William Lashner - Marked Man

“What kind of law do you do?” asked Mr. Adair.

“All kinds, but mostly criminal law.”

“We don’t like criminals in this family.”

“Well, they’re not as popular as NASCAR, I give you that, but they still have rights.”

“What about the rights of the victims?”

“Stop it, Daddy,” said Monica. “Daddy’s been watching too much cable news. He thinks he’s O’Reilly.”

“The man makes good points. He’s a pillar.”

“So was Lot’s wife,” I said.

“I hate lawyers,” said Richard, without looking away from the television. “Greedy little buggers, all of them.”

“I suppose we are,” I said. “But it’s a capitalist country, right? Where would we be without greedy little buggers?”

“What’s it like making money off other people’s heartbreak?” said Richard, still without turning his head in my direction. “I mean, a guy breaks his leg, you make money. A guy breaks his head, you make more money. No matter how crippled the victim, you make out like a thief. It must sicken your heart.”

“But the cardiologists these days can do wonders,” I said. “What do you do, Richard?”

“Richard is between things,” said Mrs. Adair. “More Chex Mix, Victor?”

“No, ma’am, I’m fine. Thank you.”

“You bagging my sister yet?” said Richard.

“Excuse me?”

“Richard, shut up,” said Monica.

“I’m just asking,” said Richard. “I’m allowed to ask.”

“Something to drink, everyone?” said Mrs. Adair. “Tea?”

“Tea would be lovely,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Monica, why don’t you help me in the kitchen? There’s another batch of Chex Mix in the oven. It’s especially nice hot out of the oven, don’t you think, Victor?”

“Oh, absolutely. What kind of margarine do you use?”

“Oh, heavens, I wouldn’t use margarine. Only real butter in my Chex Mix.”

“It shows.”

The two women departed for the kitchen, and the three men were left with nothing but the sound of engines roaring out of the television set. The announcers got excited about something, Richard belched, Mr. Adair pushed himself out of his chair to hit the head. I swirled some Chex Mix in my fist.

“Who’s winning?” I said to be friendly.

“Some guy with a hat,” said Richard. “Do you care?”

“No.”

“Neither do I. Can I be frank?”

“Sure, and I’ll be Sam.”

“We both know Monica isn’t the brightest bulb in the shed. We both know you’re not dating her for her taste in literature. So I figure you got to be bagging her. I mean, if you’re not, and I’m talking about bagging her steady, giving her the old heave-ho night and day and night and day, then really, what’s the point?”

“Nice mouth on you, Richard.”

“I’m just saying.”

“She’s your sister.”

“Yeah, sure, I know, but my God, look at her. Have you seen those legs? They go up to her chin. And her breasts are, like, perfect.”

“How do you know that?”

“Sometimes she sunbathes in the back and loosens her top. I just sit up in my room and stare out the window.”

“Richard, you’re being creepy.”

“Listen. There are girls on the Internet not half as hot as Monica making a fortune just by spreading their legs and lifting their shirts for the camera. With the package she’s carrying, she could make double, triple, but she’s wasting it all in that stupid law office.”

“She does good work in that office,” I said.

“Maybe you could talk to her for me.”

“About what?”

“I’ve got this idea of opening a Web site. ‘Monicaland dot com,’ we’d call it. I’ve already reserved the domain name. I’d do all the work, all the designing and maintenance, answer all the e-mails for her. I’d even pretend to be her in the Monicaland chat room. All she has to do is let me take some pictures. We could make a fortune.”

“I don’t think so.”

“I’d be doing all the work, and the money we make could set her up for life. I’d give you a cut, too, if you convince her.”

“You’ll have to dress better, Richard, if you’re going to be a pimp.”

“Hey, I’m just looking out for my sister. I just want to build her up a nest egg. That’s the way my family is – we look out for each other. And let me tell you, if you want to keep bagging my sister day and night, like you’re doing now, you’ll go along.”

“Or else what?”

“I knew it was you as soon as you walked in the room. I seen you on the TV. You’re the guy representing that Charlie Kalakos guy with the painting.”

“What about it?”

“Here’s the deal. You talk to Monica about our Web site and I won’t tell my parents who you are.”

“Why would I care if you tell? What does one have to do with the other? I’m a little lost here, Richard.”

“There’s a connection, trust me.”

“Oh, is there?” I got up, stepped over the television, stood right in front of it, the vroom vroom going on behind me. Richard craned his neck to try to see around me, found it futile, looked at me for the first time and then away. His eyes were yellow, his skin flabby and white like an overworked dough.

“You want to tell me about it?” I said.

“I’m trying to watch,” he said.

“Okay, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your NASCAR.” I moved from in front of the television, around the coffee table, and sat smack on the couch, so close our hips were rubbing.

He tried to slide away, but I slid with him. He watched the racing, I watched him, watched him wilt under my gaze. I knuckled his head, twice, and he just shrank away, like a slug shrinking away from salt.

“What’s the connection, Richard?”

“Forget about it.”

“No, I want to hear.”

“It’s not important.”

“Sure it is.”

“What are you doing here? Get the hell out of here. Leave me alone, or I’m going to tell Monica you hit me.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” I said. I leaned close, so close my lips were almost touching his ear. “Here’s a lesson for you, boy. There are two types of people in the world, users and tools. You want to be a user, you want to turn your sister into a whore, but you’ll always be just a tool. And you want to know why? Because you have to be able to read people to be a user, and you are functionally illiterate. See, here’s the thing, Richard: You thought I came here because I have the hots for Monica, that I have her name tattooed on my lustful little heart, but you’re wrong. She’s not the Adair whose name I have tattooed on my heart. How do you like them apples?”

He turned and stared at me, and there was fear on his doughy face and in his yellow eyes. The couch shifted as his butt muscles clenched.

Just then the toilet flushed. Richard’s head swiveled. Mr. Adair stepped out of the downstairs powder room. Monica and Mrs. Adair appeared from the kitchen with a tray.

“I have the tea and a fresh batch of Chex Mix,” said Mrs. Adair. “Oh, look at you two, getting along so nicely. What are you boys talking about?”

“Chantal,” I said.

It was the moviesthat finally determined it for me. The home movies, Super 8s unspooling on a projector Mr. Adair pulled out of the closet, the images splashed upon one of the living room walls. After I brought her name up, the Adairs seemed only too willing to talk about Chantal. They reminisced about her sparkling personality, told fond stories, recounted again the great day when Chantal danced on television on the Al Alberts Showcase . It was all sweet enough to make of me a disbeliever. Is there anything more dubious than someone else’s happy childhood? But then at one point, Mrs. Adair clapped her nervous hands and said, “Let’s see the movies,” and only a moment passed before the projector was whirring and the memories were flickering.