Identity Thief (6 page)

“No, I guess not.” Her icy tone came as a relief. She let go and gathered up her purse and coat.

Glory Hallelujah, she was finally getting the message.

“You always win, don’t you?” she said, as though I’d done something illegal.

“Yeah, right. My life is one great victory after another. I reign supreme over time and space.” I reached in my desk for a bottle of whiskey and took a swallow. I hated that stupid desk. It was this steel and glass contraption that only had one drawer. But Esther had picked it out because it was very trendy, and I guess even though she hated my guts, I deserved nothing but the best. “Let’s hear it for me.”

“You really are a prick.” Linda gave me the finger.

“This session is on the house,” I called after her, as she took her leave.

I felt the relief you feel when a bad tooth gets extracted. The worst was over—or so it seemed—but I still needed to heal. Apropos of this, I went to a fine hotel, found a girl, did what I had to do, and was the better for it.

For dinner that night, Esther served take-out Indian. She kept complaining that the food was neither spicy enough nor sweet enough, to which I replied that perchance the food was hinting at something in regard to Esther herself. She picked up a full container of
pindi chana
and threw it at me. Fortunately, I ducked out of the way. Esther always stormed off to her bedroom and slammed the door shut. I was supposed to go running after her and beg her to let me in to talk to her. Well, that worked for about ten years before I got sick of it.

In hindsight, the most obvious characteristic about Esther was her lack of spontaneity. Everything she said or did was premeditated somehow, even if only a split second in advance. She was incapable of manslaughter; only first-degree murder would do for her. Not that she murdered anyone exactly, though hopefully you get the idea. Had I noticed this sooner, my life would’ve turned out much differently.

For the moment, all I could do was look at the mess of jazzed up chickpeas on the floor. I wondered how long Esther would brood before she came downstairs to clean up the mess she had made.

O
NCE YOU STEP INSIDE the door called “Crime,” all sorts of things happen to you.

It’d been a few months since I stole Jesse Falcon’s ID for money, plus covered up Biff’s death, which I kept telling myself didn’t count as a crime. But that was only the beginning. I never had a dull moment again.

Late that first morning at my mom’s condo, I went to a divorce lawyer. Someone back at 21st Century had praised her divorce attorney, so I figured I’d try the same one. Plus the lawyer in question, R. Ondine Washington, was a woman, and I hoped that would create sympathy for me in court. I didn’t even call to make an appointment. I put on a suit and tie and went straight to Ondine’s office. I was too anxious about Scotty to wait. I told Mom to take good care of him and to hide him if she had to. She replied that I didn’t have to tell her that and to stop treating her like an idiot. Of course, she thought I only meant that Biff or Betsy might come for him. I wondered if I would ever tell her what Scotty did.

But I also left the condo because I had too much nervous energy to burn. I’m one of those people who, once in a stressful situation, will deal with it sooner instead of later. When people say to me, “Don’t worry about such-and-such, it’s not today’s problem,” I have no idea what they mean. How do you sit back and watch TV when your world is falling apart? Not that I was scared, exactly. Oddly, I seemed stronger than I ever had before. It reminded me of those vampire movies, when someone reluctantly drinks blood for the first time and it makes them wise and powerful in a way they never knew possible. After a lifetime of always losing by following the rules, I thought that by breaking them, I might win for a change. For once, I’d give my bad guy side a chance to show what he could do.

There was a secretary posted in front of Ondine’s office, but Ondine’s door was half-open, and I could see she was eating a sandwich, her stocking feet up on the desk. I ignored the secretary’s warning not to enter Ondine’s office, and Ondine herself gave me an icy scowl as she said, “Yes, may I help you?”

I mentioned my former work colleague, who turned out to be a personal friend of Ondine’s. Her next appointment was not due for a half hour, so before long, we were talking like old friends. She even offered me half her sandwich, which I politely declined. Ondine was a pleasant-looking, plus-sized woman with an easy laugh and a razor-sharp knowledge of divorce law. I liked her right away. The most prominent feature of her office was a large poster of Sojourner Truth.

I left out the minor detail of Biff being dead. I almost slipped up and said he was going to the Bahamas, though I caught myself in time. As far as Ondine knew, Betsy and Biff could’ve been screwing the daylights out of each other that very moment.

She did, however, shake her head in disgust when I told her about Biff and Scotty and scolded me loudly for not paying better attention as a father. However, Ondine added that a couple of police detectives owed her a favor, and she would have them put a tail on Biff without mentioning Scotty’s name.

“Attorney-client privilege,” she said. “But obviously this creep can’t keep diddling around with children.”

“Of course not,” I agreed. But I quickly realized this could complicate Biff’s disappearance in a fortunate way for Scotty and me. The cops were unlikely to drop everything to figure out who killed a child molester. And Biff’s parents would probably rather see him missing or dead than bringing this kind of publicity to the family name.

“I know some reporters, too.” Ondine winked at me.

Thus far, Betsy had not called my mom about Scotty. Probably Betsy was too busy shopping on TV for something to wear when her beloved Biff returned to her loving arms. But I knew Betsy well enough to know that at some point she would strike back with all the might she could muster. She seldom retreated into a defensive mode. Instead, she kept the offenses coming, even if they were totally untrue. Winning, to her, was more important than how she played the game. Still, Ondine gave me more than a little reason to hope.

“As the father of record,” she explained, “the laws of our state give you a certain toehold. Normally the biological father can still make a strong case, especially if he is now cohabitating with the biological mother. Even if Biff denies the sexual abuse, he certainly won’t want it coming up at trial. And if the cops find other kids he’s abused, that will pretty much be that. I doubt Scotty will have to testify.”

Ondine stretched and yawned. “As for you, my good client, ever hear of getting a job yourself? Not to mention a place to live. Your mother’s condo is too small for the three of you. Though I assume Grandma loves to babysit?”

“As long as she can watch pro wrestling. I already told you, I
have
been trying to find a job. For over a year, ever since I got laid off.”

Ondine was unsympathetic in a way that nonetheless communicated that she cared. “You know computers, right? Set up your own online business.”

“In what?”

“In whatever. Keep it clean. No Russian prostitutes. It shouldn’t cost more than a hundred to be convincing. And maybe you’ll make some money. Fancy that.”

“When you say, ‘a hundred,’ do you mean—?”

“A hundred thousand, of course.”

I could tell the question did not interest her. I hoped my fear did not show. “Oh . . . why, yes, of course. I can do that. Thank you for thinking of it.”

“And as for a place to live, first let’s see what we can do about the house. Maybe we can use it as a bargaining chip.”

“Sure, maybe.” But in truth I was disgusted at the thought of Betsy “trading” Scotty for the house. Even if she would do it, I didn’t like what it said about the mother of my son.

“And as for Scotty,” Ondine continued, “I will contact Miss Betsy Wetsy and tell her that you are filing for sole custody. By the time there’s an initial hearing in a week or two—let’s say a month at the most—make sure you have a lil’ ol’ income. Or at least be credibly moving in that direction.”

“Ondine, I swear, you must be an angel.” I had no idea how I was going to pull it together, but of course I couldn’t tell her that.

“I wouldn’t go that far.” She smiled. “Although my retainer is only thirty.”

Having caught on to the lingo, I knew “ thirty” meant thirty grand. I had to think fast.

“Tell you what, Ondine,” I said, without missing a beat. “Let’s call it twenty grand now, and I’ll have the rest by the end of the month. Most everything is tied up. You know—Betsy, one thing or another.”

I think she knew I was full of it, but she let it slide. Money messes were doubtless a common occurrence for a divorce lawyer.

“Sure,” she said. “And the full thirty no later than this Friday. The end of the month is too long to wait. Otherwise, I keep five, and give you back fifteen.” Fortunately, it was a Monday, and when you’re truly desperate, a full business week to get it together can seem like a gold-paved path with a rainbow at the end.

“By the way,” she added, “I only take certified checks.”

For some reason, her insistence on an honest check was the first time I felt guilty about what I’d done. My shoulders gave a quick shiver, which I hoped she didn’t notice.

“I’m here until four every day,” Ondine said indifferently. “Fix the knot on your tie.”

I obeyed as I took my leave, saying to the secretary, “It’s a nice day, don’t you think?” I figured it best not to alienate anyone who might have to be on my side. The secretary feigned intense concentration on her computer, ignoring me.

About a block away was a new branch of the new national bank Jesse Falcon had his accounts in on the other side of the country. The bank had changed ownership so many times that the previous bank—now defunct—was still featured on the awning, while the new bank had to make do with a paper banner in the front window. Unless through some bizarre coincidence the teller I got happened to know the real Jesse Falcon, there was no reason for the teller to think I wasn't Dr. Falcon. Every day, thousands of people passed themselves off as someone else. Why shouldn’t I be one of them?

Still, I was nervous as I opened the glass door to enter and hoped to God it didn’t show. In a way, I empathized with the fine old building, with its high, copper ceiling. It was as though one hostile bank takeover after another had cost the building its dignity.

“I need to see ID,” the teller said, after I asked for a bank check for twenty thousand and showed her a printout of my approved credit line.

Naturally, I’d expected to be asked for ID. And all I had was a photocopy of Jesse’s birth certificate, which was not officially stamped. But time was of the essence. I figured I had nothing to lose by trying. Besides, I’d already worked out a cover story or two in my head. Ironically, now that I was a criminal I was finally using my psychology training. Quickly studying the teller—a middle-aged, sympathetic, lonely looking woman with no wedding band—I decided how to proceed. I intuitively knew that a cover story should not be overly rehearsed. Improvisation came in handy if you had your wits about you.

I smiled warmly as I handed her the birth certificate. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, ma’am, but you remind me so much of my mother.”

She studied the photocopied birth certificate, but I could tell I’d pleased her. “Surely this isn’t all you have?” She grinned back at me.

“Someone stole my ID.” I leaned forward, as if taking her into my confidence. “Someone is writing bad checks in my name. The police were no help—”

“No, they never are, are they?” She shook her head in sympathy.

“I guess not, no.” I smiled with a sad irony. “I desperately need money to cover myself. That’s why I got this emergency credit line. If you bring up my record, you’ll see I have a spotless credit history. Until now.” I ran my fingers through my hair to signal a touch of despair and got all choked up, as if ready to cry. “My wife is pregnant. With
twins
. We
need
this money.”

Deeply moved, the teller patted my hand in a motherly way that my own mother never did. “Well, I really shouldn’t . . . but what the heck. You have an honest face. Let me see the birth certificate.” She smiled understandingly. For several tedious minutes I stood there while she photocopied the birth certificate, withdrew the money for the check, painstakingly counted it twice, gave me a receipt, gave me back my own copy of the birth certificate, and typed up the certified check I requested. I had to repeat how to spell “Ondine,” which rattled my nerves. I wanted to get out of the bank as soon as possible. But then, I would’ve been anxious if the story I’d told her had been true, so I hammed it up a bit more. Then she got a phone call, which lasted less than a minute though it felt like a hundred years.

“Here you are, Dr. Falcon.” The teller handed me the check. “And best of luck. From your mom.”

For a second, I didn’t know what she meant, until I remembered what I’d said.

“Thank you so very much,” I replied, glancing at her nameplate. “Lizabetty, I am forever in your debt. Or should I say Mom?” Having methodically practiced Jesse Falcon’s pompous signature, I signed the check in the teller’s presence and neatly folded it in my suit coat pocket.