FALSE FRONT (3 page)

“I
usually get that response when I talk about the book to strangers, but I didn’t
expect that from you, Tony. You know me. Don’t you?”

“I
don’t think so,” Tony says, tightening his grip. He grows nervous as the man
shifts around in the chair, folding one thin leg over the other and says, “I
don’t think you should be moving around with this aimed at your head.”

“Why
not? You won’t do anything.”

“I’ll
shoot.”

“No
you won’t.”

“I’ll
kill you.”

“I
admire your desire to be a hero. But you don’t possess true courage. Maybe dumb
guts. But whatever bravery you had turned around midway up those stairs when it
realized this was real and ran back to your boring pathetic garden, leaving you
quivering all alone. You’re not a hero, Tony. You’re a Cub Scout leader. You’re
the only person on the neighborhood watch group that you started.”

“Who
are you?”

The
man chuckles and says, “You want to protect my property, but seem to have never
read my book, which affords my property? Maybe you didn’t hear about it. I was promised
this and that, but the publishing house did nothing for the book. It’s a good
book. Maybe brilliant. You know how these things go.”

“What
the hell did this book do to you?”

“It’s
what it didn’t do for me,” he says, grabbing a book with the hand holding the
cigar and lobbing it at Tony’s feet. It lands with a clap against the wood
floor. Tony’s finger partially squeezes on the trigger, but then relaxes.

“Calm
down, Tony. Reflexes can make us do things we regret.”

Tony
takes a deep breath, but his finger still twitches at the trigger.

“Just
a gift offering.”

Tony
gulps hard.

“You
shouldn’t have come here.”

“Cops
will be here soon.”

“This
will be the last place you ever go,” he says, drawing on the cigar.

“What
does that mean?”

He
looks over at the slumped body next to him and says, “I found him mostly dead.
I didn’t kill him. I’m assuming a drug overdose, or maybe he froze to death. It
gets cold in the Marsh at night. I know you know that’s not Air. You’re dumb,
but not that dumb.”
 

“I’m
not dumb,” Tony says, and he clenches his jaw as he peeks out the large living
room window. “What’s taking them so fucking long?”

“It’s
not a movie, Tony. Cops don’t show up in real life. All those action movies are
the reason you got yourself in this situation.”

“Stop
with your bullshit.”

“I
was just saying that I’m using one person’s tragedy to remedy another’s struggle.
This dead guy here will lead to more production today than he probably produced
in his entire life. Everyone will read it now because of him. The book really
is better than 90% of the shit on the bestselling list. It just needs
attention.”

“Want
me to read Air’s book? Is that what you want? I’ll read it. I’ll read it if you
promise to end all this and come outside with me. How does that sound?”

The
man chuckles, puffs his cigar, and a huge heavy cloud blossoms around his face.

“How
about it?”

“That
would be a premature ending to the story.”

“This
isn’t some story, man.”

“No?
What do you think this is all about?”

“About?”

“Life
is story.”

“You’re
crazy.”

“Maybe.
But you’re dim. You entered a new narrative when you stepped through that front
door. A story you had no idea you’d be a part of this morning. You had totally
different plans for life.”

“Stop
it,” Tony says, coming a bit closer.

“Maybe
this is all just for attention.”

“Attention?”

“I
read somewhere once, I don’t demand much. All I expect is for you to love me so
much you kill yourself just to get my attention.”
 

“I
want you to stop talking.”

He
reaches over and pats the dead body propped up in the chair next to him and
says, “Or kill yourself to help me get attention.”

“No
more talk. Get down on the floor now, or I will shoot you,” says Tony.

“We’ve
already had this dialogue.”

He
lowers the gun a bit so it would explode in the chest of the cigar-puffing man.

“I’m
going to take this off.”
He grins at Tony, dropping the bandana from his face and pulling
off his sunglasses.

“Air?”

“Surprise.”

“What
the fuck is going on?”

“You
really didn’t know it was me?”

The
shotgun shakes in his hands.

“Damn.
I guess this could have ended better for you. But now.”

“What?”

“And
I don’t want her getting in trouble,” he says, pointing behind Tony.

“Huh?”

“My
love.”

Puzzlement
crosses Tony’s face, his eyes widen, and he turns back, going stiff after a
cracking sound goes off against his head. He crashes to the wooden floor, and a
delicious blonde woman stands above him holding an aluminum bat. She shutters,
drops the bat, and it rings against the floor.

“Did
I kil—”

“No,
love.”

“I’ve
never hit someone before.”

“Thanks,
darling.”

Composing
herself, she smoothes her flesh-tight grey dress down her waist and winks a
thick-lashed eye, kissing at him. She resembles a sort of new-age version of a
pinup girl.

His
eyes seem to admire how the cloth hugs each ample curve. He stands and walks
over to her, wrapping his hand in hers.

“What
are we going to do with him?”

“He’s
a slight alteration from our plan, but we stick to our story. Nothing changes.
Maybe a bit heightened. Plot twist. Always be ready to change your draft.”

“What
are we going to do? You promised no one would get hurt.”

“Tony
hurt himself. He should have just called the cops and enjoyed the drama.”

“Air?”

“I’m
sure they will rescue him when we run out of the house. He’ll be okay.”

“He’s
a nice guy. I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“He
would have hurt me, love.”

“Why
did you say that?”

“Say
what?”

“That
things could have ended different for him.”

“Did
I?”

“Yes.”

“Just
stalling him.”

“Air?”

“You
said the guy was only half dead?”

“That
guy,” Air says, pointing at the body in the chair.

“Yes.
That guy.”

“I
told you I found him while driving home one night. Had a needle hanging out of
his vein. We’re not doing anything wrong. I mean, seriously wrong,” he says,
and winks at her.

“Okay,”
she says, pinching the collar of his shirt, yanking him toward her, and kissing
his lips.

“Okay,”
he says.

“Okay.”

He
kisses her again.

“You
sure this will work, Air?”

“We
don’t have a choice now. We’re in it.”

“I
guess that’s true.”

“Kind
of exciting.”

“Yeah,”
she says.

“He
already called the police.”

“I’m
ready.”

“Good.”

She
giggles.

“My
star.”

She
smiles and says, “Born actress. This is our breakthrough. I’ve practiced my
part all week. My big break. Right?”

“Remember
what to say and do?”

She
ruffles her blonde hair into a panicked frenzy and says, “Roll the cameras.”

He
leans forward and kisses her again and says, “Love me?”

“Forever.”

“Trust
me?”

“Always,”
she says, and runs her fingers through his slick black hair.

“Hit
me.”

Her
heart-shaped upper lip pouts over the top of her equally botoxed bottom, and
she says, “I hate this part.”

He
rolls his neck and hands her the handgun.

“I
hate these things,” she says.
   

He
places the cigar on the fireplace mantel and walks back toward her, bracing
himself.

She
lifts the gun over her head and chops at his face. The gun smacks him across
his protruding cheek, and she watches him stumble across the room into a large
mirror hanging on the living room wall. Glass shatters against his hand,
opening a laceration across his palm. She screams, moving toward him, and she
hangs his arm around her neck. The impact of the handle popped his cheek open,
revealing bright raw inner layers of wet meat.

He
raises a dripping hand and says, “I’m okay.”

“Babe,
I’m sorry.”

“Damn.
You hit me good.”

“Sorry.”

“Did
I do something wrong?”

“You
said we had to make it look real.”
  

“It
felt real,” he says, holding the side of his face. “You hit hard for a size 3.”

“It’s
these 37 inch hips and ass that help pack a punch.”

“I
guess so.”

She
clutches his chin in her hands, examining his face, and says, “I’m so sorry,
babe.”

He
wraps the bandana that masked his face over his cut hand and then undresses.

Her
eyes search over his narrow, tattoo-covered body. He’s all skin and bones. She
notices his sky-silver puppy-dog eyes capture her admiring stare, and they lock
looks for a moment.

On
the ground, Tony begins to groan, lifting his skull out of the pool of blood
gathered around his face.

She
screams, watching Tony’s head bobble up and his hand extend out to her. With
the gun still in her hold, she squats down next to his head, turns her face
from the bloody hand grabbing at her chest and whacks him in the skull. But his
head snaps back up like one of those plastic kid punching bags with the sand in
the bottom.

“Help
me,” Tony says.

She
screams again, and Tony continues to yank at her, pulling her low cut dress farther
down.

Air
kicks the clawing arm off of her with such force it flops Tony onto his back. He
takes a single knee next to the downed man, takes the gun from her, and with
his free hand, crushes down on Tony’s throat. Tony gurgles, turns a different
shade, and braces his hands around Air’s wrist.

She
falls back on her ass, scooting away from the men. She cups her hands over her
mouth and tears fill her oval, lash-heavy eyes.

“Please
don’t kill me,” Tony says, his voice through a strainer.

Air
drops the corner of the pistol between Tony’s eyes, and the room fills with the
echo of a bursting cantaloupe. He lifts the gun again, glaring at the fractured
face below him. Tony’s eyes roll into his brain.

“Stop,
Air. Please, stop,” she says.

He
glances over at her pressing herself into the wall as if she hopes to become
one with it.

“You’ll
kill him,” she says.

“I’m
sorry. I thought he hurt you.”

She
shakes her head back and forth.

He
rises from the floor, stepping over to the shaken woman, and holding out his
hand. She closes her eyes, taking several deep breaths, and places her hand in
his.

“He’ll
be okay?” She asks.

“Nothing
stiches won’t fix. Plus, I’m sure neighborhood watch over there will enjoy a
tough-guy scar to show off when he tells his story.”

“Promise
me you will drag him out with you,” she says, smoothing down her dress after he
pulls her to her feet. She eyes the wet, bloody gun, and says, “And put that
away before you kill someone.”

“Sure.”

“I
would love to stand here gawking at you half naked, but I think it’s time for
action,” she says, rotating her head. Her eyes follow the swirling red and blue
lights coming in from the window.

“Let’s
do it,” he says, peeking at the swarm of police cars parked outside the house.

“Action,”
she says, getting on her toes and leaning in, kissing Air’s cheek.

She
runs outside screaming, frantic, and yelling in madness about how a man is in
her house, that he hurt their brave neighbor, and how he’s holding a gun to her
boyfriend’s head. She cries and says, yes my boyfriend is a local author and
inside are thousands of stolen books scattered throughout the house. She puts
on her best confused face when the police say someone had been running around
Vivacity stealing every possible copy of her boyfriend’s novel. She tells them
something smelled wrong, something smelled like bourbon. She tells them how
they just arrived back home from vacation, and how her boyfriend was working on
his next book, and how the man inside said he was obsessed with his masterful
storytelling, and how she is afraid she will never hear him speak again, or how
she may never get to kiss or hold him again, and how the world may never read
another word of his. She tells them her life is ruined, and while she babbles
on and on to the officers, a gun goes off inside.