Generation of Liars (28 page)

“What was the topic of the news
story you were working on?”

“I was a writer for a well-known
magazine at the time, and my story revolved around unpublicized juice about
some U.S. nukes moving around the country. My source, an ex-CIA guy, real
bitter over a pension dispute, got chatty with me. I guess the feds didn’t like
some of the juicy bits I put in the story, and they showed up on my doorstep to
let me know. They said they were going to investigate me and that I would
probably be tried with giving away State secrets.”

“Did they make good on their
promise?”

“Soon after they banged on my door,
the crap really hit the fan. When I tried to pay my rent, the check bounced. My
bank account was frozen. They messed with everything, right down to my gym
membership. There’s a movie like that but I forget the name. Anyways, this was
all about six months after the November Hit, so once I realized I was in
danger, I didn’t sit it out like I might have before the attack. I went
underground.”

“You just disappeared?”

“Yeah, I bought a fake Social
Security number, thought up a new alias to write under, and I started covering
technology stories since the cyber attack was big news and everyone wanted
articles about cyber security.”

“It sounds like being able to run
away, thanks to the cyber attack, was like Christmas morning for you, I mean in
terms of keeping you safe from the feds. Why mess with a good thing? Why pump
the nerds for info on the dynamite stick? Unless you’re out to destroy once you
find it?”

“I’m out to find the dynamite
stick, but not because I want to destroy it.”

“Why then?”

“Because I plan on turning it in.”

“Turning it in? You mean to the
feds? That’s crazy. Why would you want to do that?”

“You see, I was fishing on a story
for
Zipped
a couple months back, and I stumbled upon a real pretty
tidbit of information. Turns out, the government is making secret propositions
to liars like us.”

“Liars us like
us
? Hold up.
What makes you think I’m a fraud?”

Skip looked me up and down. “Don’t
insult my intelligence. There’s an ancient Latin saying, I think it goes,
takes
one to know one
.”

“Fair enough,” I told him. “Now go
on with the story.”  

“Anyway, the government has begun a
practice of making offers to liars. Even the nasty ones, the drug runners,
homegrown terrorists, and etcetera.”

“What’s the offer?’

“Freedom.”

“Freedom from what?”

“Find the dynamite stick for the
government, and when the Social Security numbers are restored off the disk, get
full immunity for whatever crimes or offenses we have under our real name, plus
a new government-generated Social Security number that comes with a lot of
perks like good degrees, automatic high paying job, and a money stipend.
Whoever delivers the bacon gets the whole pig. I want to be that lucky bastard.
I’d ask for a Pulitzer in journalism just so I can light it on fire and stuff
it up my old editor’s ass.”

I snuffed my cigarette out in the
sink and bounced down to my feet. “Skip, why would you want to cooperate with
the government who wrecked your reputation and cost you your career?”

“Because it’s the only shot I have.
You don’t argue with the executioner when he adds a few inches to the rope.”

“I hate to tell you this, but you
can quit searching because the dynamite stick is already accounted for, and
it’s not going anywhere near Uncle Sam’s pocket.”

I could tell by the look on Skip’s
face that my revelation was rubbing him the wrong way. He cut me off when I
started leaving for the door. “Wait a minute, you never told me where you fit
in to all this. What do you want with this nerds and the dynamite stick?”

“Listen, Mr. Reporter, I’m not
about to spill my guts for the front page.”

“This can be off the record.”

“Sounds to me like the only way you
operate is off the record, and I don’t trust it. No deal.”

He moved aside to let me pass. With
a conniving ring in his voice, he called out, “Oh Alice, one more thing.”

“What?”

“It’s not just liars like us the
government will make a deal with.”

“Oh?”

“It’s corporations, too.”

“Isn’t that usually how the story
goes? Corporations always get the advantage over us regular Joes.”

“Yeah, but this part is juicy,
you’ll want to hear this.”

I cuffed a hand over my hip. “Okay,
go on.”

“You ever hear of the software
company called Cibix, Alice?”

“Maybe.” I pursed my lips.

“Last year Cibix got caught in a
nasty tax evasion scandal, they chumped the government out of millions.”

“Tell me why this has anything to
do with the dynamite stick.”

“I’m getting there, don’t worry.
See, I have a couple employees at Cibix headquarters on my informant list
willing to be a source, strictly off the record, of course. They told me that
instead of pressing charges against Cibix or making them pony up the money, the
government offered the corporation the option to use their technology
capability as recompense.”

My eyes gleaned our reflection in
the mirror and I noticed that the gritty lighting, fair skin, and video game
hair all conspired to make me look edgy. The same went for Skip and his green
and black hair. We both looked a little clammy and nervous and strung out on
adrenaline. “Listen,” I cut in, “I was just here to meet some geeks and I don’t
care about this. I think I have to piss, excuse me.” I busted into one of the
toilet stalls and pissed my one and a half drinks worth.

Skip made a lingering sigh on the
other side of my stall and kept talking. “But, it’s fascinating. I didn’t put
much stock into it until some news came down the geek wire that Cibix recently
got their servers trashed vigilante
-
style by a perp they couldn’t
finger. I talked to a couple employees last night, you wouldn’t believe what
one of them told me, Alice.”

“Try me.”

“The source said he wasn’t at all
surprised Cibix was having problems getting their tax figures straight. Lately
they had hired, and I quote, nothing but straight-out-of-college pips. Can you
believe that?”

“Nothing all that hard to believe
about it. Cheap labor is good business.”

“Oh yeah, I remember now, there was
one funny thing she told me. She said there was even a new accountant spotted
walking around with blue hair. Can you believe that, Alice?” He did a big
cackling laugh and then he cleared his throat. “You don’t know anyone who dyes
their hair wacky colors, do you, Alice?”

I flushed the toilet with the heel
of my boot and then I flew out of the stall and shoved into Skip, busting him
up against the bathroom mirror. “That doesn’t sound like news that’s fit to
print.”

“Nervous about something, Alice?”
he asked, with a jerk smirk going in full effect. With one hand shaking the
scruff of his collar, I reached into my boot with the other and pulled out my
snub-nose revolver and pressed it to his temple.

“Don’t make me scribble your
obituary all over the wall of this bathroom,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Let me ask you something. What’s a
cute punk-rock chick like you doing tangled up in this nasty story?”

I dug the gun’s mouth deeper into
his temple. “I’m not part of the story, I’m the one writing the story. And
you’re just a little ant who thinks he’s found something to carry off to his
little hive and so he can rebuild his little ant hill. But you’re wrong.” I
chopped the borrowed cigarette out of his mouth and crushed it into itty bitty
pieces with my heel. “Dead wrong.”

Someone jostled at the jammed door
handle. I shoved my gun back into my boot and slyly walked over to slide the
broom out. A rough-looking guy came in to use the urinal. He gave us an awkward
look and then unzipped and did his business. Probably he had seen worse in a
bar bathroom before. I tapped my cigarette ash into the sink and waited for him
to leave. He pissed a gallon and left without washing his hands.

“No need to get testy here,” Skip
said, looking at the door like he wanted out too.

“Just do both of us a favor and
trash
the story. Give up on your pipedream about getting the dynamite
stick into your grubby hands.”

I saw Skip reach for his pocket and
my hand shot down to retrieve the revolver from my boot again. He put both
hands in the air. “Calm down, I’m just getting one of my business cards for
you.”

“Alright,” I said. “Do it
slowly
.”

“If you ever change your mind about
sharing whatever it is you know, give me a call.” He extended a card to me. He
was so used-car salesman about the whole thing.

I took the card, stormed out of the
bathroom, and found my way through the crowded bar to the exit. It was
practically freezing outside, so I made a judgment against walking the whole
way home, instead taking the train a half block to my flat.

When I got inside I boiled water
for rose hip tea and leaned against the breakfast counter smoking a cigarette.
It was 4 A.M. by then, and as I glanced over at the empty couch, its cushions
in disarray, it was hard to believe it was the still the same night I had spent
with Ben intimately cozied on the couch. I raked my fingers through my hair, dragging
with them the dreggy stench of the bar bathroom.

I dialed Rabbit’s number.

“Our secret it still safe,” I told
him.

Chapter Twenty-five: Scrubs

I
T
WAS HELL to wake up the next morning.

I had tossed and turned all night
thinking of Skip and his busybody questions. His innuendo regarding my unusual
hair color and a connection to Cibix was making my stomach feel violently ill.
But I consoled myself by remembering that he was just an amateur loser with
maybe ten readers, and that was on a prime month. Plus, my hair, though still
unorthodox, was distinctly pink now, and not blue, so that removed me from any
distinctive description of the perpetrator at Cibix.

I threw the covers off my body and
told myself I had better things to think about. Like Ben, for instance. The
thought of Ben was enough to rocket me out of bed.

I padded down the metal spiral
steps that led down from my bedroom loft to the kitchen. I swung open the
refrigerator door and took note that the situation inside was dire. There was
club soda I had used to soak the blood stains out of my black mini after
getting shot by Pressley on the Eiffel Tower, plus some chutney packets from
the takeout the night before. I slammed the door shut and decided that I would
have to grab lunch on the go. I spent some time in the bathroom getting dolled
up by gunking up my eyelashes with jet black extra volume mascara. I got
dressed in skinny jeans, a pink stretchy top to match my hair, and a red
feathery scarf.

As I jogged down the steps to my
apartment building’s lobby, I checked my phone for messages. Surprisingly,
there hadn’t been any contact from Rabbit or Motley.  

This was starting to look like a
day off.

In the three years I had worked for
Motley, I savored days like this. Days when I felt free, like something of a
normal life. I did some quick shopping at the drugstore that was two buildings
down from my flat. I prowled the aisles with my gold aviator sunglasses over my
eyes, always on alert for being recognized by some past foe. The wound on my arm
was pretty much healed, so I could get away with buying normal bandages and
vitamin e cream. It had been Ben’s suggestion, muttered at some point during
the incredible back rub the night before. I grabbed lunch at the drugstore too,
a bag of Swedish fish and a diet Coke. No wonder I was all bones. I had to
resist the urge to buy a box of hair coloring. There was a shade of red called
Machine Gun Magenta
that seemed to call my name in at least three
languages. But the way Rabbit always ragged on my mop, and with reporter Skip
Hask nosing around, I figured I’d cool it on the color for a while.

By early afternoon, all my errands
were complete. My flat was stocked with toilet paper, cereal, and skim milk.
After dumping off my groceries, I went into the bathroom to apply a fresh coat
of lipstick and tussle my hair. I put on a pair of gypsy earrings that shook
like coins when I walked. I was about to do something I had never done before.
I had played a lot of roles in my three years of working for Motley, but loyal
girlfriend was a first.  The debut of Alice Fix, domesticated sweetheart,
was long overdue. I had decided that I was going to do something unexpected and
surprise Ben at work.  Eat your heart out, Cupid, Alice Fix was sharpening
her bow and target practice was on.

I stopped in Pigalle to buy flowers
from Queenie Reds on the way. I still felt guilty about the time Ben showed up
at my place with flowers and left totally dejected. But I would make up for it
today. The metro stop at Montmartre was deserted when I arrived in the doldrums
of the afternoon. During the day, the handful of streets that made up Pigalle
were usually empty, save for a few curious tourists who lacked the daring to
shine their faces alongside the red glow of the windmill after sunset, but who
were curious about the mystique-filled neighborhood. A few touristy places
offered lunch, and there were some shops, but mostly everyone who lived in the
neighborhood stayed inside and prepared for the festivities of the impending
night. And then there was Queenie Reds, the caked makeup on her face looking
like powdered millet in the unforgiving sunlight, and the wheels on her flower
cart squeaking like gears of a jubilant war.

“Hey, Alice,” Queenie called out.
She planted a kiss on my cheek.

“Hello,” I said to Queenie,
smudging away the lipstick from my cheek. “I need flowers, something romantic.”

“Hmmm,” Queenie buzzed, “does Miss
Alice have herself a man?”