Identity Thief (25 page)

This was starting to sound like a therapy session. At this rate, we were going to end up hugging. Which I could live without.

“Well, anyway, back to business. I guess I’ll have to fly to the capital.”

“No, don’t,” my friend said, with surprising force in his voice. “It will just . . . Biff is . . . look, let me go instead. Even after all that’s happened, I know that Biff will listen to me and only me. It’s this strange thing between us that’s always been there. Even if you find him, I swear, he’ll get out of it.”

I thought about it. “Well, why don’t we both go?”

“You mean like just up and fly somewhere?” I couldn’t tell if the thought shocked or pleased him for its novelty. Some people never thought about seeing new places, and apparently, he was one of them. I can’t say this took me by surprise. He was a man who gave off no aura at all of loving adventure.

“Sure. People do it all the time.”

My buddy threw his hands in the air. “Okay, why not? But first I go see Biff alone. Really, trust me. It’s the only way.”

“You know, I hate to bring this up, but how much do you want for doing all this?”

He yawned as he checked his e-mail. “Nothing. Hell, pay my plane fare, I guess.”

“Okay. I’ll throw in meals and the hotel room, too.”

“Deal.” He raised his hands to high-five me, and I complied, though I’d never done it before and thought it was a dumb ritual.

We made plane and hotel reservations online, and I went home to pack a few things. The next day, we were on a plane to Biff’s island paradise. It seemed to take forever, especially since my friend slept for almost the entire flight. I did, however, flirt with a couple of the flight attendants; one of them gave me her island phone number. I thought about getting a second girl for my friend, but he already told me he wasn’t into cheating on Melanie. I liked how he didn’t judge me, though, for making the suggestion.

Even before we landed, the island looked like a postcard. I could’ve cared less about the much-advertised deep, blue waters or sparkling, white sands. All I wanted was to find Biff. No sooner had we exited the plane than we ran into a mob of passengers who’d disembarked from a cruise ship. They all looked the same to me, with sunglasses and tote bags. I could hear a lot of mumblings about how beautiful the island was, but I also overheard that most of them were headed to the duty-free shopping district. The sun was blindingly intense, even with sunglasses on. I could tell there was a cooling ocean breeze by the swaying of the palm leaves. But I couldn’t really feel it while trapped in this crowd of tourists. I hated how hot it was.

My friend didn’t seem bothered at all, and though he walked at a leisurely pace, he still walked faster than me. He was several people ahead when I saw him turn and mouth the word,
Biff
, and point toward a bunch of bicycle riders about a block to the right. I stared into the bright sun and looked again at my friend, who was managing to deftly maneuver his way through the crowd. A couple of people told him to stop shoving. He ignored them and kept going toward Biff as fast as he could.

“Wait for me,” I shouted, but I knew he couldn’t hear. Besides, he’d been saying all along he needed to talk to Biff alone.

I saw him approach the bike riders, and then make a left-hand turn down a side street. (As I would later learn, it was the street that Biff lived on, according to the computer.)

I finally made it through the crowd. I was itching with sweat. Figuring I might as well check into the hotel, I asked a police officer for directions and before long had showered, shaved, and ordered coffee. I wasn’t comfortable with sharing a space with another guy, so we each had our own room. What can I say? It was a hotel room. There was a double bed with a tropical-looking bedspread, a fake palm tree, leafy-green wallpaper, and—glory halleluiah—a small refrigerator with some tiny liquor bottles. I supposed there was a nice ocean view, though obviously I had no interest in the famous beaches. Popping a happy pill and washing it down with scotch, I called the flight attendant who gave me her number. There was no answer. I called for the bellboy. Before long, a girl was arranged to visit me. I had to do something while I waited for my friend to return, and sex was the best cure for impatience that I knew of.

I assumed I’d get an island girl. Instead, she was a bleach-blonde who spoke with a decided Brooklyn accent. I could tell it pissed her off when I told her she couldn’t smoke. I also told her the booze was off-limits.

Still, I was amazed how cheap it was to get a full fuck. And this was without taking into account the going currency rate. I even gave her a tip, which I usually didn’t do with hookers.

After she left, I called Esther to say I missed her. When she asked how my case was going—I had told her I was working on a case so she wouldn’t worry—I said it was going great. She made a kissing sound; I made a kissing sound back.

I took another shower, put on clean underwear, turned up the air conditioner, and fell asleep on top of the bedspread. The obviously synthetic fibers were a little scratchy, but I couldn’t get it together to unmake the bed.

Someone was shaking my shoulder; the light had been turned on and my eyes saw spots for a moment before adjusting. It took a second to see my friend standing over me. I could see through the window that it was night. There was a full moon.

“Don’t worry, I’m okay,” he told me.

But he sure as hell didn’t look okay. He sported two black eyes and a bleeding gash running down his face to match the bruises and cuts on his arms. His clothes were torn and muddy, with a few small spots of blood. “I got worked over a little,” he said. “But really, I’m fine.” He limped his way to the chair across the room. “Do you mind if I sit?”

I sat up in bed. “Of course not. It’s a stupid hotel room. What happened?”

“I chased after Biff. I
knew
it was him. Just as I got up behind him, these thugs grabbed me from out of nowhere. They told me to mind my own business and go back home on the next plane.”

“They spoke English?” I got up to pour him a drink. There was a tiny bottle of bourbon that I thought he might like.

He made no protests when offered the drink. “Yeah. They sounded American. There were three of them.” He took a big swallow of his drink. “They said they knew who I was. They said that Betsy sent me, but that Biff wanted nothing more to do with her. Something about how he didn’t believe the kid was his.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing.” He nervously wiped the blood off his cheek and wiped his blood-stained hand on his shirt. “When you’re getting the shit beaten out of you, it makes you kind of taciturn. They said that they’d . . . you know, kill me if I didn’t stay away.” He polished off the drink. “Then they said they’d go after Scotty.”

“You need a doctor.”

“No.” He raised his voice. “No doctor. I’m fine. I want to get out of here.” He stood up and fell to his knees. “Please, let’s go. I’m really scared.” He was such a torn and bloody mess, I couldn’t tell if he was crying. “If it was just me—but Scotty. I can’t let anything happen to him.” He literally was begging.

I only thought for a moment, but it was one of the most important moments of my life. “Okay, we’ll go back. I’ll tell Betsy. I’ll tell her something that leaves you out of it.”

But what I really thought was that I’d fly back to the island alone, buy a gun, and take care of Biff myself.

“Thank you, thank you.” My friend seemed immeasurably relieved. “I’ll go to my room and clean myself up.”

“Do you need help?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I always pack a first aid kit.”

“You were a Boy Scout, weren’t you?”

“An Eagle Scout. Is it that obvious?” He smiled in spite of himself. “Anyway, let’s fly back first thing in the morning.”

I was right. He had no business getting this involved, though at least he took his beating like a man. Yet why did I feel as if I
could
handle it? My own life had been easier than his. I guessed it had to do with inner strength—either you had it or you didn’t.

“Sure. Whatever you say.”

He stopped in the doorway for a moment. “Randy?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing, I guess. Just that you . . . you’re really a nice guy.”

I’d been called many things in my time, but a nice guy had never been one of them. I also never thought I’d want to be called one, yet it felt mighty nice.

“Get yourself cleaned up. You’re a motherfucking mess.”

Given how bloody and beaten up he was, his big smile looked sort of creepy. “You know, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Ironically, after he left, I ended up needing a bit of first aid myself. I got so pissed off thinking about Biff that I broke a drinking glass into my hand. Yet despite a rather ostentatious flow of blood, the cut itself was merely superficial.

I
T WASN’T EASY BEING MANY DIFFERENT PEOPLE at the same time, but I did the best I could. In fact, if they gave Oscars for real-life performances, I would’ve won one after the magnificent piece of bullshit I pulled off at the island. It’s not easy to beat yourself to a pulp. To slice your own face and punch yourself so hard that you give yourself two black eyes, and then ram yourself against a building until you are bruised and lacerated all over. It takes a lot of nerve. It takes an enormous amount of self-discipline.

Plus—let’s face it—it takes having no choice.

I should point out that this was not the first time I beat myself up. Once when Biff and I were kids, I gave myself a bloody nose so that my mom and dad wouldn’t punish me for staying out late. I guess you could say I already had the potential to be a self-mutilator.

Still, I liked Randy a lot. I looked up to him, and you could even say that I loved him. The more I lied to him, the more I kept hoping that one of the lies somehow would be powerful enough to erase all the other lies. The last thing I wanted to do was hurt this man who’d saved my life, taught me so much, and had been kind to me.

Nevertheless, lie after lie was keeping my son out of prison or the loony bin, take your pick.

One thing I did succeed in was keeping Sequoia protected. When I came back from my island trip—I told her I was going along to keep Randy company while he worked on a case—I told her I had gotten mugged by the island locals. I had not told her about the bungled suicide attempt or how Randy saved my life. Given how fucked up her childhood was, I wanted her to feel secure. And when she pointed out that it was best she not meet Randy at all so that she wouldn’t be more connected to the Biff angle than she already was, I readily saw her logic. She needed to keep her hands as clean as possible to be there for Scotty, in case things went really nutso.

We decided to create a phony wife who would meet Randy instead of my actual wife. After a bit of shopping around, we found the best of both worlds: a prostitute who was also studying to be an actress. She’d keep her mouth shut for obvious reasons, plus she could create a believable personality as my wife. We didn’t tell her what was going on, and she had the street smarts not to ask. We named her Melanie and kind of frumped her up with a sexless short wig and glasses, so that she really didn’t exist except when she met Randy a couple of times. After a couple of these meetings, we made sure Sequoia was never at home on those rare occasions I brought Randy over.

We decided to tell Scotty about Melanie. Not that we went into any details. Only that we had to play a game with Randy that I was really married to Melanie. When Randy came over, Scotty was to act like Melanie was his stepmom. Scotty, who talked more and more like an adult even though he was barely ten, replied that he knew it wasn’t a game, but he’d play along with it anyway. He ignored everyone when Melanie and Randy were at the house, which was what he did with most everyone all the time anyway.

I continued to launder money through Biff’s phony offshore accounts. I figured that if I got caught, I could tell the cops I was doing it to try to catch Dr. Jesse Falcon. I still couldn’t find him, no matter how hard I tried. The serial killer thing never scared me. As that police detective said, Jesse Falcon only killed comatose or ex-comatose women. Plus, though it’s hard to explain, I knew that I’d never die that easily.

I still worried about money all the time. I was making big bucks as McShrink, but I was afraid it would all get taken away if people learned that McShrink was not a real shrink. Sometimes I didn’t think about the identity theft for hours at a time. It was like a dieter’s urge to give in to doughnuts just this once. Inevitably, I had my lapses. I’d try in vain to get back into Jesse Falcon’s accounts, and when I couldn’t, I’d think about finding a new identity to steal from. I even looked up a few people that I would’ve enjoyed stealing from—an old grade school bully, or some of the people I used to work with—but none of them had much of anything to take. In the meantime, I made do with the stockpile of cash I’d put into the Biff accounts I had created.

In this totally insane way, I
missed
Dr. Jesse Falcon. As I thought about it, he and I were very close. I was sure he hated me, but hate is, after all, an intimate emotion. Though he didn’t know my name, my existence mattered. I was possibly the most important person in his life. I missed that rush of power, and then the inevitable guilt, like adding a moldy slice of lemon to a Coke. Also, the thought of paying him back, so I could feel like a good person again. Adding Biff to the mix had been the finishing touch. At least in death, Biff would have a shitty reputation, which was better than nothing.