly, “There you are, Tiff!”

  She looked up, not recognizing him but, bless her, getting the cue at once. A warm smile, filled with ersatz but entirely persuasive affection, brightened her already brilliant blue eyes. She offered her cheek for a kiss. “Yes, here I am! What took you so long?”