FALSE FRONT (2 page)

He
pivots toward the meathead with a cart full of protein shakes and other nutritional
muscle-building items, who is much taller and wider.

“Don’t
say it again.”

“Just
a book. All the same stupid book, guy,” he says, laughing as he lifts his
eyebrows at the employees circling around. He pokes his head at the smaller man
in all black. “You seeing this skinny nutcase?”

“Just
a book?”

“You
heard me the first time.”

The
man pulls an all-black .44, matching his attire, from the waist of his jeans
and aims it at the muscular man. Everyone gasps as he moves toward him. The
built man freezes like a mammoth in a glacier.

“I
wasn’t planning on hurting anyone today.”

He
raises the gun over his head and revolves it in his palm, lunging at the larger
man.

“Wait,”
says the man.

He
slashes the handle of the gun across the guy’s forehead, gashing him. The giant
man collapses, folding himself into a boulder on the floor.

“Just
a book? Just another book? Is that all it is?”

“Please.”
He raises his hands to shield his face from further pistol whips, but the
beating continues as the handle cracks him apart.

He
methodically finds openings between the man’s defense, lacerating sections of
his face.

“Please
stop. You’ll kill him,” a woman says, covering her ears and closing her eyes.

A
crowd of customers runs away from the scene. Many of the employees are
screaming and a few have their hands in the air as if they are being arrested.
Their determined wall of defense crumbles.

He
stops beating the man and scans the chaos he caused around him. Everyone’s
silent, watching him, some shielding their eyes from the assault. A few people
hide behind inventory. One man’s even on the ground with his hands over his
head while mumbling some prayer to a god he thinks he knows. The gun-beat man
gurgles from a blood-filled mouth.

“Take
whatever you want. Please just leave,” says the manager.

He
grabs a copy of the book from the cart, casts it to the manager, and says,
“This one’s on me, boss. Read it. You’ll love the ending. A real mind blower.”

The
manager looks at the book, a few droplets of blood staining the glossy white
cover, and then he backs away from the man.

The
man nods as he strolls past him with his cart full of novels. He pushes himself
up onto the cart and rides the slight hill toward a large black van parked out
front. He swings open the back doors and heaves books into the van where they
accumulate with a mass of the exact same book already piled inside. After
emptying the cart, he releases it to roll into the parking lot, watching it
smash into a glossy Audi. He jumps into the van and takes off, watching in his
rearview mirror as police fill the lot with deafening sirens and pulsing lights.
America’s favorite colors flash in the distance as he drives away.

He
goes to a few local bookstores and libraries, always taking all the copies of
the same book. Those visits went smooth compared to the Costco chaos. The back
of the van continues to pile with white and gold hardcovers. He doesn’t run
into any problems until the popular coffee and bookstore Dead Poets Make Way.
Six police cars and three motorcycle cops are waiting for him.

He
glares at them through his sunglasses and out the windshield, noticing they see
him creeping the van into the parking lot. He shouts curses while shifting the
van into reverse and stepping on the gas. The van launches backwards through
the lot. He spins the wheel, causing the van to do a 180. He glances at his
driver side mirror and notices officers scrambling for their vehicles.

After
swerving around cars, driving through red lights, doing 55mph on a sidewalk,
and rocketing through neighborhood streets, he brings the van to a spinning
stop on the front lawn of a mid-mod century home. The driver jumps out of the
van, walks to the sidewalk and gazes back down the neighborhood street,
scanning to see if anyone followed him.

“Who
the hell are you? And why are you on my neighbor’s land?” says a middle-aged
neighbor with a twisted, bark-colored ‘stache across his upper lip. “You drunk?
You high? You missed the damn driveway by about fifteen feet.” He’s holding a
hose, watering a row of colorful flowers just off the front of his porch.

“Mind
your own business, Tony.”

“Do
I know you?”

The
masked man snaps his fingers in frustration, taking a long deep breath.

“Do
I?”

He
shakes his head.

“You
one of those drug addicts from the Marsh?”

He
shakes his head at the neighbor as he walks up the driveway. The neighbor drops
the hose, moving in the man’s direction.

“Hey,
I’m talking to you.”

He
stops.

“Vivacity
police should have shut that shit hole down a long time ago. Fucking Marsh is
full of meth heads.”

He
ignores Tony, who wears a white shirt much too tight for his soft upper body
and popping nipples.

“Where
do you think you’re going, pal?”

He
holds his palm out, signaling for Tony to stop coming toward him.

“Get
away from my neighbor’s house this minute.”

“Mind
your own business. Trust me,” he says, trying to drop his voice a level deeper.

“This
is my business. Neighbors stick together, pal. This here is a good block. Get
lost now, or I’ll call the cops.”

He
ignores Tony and walks toward the front door.

“I
got a gun, asshole.”

He
stops at the charcoal floral-carved door.

“That’s
right. I got no problem shooting one of you Marsh addicts.”

He
opens the door, steps in, and slams it behind him.

“You
son of a bitch,” says the neighbor, digging into his periwinkle
upper-thigh-high shorts, yanking out his cell phone and walking up the steps of
his front porch.

When
he steps back outside he’s yelling at someone about his neighbor’s house being
robbed. He tells her he’s carrying a .12 gauge and he plans on using it.

Tony
ends the call and starts whispering to himself as he jogs towards his neighbor’s
house, saying, “What? You want Tony to stand here and watch his neighbor’s
house get robbed? Not how Tony rolls. Tony won’t sit here and let it go down
like that. Tony is neighborhood watch.” He spits on the ground. “What kind of
shit does this guy think he’s pulling on Tony’s watch? I’ll show this son of a
bitch who’s boss. Good for nothing Vivacity police.” He racks the .12 gauge. “Go
time, Tony. You’re a fucking brave bear.”

           
Tony hunches over, like you would see television cops do when
they’re ready to bust into a house, and darts towards the door. He stops and
presses his ear against the wood. Stepping back from it and then launching
himself forward, he brings his leg up and slams the sole of his white shoe into
the center of the door. He flops back like a sloppy puffer fish out of water,
flailing around on the ground until he gathers himself back to his feet. Frowning
at the still shut door, he reaches out and shakes the handle and twists it. The
door opens, and Tony whispers, “Shit. Come on, Tony.” He takes a few deep calming
breaths before he steps inside.

“I’ll
shoot,” Tony says, as he roams up the stairs of the split-level home, peeking
up and around every opening. He stops at the top of the dark wooden stairs to
the living room and spots the lawless man sitting next to someone else. He
reverses back down, ducking, twisting, turning, and trying to hide behind the
iron railing. Peeking the barrel of the shotgun through every opening between
bars at the man, he walks back up the last few steps.

“What
are you doing?” the man says from the chair.

“Nowhere
to go. All this ends now. I got no issue pumping you full of buck shot,” Tony
says, his voice full of gulp.

He
chuckles and says, “I don’t think you will.”

Tony
walks into the living room, glancing behind him down a dark, empty hallway. A
few doors are open on either side. He turns his attention back to the man.

The
mask clings tightly around the man’s face, cutting into his sharp cheekbones.
His face is ridged, like one seen on a NYC runway show. He sits in a wooden
chair with a person in matching clothes in a matching chair next to him, stiff
and leaning over. The room is filled with soggy ceiling-high stacks of books.
Empty bottles of Wild Turkey are strewed and tipped all over the wooden floor.
One of them still dripping liquor from its open rim. The man lifts a thick
cigar and bottle of Johnny Walker Blue off the ledge of the fireplace behind
him.

“You’re
fucking with my tale, Tony.”

Tony
sniffs at the air, keeping the shotgun aimed at the man and says, “Why does it
smell like a distillery in here?”

“I
didn’t get to unload the van. These books are from yesterday’s heist,” the man
says.

“Did
you sauce the place?”

He
folds half the bandana up, revealing a smooth lined jaw, and twists the top of
the bottle. He tilts the opening toward Tony.

“Stop
that.”

“You
sure?”

“I'm
not messing arou—“

 “Suit
yourself,” he says, bringing the bottle to his lips and taking a pull. He leans
down, setting the bottle next to the leg of the chair. He places the cigar
between two marble lips. A crack from the tiny torch sparks a blue flame, and
he holds it under the end of the cigar, puffing on it. But instead of the place
smelling of rich tobacco, it reeks of whiskey.

“Who’s
your friend there?”

The torch’s
flame goes out. He draws on the cigar, and smoke climbs around his face.

“Him?”
The man points at the person in the chair next to him.

“Yeah.”

“Not
my friend. I never had a chance to ask him his name.”

“Do
I know you?”

“Why?”

“Your
voice.”

“You
shouldn’t have entered this story, Tony”

“How
do you know my name?”

A
smile grows around the cigar in the man’s mouth.

“Air
is that you? Are you hurt? What did he do to you?”

“He
can’t answer you.”

Tony
peeks behind himself again and then looks back at the unknown man with his head
sagging forward.  He takes a few more steps into the room, holding the
shotgun on the man and says, “Why can’t he answer?”

“Cause
he’s dead.”

“You
killed him?” He lifts the shotgun higher, aiming it at the man.

“No.
I mean, not really.”

“You
can settle that part with the cops. Now put your hands up and get down on the
ground.”

“Confusing.
I know.”

Tony
crouches a bit, bouncing himself up and down at the thighs. He lowers his face
toward the chrome weapon and says, “Get on the ground.”

“Citizen’s
arrest?”

“Down.”

“Let
me explain.”

“I
said down.”

“They’ll
all read the book after this story gets out.”

“What?”

He
pulls the cigar from his lips, and a hint of his silver-capped canine tooth
shines from his mouth.

“I’m
not playing games,” Tony says, taking another step toward him.

“Okay.
Okay. Okay,” says the man, lifting the cigar above his head. Smoke dances
toward the ceiling.

Tony
stops just a few feet away from him.

“I
have a gun in my waist. Don’t shoot me. I will remove it and get on the ground.”

“I
wouldn’t do that if I were you. Leave your hands so I can see them. No one else
needs to die today.”

“Today?”

Tony’s
eyes drag to the dead man.

“Him?”
He flicks his fingers at the end of the cigar, and ash flutters onto him like
speckles of snow at the end of a storm. “He didn’t die today.”

Tony’s
hands tremble for the first time since entering the house.

“This
was not how this was supposed to happen. But good writers know an outline can’t
predict every future scene. I didn't think about my over-eager, gun-wielding neighbor
entering into the drama. But plot twists are inevitable. An unpredictable story
is a good story. Agree?”

“What?”

He
lowers the cigar to his mouth.

Tony
brushes sweat out of his eyes and keeps the shotgun aimed at the man who smiles
at him between inhales. He watches the man study a copy of the book next to him,
examining the cover and says, “You said you would get on the ground.”

“Ever
read it?”

“What?”

“The
book.”

“Who
are you?”