谎言书：03

“Watching cop shows on TV.”
“That’s just so you can point out inconsistencies. Name a real form of
entertainment. What was the last movie you saw? Or better yet—” He grabs
the notebook-size steel case that’s wedged between my seat and the center
console. My laptop.
“Here we go,” he says, flipping 1 open the computer and clicking the History
button in my browser 2. “Seeing the Web sites someone goes to, it’s like looking
at the furniture arrangement of their mind.”
On-screen, the list isn’t long.
“SmartSunGuide.com?” he asks.
“That’s a good site.”
“No, that’s where you get Florida traffic reports and the public CCTV cameras
— to spot homeless clients who’re sleeping under an overpass 3.”
“So?”
“And this one: ConstructionJournal.com. Lemme guess: up-to-the-minute
building permits, so you can find all the new construction sites.”
“That’s where our clients tend to sleep.”
“Cal, you not seeing the picture here? No interests, no news, no sports, hell,
not even any porn. You’re a damn walrus 5,” Roosevelt insists, cracking another
pistachio. “When it’s walking on land, walruses 6 are the most lumbering 7,
awkward creatures God ever gave us. But the moment it enters the water,
that sucker is quicksilver. Fwoooo,” he says, slicing his hand through the air
like a ski jump. “Same with you, Cal. When you’re working with clients, you’re
in the water — fwoooo — just quicksilver. The problem is, all you wanna do is
stay underwater. And even the walrus knows if it doesn’t come up for air, it’s
gonna die.”
“That’s a very inspiring and far too visual analogy. But I know who I am, and
I like who I am, and when it comes to ass 4-face restaurant managers who
treat money as some green-colored rosary, well, no offense 8, but I’m not for
sale. And we should never let our clients be, either.”
He rolls his eyes, letting us both calm down. “Can you be more predictable?”
he asks.
“I was trying to be complex.”
“Complex woulda been if you had taken the guy’s money, given it to Alberto,
and then told him to go back and use it to eat at the restaurant.”
I glance over at him. The pastor 9 in him won’t let up. Not until I get the
message. As I try to save whoever’s out there, he still thinks he needs to
save me. I know he misses his parish, but he’s wrong about this one. It’s not
a crusade. Or an obsession 10. I could leave this job tomorrow. Or the next
night. Or the night after that. Tonight, though, isn’t that night.
“I’m still not for sale,” I tell him. “And you of all people shouldn’t be, either.”
Roosevelt leans back in his reclined seat and lets out a hearty 11 laugh. “Yo
momma’s so fat—”
“Roosevelt, I shouldn’t’ve said that—”
“—the horse on her Polo shirt . . . is real!”
“You used that last week.”
“Yo momma’s so fat, in elevators, it says: ‘Maximum Occupancy: Twelve
Patrons OR Yo momma!’ ”
“Does that really make you happier?”
“Just take the money next time, Cal,” Roosevelt says as he twists a dial on
the old, stolen police scanner we superglued to the dash. The cops don’t care.
On homeless calls, they want us there first.
“—ave an eighty-six, requesting — zzzrrr — nearby units to Victoria Park,” a
woman’s voice says as the scanner crackles to life. The park is less than a
mile away.
Turns out this is the call I’d been waiting nineteen years for.
 
3
“Cal . . . I need help!” Roosevelt screams.
My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you
should use only three exclamation 12 points. That way, when you put one out
there, people know it’s worth it. I used one of them the day my mom died.
But tonight, as I sit in the van and hear the sudden panic in Roosevelt’s voice
— Across the wide patch of grass known as Victoria Park, he flicks 13 on his
flashlight. But all I see is the bright red blood on his hands. No. Please don’t
let tonight be another.
“Rosey, what the hell’s going on?” I yell back, clawing over the passenger
seat, sticking my head out the window, and squinting 14 into the darkness. He’s
kneeling over our newest homeless client — “86” on the radio means
“vagrant” — who’s curled at the base of a queen palm tree that stands apart
from the rest.
“It’s a bad one, Cal. He’s a bleeder!”
A ping of rain hits the windshield, and I jump at the impact.
If this were my first day on the job, I’d leap out of the van and rush like a
panicked child to Roosevelt’s side. But this isn’t day one. It’s year two.
“You got his Social?” I call out.
Kneeling at the base of the queen palm, Roosevelt tucks his flashlight under
his armpit and rolls what looks like a heavyset man onto his back. As the light
shines down — the lumpy silhouette 15 — even from here, I can see the blood
that soaks the man’s stomach.
“His wallet’s gone,” Roosevelt shouts, knowing our protocols 16. “Sir. . . . Sir!
Can you hear me? I need your Social Security number.”
In my left hand, I’m already dialing 911. In my right, I prop 17 my laptop on the
center console. But I never take my eyes off Roo-sevelt. Breast cancer took
my aunt, the aunt who raised me, a few years back. I don’t have many
friends. I have this job. And I have Roosevelt.
“Cal, I got his Social!” Roosevelt shouts. “Sir, were you mugged? You have a
gunshot wound.”
“Gimme one sec,” I call out. The computer hums, our tracking software
loads, and I click on the button marked Find Client. On-screen, a blank form
opens, and I tab over to the section labeled SSN.
“Cal, you need to hurry,” Roosevelt adds as the man whispers something. At
least he’s conscious. “He’s starting t—”
“Ready!” I insist, all set to type with one hand. In my other, I grip my cell
and hit send as the 911 line starts ringing.
Years ago, if you wanted to drive around and work with the homeless, all you
needed was a van and some Lysol. These days, the state of Florida won’t let
you pick up a soul unless you’re logged on to the statewide computer network
that tracks who’s where. The better to see you with, my dear. And the better
to see what diseases, medication, and psychological history you’re carrying
around as well.
“Zero seven eight, zero five, one one two zero,” Roosevelt announces as I
key in the man’s Social Security number.
In my ear, the 911 line continues to ring.
In the distance, refusing to wait, Roosevelt rips open the man’s shirt and
starts applying pressure to his wound.
And on-screen, I get my first look at his identity.
LLOYD RANDALL HARPER
DANIA BEACH, FLORIDA
DOB: JUNE 19 — 52 YEARS OLD
A swell 18 of heat burns my chest, my throat. I can’t breathe. I open my mouth
to call Roosevelt’s name, but my lips won’t move.
LLOYD RANDALL HARPER
My father.
“This is 911,” the operator announces in my ear. “What’s your emergency?”
 
4
Darting 19 between two oak trees, I race through the black park as the rain
collects in little rivers on my face. I ignore it. Just like I ignore my heart
kicking from inside my rib 20 cage. All I see is him.
When I was little, I used to have fantasies about finding my dad. That he’d be
released early, and my aunt and I would run into him at dinner or while I was
getting a haircut. I remember being in church on the plastic kneelers, praying
that we’d find each other again in some dumb Disney movie way. But those
dreams faded as he missed my tenth birthday. And eleventh. And twelfth.
Within a few years, the childhood dreams shifted and hardened — to fantasies
of not seeing him again. I can still run them in my head: elaborate escape
plans for ducking down, running, disappearing. I’d ready myself, checking
over my shoulder as I’d pass the bagel place where he used to love to get
breakfast. And a few years after that, those dreams settled, too, entering that
phase where you think of him only as much as you think of any other dead
relative.
For the past nineteen years — for me — that’s all he’s been. Dead.
And now he’s crumpled 21 at the base of a palm tree as a slow, leaky rain drips
from above.
“Cal! Med kit 22!” Roosevelt shouts.
I cut past the white gazebo at the front of the park, and my foot slips in the
grass, sending me flat on my ass, where the damp ground seeps 23 through my
pants.
“Cal, where are you?” Roosevelt calls without turning around.
It’s a fair question. I close my eyes and tell myself I’m still in the poorly lit
park, but all I see is the tarnished 24 doorknob in that spearmint-gum-and hairspray
room where my dad and I said good-bye. I blink once and the
doorknob twists, revealing the child psychologist assigned by the state. It’s
like that Moby song. When you have a damaged kid, you don’t ask, “How you
feeling?” You give him a crayon and say, “Draw something nice.”
I drew lots of nice.
“Med kit!” Roosevelt snaps again.
I scramble 25 to my feet. Years of training rush back. So do decade-old escape
plans. I should turn around now. Let Roosevelt handle it. But if I do — No.
Not until—
I need to know if it’s him.
Ten feet in front of me, Roosevelt still has the flashlight tucked under his
armpit. It shines like a spotlight 26, showcasing the bloody 27 inkblot stained into
the man’s silk shirt. As I barrel toward them, Roosevelt turns my way and the
armpit flashlight follows. There’s no missing the terror on my face. “Cal,
what’re you—?”
Like a baseball player rounding third, I drop to one knee and slide through
the wet grass, slamming the med kit into Roosevelt’s chest and almost
knocking him over.
“Cal, what’s wrong? Do you know this guy?” Roosevelt asks.
Grabbing the flashlight, I don’t answer. I’m hunched 29 over the man, shining
the light and studying his face. He’s got a beard now, tightly trimmed and
speckled with gray.
“Shut it off,” the man moans, jerking his head back and forth 30. His eyes are
clenched 31 from the light and the pain, but his face — the double chin, the
extra weight, even the big Adam’s apple — it can’t be.
“You’re blinding him, Cal!” Roosevelt says, snatching the flashlight from my
grip and shining it in my face. “What the hell is wrong with—”
“C-Cal?” the man mumbles 32, looking at Roosevelt. He heard him say my
name. But as the man turns to me, the light hits us both from the side. Our
eyes connect. “N-No. You’re not — You’re—” He swallows hard. “Cal?”
It’s an established scientific fact that the sense of smell is the most powerful
for triggering memories. But it’s wrong. Because the moment I hear that
scratchy, stumbly baritone — everyone knows their father’s voice.
Our eyes stay locked, and I swear, I see the old him under the new him, like
he’s wearing a Halloween mask of his future self. But as I study this middleaged
man with the leathery, sun-beaten skin — God, he looks so old — his
terrified pale green eyes, his twisted Irish nose . . . it’s more crooked 33 than I
remember. Like it’s been broken again.
His hand shakes like a Parkinson’s patient as he tries to wipe flecks 34 of blood
from his mouth. He has to tuck the hand underneath 35 him to stop it from
trembling. He spent eight years in prison. It can’t be just his nose that’s been
broken.
“You okay?” Roosevelt asks. I’m not sure who he’s talking to, though it’s
pretty clear it doesn’t matter. Down on my knees, I’m once again nine years
old, pulling crayons from an old Tupperware bin 28. To this day, I don’t know if it
was my greatest fear or deepest desire, but the one thing I drew over and
over was my father coming home.
5
“Cal, you need to hurry,” the man with the ponytail called out across the
park. “He’s starting t—”
“Ready!” shouted the one called Cal.
From the front seat of his sedan, Ellis stared through his windshield, watching
the scene and knowing that coincidences this perfect were never just
coincidences.