Orest Stelmach - The Boy Who Stole from the Dead

A chair occupied a vacant space front and center. It was a special chair Victor had designed to his personal specifications twenty-five years ago. It was an exact replica of the one he’d experienced in the forced labor camp in Siberia, the gulag , whenever some of the grain in the kitchen went missing.

“The director will begin the audition immediately,” the Ammunition said. “Time is of the essence. He has an appointment in an hour with the Ukrainian-American actress Vera Farmiga. She’s reading for the part of the psychotic daughter.”

The actor closed his eyes and took three deep breaths. “Ready,” he said.

“We will save the script for later,” the Ammunition said. He snatched the sheet of paper from the surprised actor’s hands. “The director likes to start with a little improvisation.”

“Improv?”

“Yes. There’s no substitute for it. Instead of the part of the mobster interrogating the liar, you will play the liar. The director calls it role reversal.”

The actor blinked as though trying to catch up. “I get it. To help me associate myself with the other side.” He smiled. “So I can understand the liar’s mentality.”

“Exactly. It’s important you understand what it means to be a liar.”

“I get it. I can do that.”

The Ammunition motioned toward the chair with an open palm. “To sit here, please,” he said.

The actor sat down. Fidgeted until he was comfortable. Rotated his neck in a circle to loosen up. “Bring it on,” he said.

The Gun approached the chair from the left.

“To make the scene authentic,” the Ammunition said, “the director prefers to use the same props he uses during the shoot.”

“What props?” the actor said.

“Please put your hands on the armrests and your feet against the legs.”

The actor appeared confused but obeyed. Of course he obeyed. A man who dreamed of seeing his name in lights would do anything.

The Gun slammed the left armrest. A steel cuff sprang from beneath. It wrapped around the actor’s wrist and secured it to the chair. The Gun kicked the chair’s leg. A leg iron snapped around his ankle. The Ammunition did the same on the right side.

Shock flashed in the actor’s eyes.

The Ammunition touched his shoulder. “Not too tight, are they? We can loosen them if you want.”

The actor started to answer.

“Action,” Victor said in Ukrainian.

The Ammunition repeated the word in English.

The actor closed his mouth.

The Ammunition circled to the back of the chair. Leaned into the actor’s ear. “Did you really think you would get away with it?”

The actor frowned. “Get away with what?”

“The murder.”

“What murder?”

“The murder of the businessman.”

Confusion washed over the actor’s face. He wasn’t half bad, Victor thought.

“What businessman?” the actor said.

Victor stepped forward. “The British businessman,” he said. “The man who went by the name of Jonathan Valentine.”

“You speak English—” The actor grimaced. “Damn. Sorry. I didn’t know you spoke English. That caught me off guard. Can we take it from the top?”

“No need to,” Victor said. “We can pick up where we left off.”

The actor nodded. “Where was that again?”

“The British businessman in the Meatpacking District,” Victor said. “Jonathan Valentine. Why did you kill him?”

The actor blanched. Recognition shone in his eyes. “Who… who are you?” he said.

Victor remained mute. The actor was the witness to the killing. The twins had gotten his name from Johnny Tanner’s file. Victor had no reason to suspect the witness was the murderer. But the suggestion flowed with the script. It elevated the stakes and served notice to the man he was in trouble.

The actor glanced from Victor to the twins and back to Victor. He tried to stand. The shackles clattered. He snapped his wrists. The cuffs restrained him.

“You’re no director,” he said.

“But you really are an actor,” Victor said. “You seemed like a good man a minute ago. But now you will tell us the truth, won’t you?”

“Screw you, asshole. Who are you?”

“It doesn’t matter who I am. What matters is what your motive was for killing Valentine. And why you accused an innocent boy of something you did.”

“Innocent boy. Right.” Fury mixed with laughter. “Do you have any idea who you’re messing with, Trotsky? I’m an ex-cop. Did you know that? Do you know how much trouble you’re in?”

“You should look at your wrists and ankles again.”

“Listen, asshole. If you hurt me in any way, that’s witness tampering. Any judge is going to see that.”

“I’m not going to hurt you in any way. Why would I want to hurt you? I need you in perfect condition when you walk into the police station in one hour and tell them the truth about how and why you killed Valentine.”

“I killed him?” The actor sounded and looked sincerely appalled. “That’s a joke, right?” He raised his chin. “I’ll make you a deal. Stop this now and I’ll let this slide. I don’t know who you are, maybe you’re the boy’s grandfather. Or godfather. I can respect that. Uncuff me and we’ll call it a day.”

Victor smiled. “You don’t play chess, do you?”

The actor frowned. “What?”

“Chess,” Victor said. “You don’t play, do you?”

“You’re kidding me, right?”

“Chess is to life as integrity is to a policeman. It helps you make the right decisions before you need to make them.”

The actor stared at Victor. “You made more sense when you were speaking Russian. And I couldn’t understand a word you were saying then.”

“Why did you kill Valentine? Why did you accuse the boy? Tell me now and I will spare you the worst possible agony a man can know.”

The actor laughed. “That’s funny. You agreed you can’t hurt me or it’ll be obvious someone tampered with me. And then you told me yourself you’d never do me no harm. So you see, that threat doesn’t carry much weight. You got no play here.”

“My play is in your wallet,” Victor said.

“Excuse me?”

“You will speak the truth in exchange for the safe return of the contents of your wallet.”

“I hate to break it to you, but in case you didn’t notice, I’m no Rockefeller. I got two credit cards, one’s maxed out, and about forty-three bucks in my pocket.”

“It’s not a matter of money.”

“Oh no? What then? The ten dollar cowhide?”

“No. The picture I am certain I’ll find inside it.”

The Gun reached into the actor’s front pant pocket for his wallet. He struggled to pull it out. The actor appeared stunned, as though processing the implications of Victor’s statement and realizing he couldn’t contemplate it. The Gun handed Victor the wallet.

Victor searched the compartments until he found what he was looking for. A picture of two teenagers. A boy and a girl. The girl had her arm around a third person who’d been cut out of the picture. The mother. Another American divorce.

“Keri and Tommy,” Victor said. “Did I get the names right?”

The actor strained to free himself. “Don’t even think of touching my family.”

“I’m not going to touch your family,” Victor said.

The Gun showed the actor a computer that looked like a child’s sketching toy. He played videos of the actor’s two children leaving school an hour ago.

“The men who took those videos will,” Victor said. “And there will be nothing you can do about it. Because it’s going to happen before you get home unless you go to the police immediately and tell them exactly what happened. If you place a phone call, try to alert a friend, do not comply with my demands in any way, you will never see your children alive again.”