The Identity Man

by Andrew Klavan

  Shannon still liked Karen well enough. He was just tired of her, that's all. He figured they were tired of each other. It was just like anything else: if it went on too long, it made your skin crawl. You needed a buzz. You needed to find something new.

  "I gotta go out tonight," he told her.

  "Okay," she said. She didn't look up from the television. She knew he did jobs. She knew he did something anyway. She never asked exactly what. Sometimes he wanted to tell her about it, about how he wanted to stop but couldn't, about how he lay awake at night, dreading that he would be sent away for life. But he never did. What could she answer? It wasn't her problem. If he wanted to stop, he ought to stop.

  "You mind getting the dishes?" he asked her.

  "No, I'll get 'em before I go. I may go out later, too, with Jeanette."

  "Okay."

  A car horn honked on the street outside, then honked again a long time loudly.

  "Why don't you just announce it to the neighborhood?" Shannon muttered. "You dumb fuck."

  "Who is that?"

  "Benny."

  "I hate that guy. He gives me the creeps." Karen took a draw of reefer. She never took her eyes off the television. Shannon couldn't figure what she saw in this stuff. Who cared if one of these movie clowns was doing another one or not?

  For some reason, though, watching her watch the show, Shannon felt a surge of affection for her. He walked over to the sofa. He bent down to her, and she lifted her face to him and blew smoke out of the side of her mouth so he could kiss her goodbye.

  "I'll see you later," Shannon said. He tasted her lips and the ganja. For some reason, he felt sad to leave her.

  "See you, baby," she said.

  But they never saw each other again.

  As soon as Shannon got a look at Benny Torrance, he knew this was going to be a disaster of a night. Benny was aggie-eyed—his eyes looked like streaked marbles. God knew what he was on, but he was obviously juiced out of his mind. You could practically see his bonzo thoughts whooshing through his brain about a hundred miles a minute, like a wall covered with graffiti seen from a fast train.

  "Shannon, my boy!" he rumbled.

  He clapped a hand on Shannon's thigh as Shannon slid into the passenger side of the pickup. Then, with a thick guttural laugh, Benny jammed his foot down on the gas. The tires gave a banshee shriek and the black truck fired off into the night with a roar that must have rattled windows. The guy was a cluster-fuck in human form.

  Benny was thickset, rippling with muscle. He had long stringy hair. He had a brutal face with three days' stubble. He was dressed in dark jeans and a black windbreaker, zipped all the way up. Blue tats peeked out where his flesh showed—the head of a rattler on his right wrist, a woman's bare leg on his left, curling tentacles coming up around his collar: it looked like he was smuggling a whole fantastic menagerie of dream creatures under his clothing and they were trying to squirm free.

  He drove fast and, man, he drove loud, some kind of supercharger jazzing the truck's combustion and boosting the HP. He had to shout at Shannon over the roar.

  "Talked to my friend an hour ago. He says the place is loaded. Caveman security. We're gonna be doing the money dance before the night is over."

  Yeah, yeah, yeah, thought Shannon. He half hoped some cop pulled them over for speeding or excessive noise before they arrived.

  No such luck.

  They came onto a stretch of road south of the city center, a dark street parallel to lower Main. Every shop here had its gates down. There was no one on the sidewalks. There were no street lamps. A breeze brought the smell of the ocean from a few blocks away. A couple of palm trees, sunk in shadow, whispered over the low buildings. A car or two went by when the traffic lights changed. Other than that, nothing was moving. The place was dead.

  Benny parked the truck in the center of the block.

  "Let's do this thing," he growled.

  He got out and led the way to a narrow drive between a fabric store and a dry cleaner. Shannon followed him, alert, looking for trouble this way and that. He was wearing a black windbreaker now. He had a canvas roll tucked into the inside pocket.

  They went down the drive to where it ended at a quaint house hidden among trees. It was a three-story Victorian clapboard with a porch and a gabled roof and a fanciful turret and blue trim painted around the windows. There was a painted sign at the entrance to the porch steps: THE WHITTAKER CENTER. There were cheerful swirling vine designs around the words.

  It was a foundation of some kind. A charity or something. Benny had a friend who worked security there. The guy had given Benny the patrol times and the alarm codes and told him where there was an old combination safe full of cash. Apparently they kept a lot of cash around. People could just drop in and get a handful of dollars if they needed it badly enough.

  Shannon took a look around the place as they went up the porch steps. He was reassured by the location, the way the house was set back from the road. No one driving by on the street was likely to notice them and there were no neighbors who might spot them with a glance out a nearby window either.

  But one thing did worry him. The front door had a top pane of beveled glass and he could see a yellow glow through it.

  "There's a light on in there," he said in a soft voice.

  "Just for security," said Benny. They were shoulder to shoulder and Shannon could smell the vomitous scent of old beer on him. "The guard only comes by on the even hours. I told you. They just walk around outside."

  Shannon nodded. Benny had told him that, but he was not convinced.

  Shannon knelt in front of the door. He had a small penlight that sent out a blue beam. He held the penlight in his teeth so that the beam shone on his work. He brought out his canvas roll, laid it on the porch, and spread it open. It was the same kind of roll he used for his gouges when he carved wood. It was lined with pockets for his tools. He drew out a snapper pick for the front door and was through the lock in five seconds. The alarm warning sounded, a steady shrill, but soft, too soft to be heard outside the building. There was a sixty-second delay before the real alarm went off. Benny had told him that, too.

  Shannon gathered his roll and strode quickly across the foyer to the keypad. He kept the flashlight clenched in his teeth so that the blue beam played over the keys. He tapped in the code Benny had given him—half expecting it to fail, half expecting the full alarm to blow like the last trumpet. But no, the code worked. The alarm was disabled. The house went silent around them.

  Benny had his flashlight out now, too. It was bigger than Shannon's and had a bright white beam. He shone it only long enough to pick out the way to the stairs, then turned it off. He moved to the stairs and went up two at a time. Shannon rolled up his tools and followed him.

  Later, Shannon remembered that he noticed something at this point. He noticed there were no lights on anywhere in the house. He had seen that glow through the glass of the door, so there must have been a light on before but now there wasn't. That didn't make sense, but Shannon dismissed the thought before he really considered it. Maybe he didn't want to think about it now that he was in so deep.

  On the second floor landing, Benny shone his flashlight beam briefly again and picked out a door across from the stairway. He tilted his head at it. Shannon went to the door and picked the lock with one of his triple-nine bump keys. He went through, into a small cluttered office. Benny stayed by the door, but he shone his flashlight at a wooden cabinet built into the wall behind the desk.

  "In there," he whispered.

  Shannon went around the desk. He knelt in front of the cabinet and spread out his roll of tools. In another few seconds, he had the cabinet door unlocked and open. There was the safe inside, a combination box, as old-fashioned as Benny had said. Shannon used a stethoscope to listen for the tumblers, but he hardly needed it. He could feel the discs fall into place with his fingers. In another few seconds, he opened the door. His flashlight's blue beam danced over the stacks of mone
y inside. It looked like a lot, thousands of dollars.

  Shannon was surprised by the sight of all that cash. From the very start, he'd been expecting everything to go ass up. He'd expected the alarm to go off or the guards to show up at an odd hour or the safe to be empty. But here they were and there was the safe with the money inside. For the first time, Shannon began to hope this was going to come out all right.

  And, of course, right then and there—the minute he dared to hope—that was when the disaster struck.

  A floorboard creaked on the landing. Shannon tensed, his hand frozen reaching for the cash. He turned to see Benny's dark shape likewise frozen by the door. In their silence, they heard light footsteps running on the hall carpet. All the pieces—all the half-acknowledged thoughts—fell into place in Shannon's mind and he understood: there was someone in the house. There had been someone in the house all along. That's why he'd seen a glow at the door. The someone must have heard them break in. The someone must have turned the light off in order to hide his own presence. Now the someone was trying to get to the stairway and escape.

  For another second, Shannon hoped things might still turn out all right. All they had to do was let the someone go. Then they could grab the money and get out of here before the police showed up. Even with Benny's supercharged engine roaring for all the world to hear, they might still get away without being spotted.

  But then Benny moved—and he moved so fast Shannon had no time to stop him or even call out. His shadow flashed through the door like a streak of black lightning. When he flashed back he had the someone in his hands.

  It was a woman. Benny was gripping her by the throat. He shoved her up against the wall hard, hard enough to make the room shudder. He shone his flashlight in her face and then down the whole length of her. She was in her twenties, very pretty, with a curvy figure pressing through her blouse and skirt. In the outglow of the flashlight beam, Shannon could see Benny's bright eyes and the teeth in his fierce smile as he breathed over her. His breath was a low, laughing growl of triumph and desire.

  Shannon jumped to his feet. He shone his own flashlight on Benny, the blue beam crossing with the white beam in the dark.

  "What the hell're you doing? Let her go," he said in a harsh whisper.

  "Shut up. Get the money," Benny said. He shoved his flashlight in his back pocket. He held the girl by the throat with one hand and tore open her blouse with the other. The buttons of the blouse pattered on the carpeting. Benny grabbed hold of the girl's breast. The girl struggled, crying out in anguish and pain.

  "I called the police," she managed to say. Then her voice ended in a gasp as Benny squeezed her hard and pressed himself up against her.

  "Damn it, there's no time for this shit!" said Shannon.

  "Shut up," Benny said. He was crazy. "Get the money."

  Shannon hesitated. His blue flashlight beam played over the girl's face. He could see her terror and then her despair as Benny's hand started fumbling under her skirt. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her eyes went up and her lips moved silently. Shannon could tell she was praying.

  His heart went out to her. He was surprised by the force of the feeling. It was just one of those things you didn't know you would feel so much until you were in the situation. Now he was here and he was looking right at her, looking at her tear-streaked face. He could see her praying and choking, helpless in Benny's hands. And he felt awful for her. He knew he ought to forget about it, ignore Benny and just grab the money so they could get out when Benny was done with her. He knew if he started trouble now, they were sure to get caught. That meant prison for Shannon, prison for life.

  But look at her, he thought. An image flashed in his mind of the girl getting dressed for work in the morning, turning this way and that in front of her mirror, pleased because her blouse looked pretty on her. And now Benny had torn the blouse and her face was twisted in fear and agony.

  Shannon had one more moment of indecision. Then he thought: Shit. Then he thought again: Shit! Because he realized there was no way he was going to just stand there and let this happen.

  Shannon had fought characters like Benny a couple of times in prison, and this is what he knew: there was no talking involved in it. Benny was big and mean and drugged out of his mind. There could be no threats or poses or hard-guy exchanges with him because by the time you got through with that garbage you'd be dead. So he simply bent to his roll and slipped his crowbar out of its pocket. It was small but it was heavy enough. He stepped around the desk and took half another step and he was next to Benny. Benny was choking the girl hard and mashing her hard with his hand under her skirt. Shannon could hear strangled phrases of her prayer: "Santa Maria ... Madre de Dios..." That settled it for him somehow. Without another thought, he brought the crowbar whipping around in a low Laredo sidearm and shattered Benny's kneecap.

  Benny did a sack of potatoes, dropped right down to the floor, boom, clutching his leg and shrieking like a woman in a horror movie. All of which was fine with Shannon, because what a piece of garbage this guy was.

  The girl, meanwhile, staggered away from the wall, clutching her throat with one hand and the front of her skirt with the other. She straightened and glanced at Shannon, confused. Then she looked down at Benny. Benny was writhing on the floor. His shriek had sunk away to a series of gibbering sobs. What a piece of garbage.

  The girl looked up at Shannon again, hesitating, uncertain. Even in the dark, he could see she was trembling violently.

  "My knee!" groaned Benny Torrance.

  "Aw, shut up," said Shannon. Then he turned back to the girl. "Go on, sister, get out of here. No one's gonna hurt you now."

  He didn't have to tell her twice. She stumbled to the door and out onto the landing. But just as she got there, the long, urgent cry of a siren came to them through the night outside. The police. She really had called them, like she said. By the sound of it, they were turning off the street, coming down the drive to the house. Shannon's heart just about broke when he heard them. He was finished. He was going to grow old in slam. He'd always known this was going to happen if he kept at it and it was his own stupid fault, but that didn't make it any easier now that the time had come.

  "You broke my knee!" cried Benny Torrance.

  "Shut up, I said," said Shannon sadly.

  The girl was still on the landing. She had halted there at the sound of siren. As the siren drew closer, she looked back at Shannon. He could see the whites of her eyes in the shadows. She tilted her head down the hall.

  "There's a back way," she told him.

  Shannon gaped at her. The sudden rush of hope gave him vertigo. The siren stopped. He could hear the police radio right outside the door.

  "Hurry," the girl said.

  Dumbfounded, Shannon glanced back at the money in the safe, at his tools on the floor. He glanced down at Benny. Benny writhed and held his leg and went, "Ah God. Ah God."

  "Hurry," the girl said again.

  Shannon let the crowbar slip from his fingers. He took two long steps and was out on the landing next to her. Instinctively, she recoiled from him, her arm pressed protectively against her breasts. He was close enough to smell her fear and her sex and her perfume and the vomitous smell of Benny on her.

  "Thanks, baby," he said.

  Still recoiling fearfully, she nodded.

  Down the stairs, he saw the flashing red and blue lights of the police cruiser playing over the beveled glass of the door. He saw the shape of a lawman approaching.

  "Don't leave me here!" cried Benny Torrance, clutching his knee.

  Shannon took off down the hall.

  IT WAS A LONG WAY back to his place on foot. Up hills, down empty streets, the night full of sirens. By the time Shannon pushed through the door of his apartment, he was breathless and sweating. He was scared, too. It wasn't hard for him to figure out what was going to happen next.

  Benny was done—that was the fi rst point. Benny was diddled, heavily diddled every which way. Once t
he shock wore off and the girl started talking, she'd get her Mex temper going and give the cops an earful. She was no illegal. You could tell just by looking at her. She had nothing to hide and no reason to hold back. She'd have Benny on agg sex assault and attempted rape and felony B and E, plus God only knew what the law had working on that psycho already. That was it for Benny. Jesus Christ would be back on the street before him.

  Which meant Shannon had to hit the wind. He had to grab his bag and go—now, right now. Benny would give him over as soon as he could get the words out of his mouth, before they patched up his knee even. He'd be screaming Shannon's name as they gurneyed him into the ER. Why not, after what Shannon had done to him? It would be sweet revenge and a chance to deal down, all wrapped up in one. It had probably already happened. The cops were probably already on their way. Shannon was just lucky he'd gotten here before they did.

  The apartment was empty. Karen must've gone out with her friends like she said she would. Shannon was sorry about that. He would've liked to see her one last time. He would've liked to say goodbye. She was a good girl, easygoing and good-tempered, and always willing to get it on unless she was pissed off about something. They'd had some laughs.

  He went to the closet in his bedroom. On his hands and knees, he knocked a panel out of the back wall and pulled his stash from the hole there. He left a couple of fifties for Karen, but he couldn't afford to be too generous. She had her own job and she could sell his car if she needed more cash. He stuffed the money in a gym bag and stuffed some clothes on top of it. He got his traveling kit out of the bathroom and stuffed that in, too.

  Before he left, he stood in the center of the living room and looked around, trying to think if he'd forgotten anything. His eyes made natural stops at the wood sculptures decorating the place here and there, sculptures he had made himself: a wall relief of a sailing ship on a stormy sea, a free-standing Indian on the coffee table, a freestanding city skyline on a shelf, a wall clock set in a relief of an eagle gazing at the moon.