James Siegel - Deceit

Briscoe.

I leafed through Benjamin’s childhood primer. A journey through the alphabet. At some point, someone had tried to teach him something. He’d scrawled his first name across the cover: Benjamin: age 9.

“How’d he get out of here, Rainey? You said he was all doped up.”

“Nah-I said he talked to himself. You said it’s the meds.”

“I bet he would’ve stopped taking them. Pretended to swallow them maybe, but spit them out instead. He would’ve wanted a clear head.”

“If you say so. That what Dennis did?”

“No.”

I WOKE DENNIS UP.

His eyes were dreamy-looking, peaceful, as if he’d been somewhere where he still had his tongue and could read license plates and road signs to his heart’s content.

“Dennis,” I said. “Just listen and nod your head, okay? Either yes or no, okay, Dennis?”

He nodded yes.

“You made a trade. That’s how your wallet ended up with someone else.”

He stared at me.

“His name was Benjamin. He was going to break out of here-he was going to run. Remember?”

No response.

“Maybe that gave you the same idea. Benjamin didn’t want his meds anymore-he didn’t need them. But you did-you needed them. You had a little money in your wallet; you had some ID in there too, maybe. Benjamin needed both. He was a ghost . He had no identity-none. And he was finally going out into the world.”

Dennis stared at me.

“You traded him your wallet for his meds. Every color in the rainbow. That’s how a black man who burned up in a car in California ended up with your wallet in his pocket.”

Dennis blinked.

“I know you can’t remember stuff. I know it’s all a fucking haze. Try to remember this. Just try. Yes or no?”

He nodded.

Yes.

I brought the detritus of Benjamin’s sad life to the dark and deserted lounge.

I bought a cup of mud-colored coffee from a machine and sat down at the table.

I opened the primer. Benjamin: age 9.

Every page contained a letter-first page letter A , second page letter B , third page C , and so on.

Benjamin had written each letter ten times, both in caps and lowercase. Then a word using that letter.

The A word was apple .

Then a picture of the word-a red apple in crudely drawn crayon.

Then apple was used in a simple sentence.

I eat apple , Benjamin wrote, in a 9-year-old’s syntax that he would never outgrow.

Happy hundred birthday.

I wish you hundred hugs.

It would’ve been hard to outgrow anything while being weaned on various mind-benders.

The B word was bed .

The bed he’d drawn looked pretty much like the one I’d just left in the ward. A child’s vision of it. Same color blanket. A small black scarecrow with crooked little Z s shooting out of his mouth.

I sleep bed.

For fifty years that’s what he’d done, until one day he saw his mom on TV, the one they’d told him had died in the flood with all the others. Then he woke up.

I went through each page.

Car.

Dog.

Elefant.

Fire.

Goat.

House.

Ice creem.

Jump.

Then the K page.

I stared at this word, because it wasn’t a kid’s word at all.

No.

I’d seen this particular word before.

When a folded letter fell out of a cracked picture frame and whispered come follow me .

See, I wasn’t talking about the wrong guy, Rainey.

The picture was a street filled with little stick figures raining tears. Their little stick arms were raised in childish terror. Of what? A blue giant. He was looming over them with a scythelike knife dripping thick, red drops of blood.

I stared at the sentence.

I live Kara Bolka.

K for Kara Bolka.

That’s why I was never able to find it. Why I could’ve scoured the phone directories from now till doomsday and still come up empty.

Greetings from Kara Bolka.

Kara Bolka wasn’t a person.

It was a place.

Ten-hut.”

That’s the way the soldier covered with shrapnel scars informed me I should probably wake up. That I had visitors.

Only I’d been visiting a place where little children cowered in terror before blue giants with bloody knives. I had trouble opening my eyes and focusing.

Detective Wolfe. He was standing there with a new partner who didn’t look much like a policeman. There was a palpable menace in the room.

“Good morning,” I said.

“Maybe not,” Wolfe said. “You said you’re a reporter but you’re not just a reporter, Mr. Valle.”

Dennis was up, too. Dried blood had formed around the corners of his lips.

“You’re famous,” Detective Wolfe continued. “You didn’t tell me you were famous.”

The other man had pulled up a chair and placed one foot on it, resting his arms across his knee. Detective Wolfe might’ve been asking the questions, but his new partner seemed to be the one listening.

“For fifteen minutes,” I said.

“You’re being modest,” Wolfe said.

“No. Not really.”

“Come on, Tom. Fifty-six stories? That’s quite a fucking accomplishment. Maybe you should’ve let me in on it.”

“Why? It didn’t have anything to do with Dennis being attacked in the gas station.”

“No? You might, I’m just saying here, fall under the heading of unreliable witness . Given your habit of lying through your fucking teeth.”

“Old habit. I’ve been working at a newspaper for more than a year.”

“You’re on leave from a newspaper-you were sent to the corner for being bad. Something to do with someone getting shot.”

“That someone was supposed to be me. He missed.”

“He who ?”

“The shooter.”

“Right. There’s a suspicion the shooter had your gun.”

“He stole it.”

“Yeah, that’s what you told everybody.”

“That’s what happened. Why would I want someone to shoot me?”

“Maybe you didn’t. After all, you didn’t get shot , did you? Someone else did.”

The other man occasionally closed his eyes and nodded at something or other.

“Here’s the thing,” the detective continued. “Mr. Patjy was shot too. The shooter was nice enough to leave an empty cartridge outside. He was shot with a Smith amp; Wesson.38. Just like the kid in Littleton. Just like the gun you purchased-illegally, apparently, from Ted’s Guns amp; Ammo.”

Okay, it had just been a matter of time.

Time’s up.

“I told you. I was asleep in the car. I woke up and found Dennis in the bathroom.”

“Right. You like Doritos, Tom?”

“Not especially.”

“Somebody did. Their prints are all over the bags. The ones they dropped on their way out.”

I didn’t answer him.

“Back in New York, after you were arrested for-what was it, breaking and entering, malicious destruction of property, lying your ass off-after that, you were court-ordered into therapy. It was your get-out-of-jail-free card, wasn’t it?”

“I wasn’t going to jail. Not for a first-time offense.”

The other man squinted, furrowed his brow in thought.

“I’m asking if the court recognized you as having mental problems.”

“I had problems. I don’t think I would define them as mental.”

“How would you define them?”

“I was trying to get ahead. I made things up. That was a problem.”