Page 48 of The Lie Maker

Meaning, of course, that Gartner be made to understand his obstinance might be putting his wife and children at risk. Subtle insinuations as opposed to direct threats. Let Gartner’s imagination do the work. The strategy made Michael uncomfortable. He didn’t like bringing family into things.

But Frohm was shaking his head. “This cocksucker Gartner doesn’t scare as easy as others we’ve had trouble with. We need to solve our Illinois problem in a way that sends a message to Cleveland and Charleston.”

Frohm leaned back in his chair and looked Michael in the eye, as if he were trying to communicate to him telepathically. Michael felt the room tilt a little. Frohm had never taken matters to this level before.

“Galen, are you—”

The boss shot him a look.

“Mr.Frohm,” Michael continued, “I believe there are still other options on the table. Some kind of... carrot, instead of a stick.” He paused. “Or a club.”

“I’ve run out of patience, Michael. We let these issues drag on for far too long.” He started shuffling some papers on his desk, as though looking for something. “Handle it,” he said.

“You want me to do this. This kind of approach.”

Frohm glanced up from the desk. “Who else would I ask? I’m sure you’d figure this out on your own, but don’t fly to Chicago. There will be a record of your trip. It’s too far to drive, but fly to Indianapolis. Rent a car from there.”

“Mr.Frohm, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, but—”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking. Because there’s nothing you wouldn’t do for me. And please don’t tell me you’re not up to it, that you don’t have it in you.”

Michael said, “Sir?”

“I know more about the shit that went down in Southie than you think. What was his name? That kid you shot in the head when you were sixteen years old? Anthony, was it? When you were running with that group, engaged in your little turf wars?”

Michael didn’t know how he knew, and didn’t see the point in asking him how he’d found out. It was clearly an ace card Frohm had been holding for years.

“I’m not that person anymore,” Michael said evenly.

Frohm smiled. “Of course you are. People don’t change, Michael. We are what we are. Go on. Get it done.”

Michael was dismissed.

Twenty-Eight

Jack

I went back to work.

Sitting at my small kitchen table, the two laptops up and running, I scribbled some thoughts onto my notepad.

What had I learned in the short time I’d spent with Bill? He wasn’t easy to typecast. He liked loud techno music, but could be charmed by a situation comedy about four retired women in Florida. I thought maybe that gave me some latitude to have some fun with his backstory, or as much fun as one can have when imagining a past for a man who feared he would one day end up dead with his severed member in his throat.

I made some notes about the things I knew he liked and/or was familiar with. He liked to gamble, bet on horses. Maybe I could give him an agricultural background. And a lot of gambling and betting involved sports, so I could pepper his background with all things athletic. Could he have worked behind the scenes in the NFL or NBA? Played baseball in the minor leagues? Maybe he was a high school football coach. Oversaw a hockey team in one of the northern states. He might have lived and worked north of the border for a while, maybe he was Canadian. No, bad idea. To be convincing, Bill would have to perfect a very subtle accent, make his vowel sounds slightly different, and he’d need to know that Canadians called a restroom a washroom, that an electric bill was a hydro bill, and God help him if he bumped into a real Canadian and had no idea what a Timmies double-double was.

Thinking back to my brief time with Bill, it was hard to peg just where he might be from. It was easier to tell where he was not from. Certainly not the South. No hint of a Southern drawl. He didn’t even have much of a Boston or New England accent. You wouldn’t hear him say, “I just pahhked my cahh in the yahhd.” His voice had an almost generic quality about it. What would that mean? Midwest? California? Northeast? It might make sense to have him tell people he hailed from New York. Any accent was possible if you came from the New York melting pot.

Bill claimed to be a whiz at television trivia. Did that interest in any way translate into an occupation? Had he spent time out in L.A. writing for television, but abandoned that when he couldn’t make a go of it? Writers for television aren’t well known the way actors are. I was betting Bill could bluff his way through something like that.

I scribbled some more notes.

And then I found myself staring off into space. I couldn’t stop thinking about my discussion with Gwen about my father.

He wasn’t one of those cold, distant paternal figures, although he almost never talked about his childhood or his teenage years. I had the sense he’d run with a bad crowd before Galen Frohm took him under his wing. Dad and I did things together. Red Sox games. Boston Bruins. Dad had connections, so sometimes we’d get into the locker room, kibitz with these athletes who were household names.

Didn’t mean much to me. I was a bookish kid, not particularly athletic, but Dad never belittled my interests. If I wanted another Hardy Boys adventure, he’d pick one up at the Barnes & Noble on his way home, surprise me with it. When I showed an interest in writing stories when I was eight, he provided a basic typing lesson on the computer keyboard, showed me which fingers to use to hit which keys, so I wouldn’t be a hunt-and-peck writer using my index fingers.

When I wrote a story—usually no more than three hundred words and almost always about space aliens—he would read it and say, “I like it. Write me another one.”

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