Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) (11 page)

But I was shaking tired and capable of twisting my thoughts into all manner of perverse logic, and very little of it was reasoned out by the time he returned.

He and Daniel arrived in a loud flurry of activity, hauling in bags of groceries and wines, calling for me and Tricia to join them; and for the first time in months, I wanted to, but I judged the desire as a betrayal against myself and rather pathetic in its need. I hated that I even thought it, but I wished it could all go back to the way it had once been, when I could shamelessly enjoy Sergiu’s company. But instead, I was guarding against any further drop in my resolve, having to remind myself that Sergiu was not a friend.

He was in my room, encouraging me to accept a present from New York, saying, “You will like,” and then pressing, “Open.”

The box said Bvlgari again, and holding it in my hand, I suspected it was earrings. My curiosity to see them was high, but the offering made me feel exactly like a whore. I wanted to turn the scene confrontational, to ask Sergiu if he was trying to buy my emotions or my forgiveness, but I couldn’t bring myself to speak when I knew it was little more than payment for sex.

I was disturbed enough for feeling indebted over the Aston Martin; I wasn’t going to willingly bankrupt my wavering self-respect for jewelry. I slipped the box wordlessly into his jacket pocket while shaking my head no, and Sergiu dipped his head in concession.

At first I thought he understood, but then he said, “Is okay. I keep. You will take it later.”

The assumption should have earned him a contemptuous laugh, but I couldn’t raise my amusement high enough for condescension.

He pulled me into a hard embrace, saying, “You make it hard for me, but is good, I like,” and then when I pushed back, he clamped onto my shoulder to direct me into the kitchen, saying with great delight, “I show you how to cook cappellone.”

The spread across the counters meant he and Daniel planned to cook through the afternoon, and Sergiu was determined I was going to stay. He kept passing me things to do, instructing, “You open bottle,” or, “Read the directions,” and then when I moved to leave, he’d step me back to the table, insisting, “I no understand this, read again,” and all because of the Aston Martin, I felt obligated to comply.

The whole incident kept me self-conscious, and Sergiu knew it. From his arrival, he had been watching me, waiting, wanting me to ask if he had taken care of my mistake. I imagined he planned to blow it off with, “Of course,” and then hold me at fault for questioning his word, as though I had no right or reason; and I didn’t need him messing with my head when I was doing a fine enough job on my own.

Daniel was at the counter just starting to chop up onions, and by the way he kept looking at me, I could tell that he knew, but I doubted he had been told why I continued to feel the need to destroy expensive cars. Imagining I had been labeled as the-crazy-jealous-type just added to my tension.

Trying to get me to smile, Sergiu was telling a story that had happened in New York. “I go to see old woman in hospital. She no so good. Maybe she no stay long,” he turned his hand to show it was iffy. “I know her very little but she mother of friend, so I must go. But I no want to go alone, so I take Daniel and Eugene.
Uf
,” Sergiu rolled his eyes at what had obviously been a mistake, and Daniel laughed guiltily over the cutting board.

“I take her big bouquet of flowers, you know?”

He made a large circle with his hands to indicate its size, and I nodded that I understood.

“This woman is very … ah … popular. She have many bouquets,” and his hands spread up the wall to indicate they were stacked high and wide in the room. “My friend is there and we talk. I think his mother is asleep, so we very close,
shhh
, talking quiet. But behind me,” he waved his fingers over his shoulder, “I see Eugene …” and then he lightly jabbed a finger erratically in a small circle before his face, “counting. He is in the bouquets counting. I think, ‘Perdinci, he make trouble.’ The Româns no like …” He looked to me for the word, “Two, four, six, eight, what is this?”

“Even numbers?”

“Yes, the Româns no like even numbers with flowers. Eugene think we curse the old woman. He think we leave these flowers, she die, so he counting all the bouquets, pulling out the flower that make it even.”

Daniel’s shoulders were shaking over the cutting board, and little gasps of humor were choking him.

“He have many flowers in hand when I see him, and I no want trouble, so I keep my friend looking this way,” Sergiu pointed forward, “but I waving back here,” behind his back, “for Daniel to stop Eugene.”

Daniel was heaving laughter now, trying to pant out something in Romanian.

Sergiu listened and then confirmed, “Yes, Eugene hit in head too many time with ball. He good tennis player, but the ball up here,” he pointed at his skull, “it no make it over net.”

“He playing on empty court,” Daniel concurred.

“I think my friend’s mother is asleep, but no, she is watching Eugene. She is angry. She say to Eugene, ‘Are you the gardener or you forget flowers for date?’
Ahi
!” Sergiu threw his hands up in surprise. “Now my friend see and he is angry. He want Eugene to leave but Eugene have many flowers in hand. It is like he make a new bouquet. The problem is, this new bouquet is also even, so Eugene no give it back. But my friend want flowers. I tell Eugene to give but he …” Sergiu wrestled with an imaginary cluster of flowers to rip one free, “he take one.” Sergiu shook his head, and Daniel was bent at the waist laughing. “But my friend, he want this flower, too.”

“The flower is no pretty,” Daniel explained.

“No,” Sergiu agreed. “Eugene take flower and …” he twisted his hands like he were wringing a dishtowel. “But no matter, my friend he want. Is mother’s flower. I speak angry with Eugene in romaneste,” and to accentuate it, Sergiu clamped his hand on my shoulder. “He understand I am serious and he give me flower. I give flower to my friend with many apologies, but my friend take flower and return it to bouquet in hand.” Sergiu closed his eyes and shook his head to deny the next memory while Daniel wheezed for breath. “Eugene …” and then a string of Italian that I assumed meant
that-son-of-a-bitch
, “he make crazy tennis feet to take flower back,” and Sergiu plucked it out of the air. “Now I have to hit him,” and by the demonstration, it was apparently upside the head with an open palm. “And the flower is …” by his pained expression, it was gruesomely mangled.

The story had done what Sergiu intended. I was smiling to imagine it, and he was pleased with himself for making me to laugh.

Chuckling with me, he remembered, “There is wedding soon.” The thought of Eugene ravaging the floral arrangements at a church had both Daniel and I laughing, but Sergiu assured us, “I no take Eugene to wedding.”

~~~~~~

Sergiu would often recount events from New York, but he never talked about what he did, or who he worked for. I knew the cars were stolen because it was obvious, and I knew essentially, though not exactly, who he worked for because he had told me his name and the reason he’d left Italy. I wondered when he said it if he knew his surname had been in
Time
magazine. If he didn’t, I wasn’t going to be the one to tell him. I was pretending I had never heard it, or of it.

But it was part of the exciting world I thought was passing me by in small-town Shelbyville. Even so, I couldn’t quite remember why I thought it when I was in his presence. Day-to-day existence was still largely boring. About the only thing truly exhilarating was driving fast and doing donuts into dumpsters. That just never seemed to get old.

But I was pretty tired of what led to it. I didn’t know how long it could go on before he learned it wasn’t worth it.

He had come to the house in a Mercedes, a big hulking black sedan that I thought was a little too luxurious for him to risk, so I had relaxed as the afternoon turned into evening, and I was laughing with him over dinner.

I expected him to leave, but then he was in my room saying, “I stay with you tonight.”

I thought we had established the Pinto was code for sex.

I looked out the window at the Mercedes and warned, “Are you sure? It could get expensive.”

He was very plain, “You take car again, I hurt you.”

The rush of blood to my face was an unfamiliar shock. His emotionless tone scared me more than anger.

Still, it took a moment for me to decide. He was threatening an escalation. Black eyes or broken bones, whichever, he planned to hit me. And I knew he’d do it. And I didn’t want to be hurt. And besides, I convinced myself, after decimating six cars, I wasn’t really winning. I didn’t need Sergiu to knock the smirk off my face because the Aston Martin had already done it. But then my smile had already been fading. In the past month, I’d had a hard time finding any amusement with the Dallas experience. It had become a bit of a chore. And if I wasn’t going to dismantle his car as a consequence, there wasn’t much point in fighting Sergiu either.

I was battling myself now and quietly submitting was devastating. Nothing in Dallas had managed to bring me to the edge of tears, but letting him use my body without struggle was awful, and I was crying.

He said, “You relax. You safe with me. I let no one hurt you.”

I couldn’t think of anyone that wanted to hurt me except, “You … you’re the one …”

“
Shhh
, no, I good with you. I no hurt you. I let you break six cars. Yes?”

Well, yes, and I suppose I should be thankful; no, wait, something wasn’t right with that. “You … I only …” but I was crying and couldn’t speak.

“You take car again, I hurt you, but I no break what I keep. You, I teach. You learn slow, but is okay, I patient.”

I was thankful he didn’t have full command of English because that was a psychotic masterpiece of intimidation. I didn’t know whether to be grateful or terrified, but I knew I was being played by a master. I could appreciate the art of his manipulation, and I fully recognized what he was doing, but the knowledge didn’t prevent my emotions from being exploited.

The last resistance I could maintain was a refusal to speak our real names.

“I want to hear you say my name.”

I shook my head.

“Say my name. Say Marco.”

“Sergiu.”

“You tell me your name,” but no matter how hard he gripped my throat or ripped at my hair, the only name I would give in return was Constance.

Ron Howard’s assistants were getting suspicious. They had not once spoken to me or even heard my voice in the background. They would press Tricia to put me on the phone, but I would have fled the house. They didn’t know if I was even aware a deal was being negotiated. They called Rick.

But I was backing away from that phone call too. I didn’t want to explain to Rick that I couldn’t see him. There was no way I could explain Sergiu or his threat, and no other excuse would make sense.

It was best to just ignore everything and hope it worked itself out.

The strategy seemed to be working until I returned from the park to hear Tricia say, “Rick will be here in an hour.”

Oh, no, no
. I called his apartment but he was already gone.

I dropped my head and covered my eyes to think. I used to always say, “I can handle it. I’ve handled worse,” but I was no longer so certain of the first, and Dallas just kept delivering the worst.

It didn’t have to spin out of control though. Daniel was in the house and that was bad, but Sergiu was on his way to New York. If I got rid of Rick quickly, by the time Sergiu returned, the visit might have been so inconsequential, it wouldn’t be mentioned.

When Rick arrived, I was sitting on the porch reading a book and greeted him with an unfriendly expression, as though I were annoyed to be disturbed.

He explained he hadn’t seen me in well over a month, and because I was no longer at the refugee agency, it was difficult to reach me by phone.

I didn’t lift my face from the page but muttered, “I’m fine.”

He became concerned when the Hollywood assistants called him with suggestions I might not actually be living with Tricia.

Turning the page, “I’m here. I simply have nothing to say.”

He was trying, but I was cold and aloof, and when he stayed, I turned nearly hostile eyes on him, questioning why he remained.

“Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Fine, thank you.” The goodbye was implicit when I dropped my attention back to the book.

I’d been extraordinarily impolite and felt horrible. And just as bad, I couldn’t think of a reason Rick would continue to help me if this was the gratitude he got.

I was never going to get identification under Sergiu’s conditions, which meant I couldn’t work or move on.

But I’d staved off a horrible scene for a while. I didn’t know if Sergiu would really try to kill Rick, but I felt certain there would be a confrontation, or some sort of berserk incident I would be asked to explain.

I wanted desperately to avoid that, so I’d been disgracefully rude.

But I hadn’t gotten in the vehicle with Rick. I hadn’t left. The exchange was brief. I was confident disaster had been averted.

By the time Sergiu returned, I had honestly forgotten about it.

Daniel knew he was coming and invited Tricia to join him for an evening ride. I was clueless.

I was sitting on the floor reading the newspaper when he came through the front door, and by his expression, I knew remaining so low would be hazardous. I got to my feet in case I had to flee. It was by far the angriest I’d ever seen him. He’d never hit me before — he’d choked me, flung me about, and wrung my hair — but he’d never actually hauled off and struck me, and I was afraid he was about to.

Hands out in treaty, I was saying, “Wait, wait, wait, I don’t know why you’re mad.”

“I tell you, you see him again, I kill him.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.” He seemed particularly huge with his temper uncontrolled, and the room had always been too small for him.

He was standing in line with all three exits and I had a wall at my back. I tried to reason, saying with soft calm, “There has been a misunderstanding.”

He stepped forward and I stepped back, continuing, “You have no reason to be angry.”

He moved forward again but another step back would have me against the wall and I didn’t want to be pinned. I couldn’t edge right or left without coming into his reach, and now my voice lost its calm.  “I’ve given you no cause.”

But he kept coming, so I stamped my foot and declared, “You have no right.”

“I tell you, I kill him,” and then abruptly, he was turning with all his fury to leave.

I said flatly, “Wait. Just wait. You need to see something,” then called him to follow me into my room. “I know who you’ve been working for,” and from my bedside drawer I flipped out his phone bill with the calls to New York and their numbers listed in the tolls. “You touch Rick and I swear, I’ll rip every one of you apart so savagely, you’ll think what I did to the cars was a mother’s kiss.”

He was staggered and swayed with the threat. Eyes large, he recovered to consider my confrontational stare with shock and trepidation. He was taking it all in, what I had said, how I’d gotten the phone bill, why I even had it, and what it revealed.

He moved forward to take it, his hand open wide in a display he wasn’t going to hurt me, concerned I might back away from him again, but I stepped up to meet him, extending it, saying, “I don’t need it. It’s all on record.”

Slowly, he began to turn his head and wag his finger with warning, “You, no. This,” taking the phone bill to crumple it, “very bad.”

“I know.”

“This make much trouble.”

I smiled in agreement.

“You no understand what you say.”

“Not only do I understand, I see you understand as well.”

“Constanzia …”

“Sergiu.”

The last insult was too much. He threw his hand up to show we were through and left.

~~~~~~

For the next three days, I called Rick’s apartment and hung up when I confirmed he was alive. I had done it again right after Sergiu arrived with bags of food and wine.

He’d spent most of the day cooking with Daniel and aggressively not acknowledging me.

It was early evening and the meal was nearly ready when he finally pulled me toward the front door saying, “Come, we talk.”

But instead of speaking, we walked silently into the park, farther onto the golf course, and then, beneath a line of trees, he stopped and I turned to look at him. From his jacket pocket, he pulled out a revolver, held it to my head and pulled the trigger.

I said, “That’s not funny.”

He pulled the trigger again.

I knocked his arm away, saying, “Seriously, don’t play like that with guns,” but he grabbed me by the neck and put the pistol back against my temple to pull the trigger three more times in rapid succession.

Now I was pissed, saying, “You’re going to blow my damn head off.”

But he was confused. He frowned while opening the cylinder and dumping the empty cartridges into his palm.

I demanded his attention, asking, “Are you unaware of how many deaths occur when people fool around like this?”

He held his hand up for patience while he looked through his pockets. He pulled the change from one side of his pants and inspected it, holding a finger up for me to wait, then felt around his other before turning to his jacket pockets, and all the while I was angrily watching him.  Finally, from inside his jacket, he found a bullet. He raised his hand for just a moment’s more tolerance while he loaded the gun.

I was stamping off for the house when he grabbed me by the shoulder. Trying to shrug him off, I snapped, “Marco, I am not going to play Russian Roulette with you.”

Then I was walking free and heard from behind, “You say my name.”

“It was an accident.”

He growled, caught up, and jerked me around. He wanted to say something but he was angry and confused, hopeful and exasperated, his features contorting as each emotion gave way to the next; and every time he opened his mouth to speak, one hand marked each painful change with a sharp gesture, while in the other, the pistol was held at his side.

And I was staring with irritation.

His frustration punched him in the stomach, bending him at the waist, making him bellow. He rose up to yell at me, “You make much trouble for me!”

“Good,” I was glad to hear it.

Hands clamped to his head, the gun was pressed flat against his temple and he was demanding, “You crazy?”

“At this point, yes, I think a little.”

He dropped his hands and then his shoulders followed in defeat. Shaking his head to dispel his thoughts, he returned the revolver to his pocket and said with resignation, “We go eat now.”

~~~~~~

On about the third day, it finally registered with me what had happened on the golf course. It was one of those harsh realizations where your head swivels because something that should have been plainly obvious gets knocked across your face like a steel bat.

I thought, “He tried to kill me.”

I wasn’t terribly surprised, or even upset, I was just tired. I couldn’t think of a reason to continue with the elaborate fiction I was playing. At some point it had gone horribly wrong, and I was looking at a place very close to the beginning. It had to do with sex, and everyone asking me who I’d had it with. And it was sex right up to the end that was causing so much grief.

I didn’t want to go forward and I didn’t want to go back. Both options seemed like a hassle. I was sitting on the couch, absently wondering what it would be like to swallow a family-sized bottle of aspirin. I’d heard it was a painful way to go, but once the aspirin made it into your system, there was nothing a medical team could do to save you. It was permanent, which at least guaranteed I wouldn’t be returned to the mental hospital.

My thoughts must have been on my face because Tricia stopped as she passed through the living room. She dropped into the corner of the couch to sit crooked and study me. I knew she was concerned, but I didn’t have enough energy to fake a smile.  She said, “Why don’t you tell me where you’re from.”

I didn’t look at her but answered, “Tennessee.”

She was quiet for a long time before asking, “Your story isn’t true, is it?”

“Not a bit of it.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

I heard her breath stop. Even louder, I heard her draw her next breath in. She asked, “Did you say fifteen?”

“Yes.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Yes.”

She sat back. After a moment, she shared what she’d been thinking. “It all makes sense now. You think like a teenager. You don’t look like one, but you make decisions like a teenager. Did you know I have a daughter that’s sixteen?”

I turned to face her.

“She lives with her father. She doesn’t really like me, but she’s at that age.” Then she asked, “Do you have a mother?”

“Yes.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes.”

“I love my daughter, too. If my daughter were missing, I know what I’d be going through. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t make you call your mother.”

I nodded.

She handed me the phone, reinforcing, “You have to call your parents.”

It was my father that answered. I said, “Hi Dad, it’s me.”

“Tanya?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Dallas.”

He said, “I love you.” I knew he did. I’d heard it countless times before, but this time it made me cry. He was calm though. He had it all under control. He said, “There will be a ticket waiting for you at the airport counter. Go and get it now.”

So I went home and told my parents what I had been doing for the past seven months, telling them about the FBI and Interpol and the mental institution, Congress and the ACLU and Ron Howard. Then I heard my father on the phone with the hospital, saying, “I think she’s been doing drugs.”

It was the only way to account for the mad story I was telling.

But he came back and started to ask specifics, and eventually stuck on the name Rick with the Collin County Sheriff’s Department. He called the detective, and Rick told him that Ron Howard and the ACLU and Interpol were all ringing, wanting to know where I was, but worst among them was Ron Howard’s assistants who wanted to know what the hell was going on.

I heard my father explaining who I was and where I was, and then the funniest exchange occurred.

Rick must have asked, “How old is she?”

Because my father started answering, “Fifteen,” and then again, “Fifteen,” and when Rick didn’t think that was right, my father continued to confirm, “No, she’s fifteen … One, five … Fifteen … No, you’re not hearing wrong, she’s fifteen … Fifteen … Detective, I know how old my daughter is … Alright: one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve, thirteen, fourteen,
fifteen
.” Then a longer pause while he listened and responded with solace, “It’s alright son, I understand, she’s very charming.”