Who I'm Not

TED STAUNTON

ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

Copyright © 2013 Ted Staunton

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted
in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,
recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known
or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Staunton, Ted, 1956-
Who I'm not [electronic resource] / Ted Staunton.

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0435-7 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0436-4 (
EPUB
)

I. Title.
PS
8587.
T
334
W
56 2013       
jC
813'.54       
C
2013-901871-9

First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number
: 2013935300

Summary
: A kid in trouble with the law assumes the identity of a boy
who vanished three years before.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing
programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through
the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British
Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover image by Andrew Wooldridge and Teresa Bubela

www.orcabook.com

16    15    14    13    •    4    3    2    1

For Will and Margaret,
who both know who they are

Men…have an extraordinary knack of lending themselves to deception, a sort of curious and inexplicable propensity to allow themselves to be led by the nose with their eyes open.

—
Joseph Conrad,
The Mirror of the Sea

CONTENTS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

AUTHOR'S NOTE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ONE

It's easier to tell you who I'm not. I'm not Kerry Ludwig or Sean Callahan. I'm not David Alvierez or Peter McLeod or Frank Rolfe. I've kind of wished I was David Alvierez. I don't look Latino or anything, but it sounds exotic. Anyway, I've been all those guys, but none of them was me.

And I'm not Danny Dellomondo either, no matter what I said. If I were Danny, I wouldn't be telling you this, would I? I mean, I couldn't. The only reason I became him was because Harley died.

We were working this high-end mall in Tucson. Harley was doing switch-backs on debit card pin machines, two in fancy clothing stores and one—he said it was the jackpot—in this executive-type fitness club. I was decoying. He'd lifted the store's machines the month before. Harley had switched them for ones he'd gotten from this guy Dennis. The plan was, Dennis's machines would store up a whole month's worth of pin numbers and info. Then, when we switched them back, Dennis could download it all and tap into all these rich people's bank accounts.

“They'll still notice, even if they're rich,” I said.

“Naw,” Harley told me, “that's the beauty part. With so many numbers, you just do a little bit, over and over, from each one, so they
don't
notice. And if someone does, who cares? You've still got all the rest. It adds up to major coin.”

We weren't getting cut into the
major
coin—we were hired hands. Dennis was paying straight cash for the switches. We moved around a lot, so even if they ever did look at the security videos, nobody would recognize us. Harley said we were going to Seattle as soon as Dennis paid up.

The clothing stores were routine. The back-to-school sales were on, but it was the slackest part of the afternoon. We were pretty duded up to fit in—Harley was always really careful about clothes. I'd go in first and get the clerks away from the desk to help me pick something for my mom's birthday. Then I'd say I'd forgotten what her size was and promise to come back.

I liked decoying. People got right into it, probably because most of them think teenagers are supposed to be all attitude. If they really got into it, I'd take a while. I didn't have to—Harley only needed a few seconds to unplug this and plug in that (you should have seen him deal cards)—but it was nice; I could tell I was making their day. I'd make up all kinds of stuff, until I'd halfbelieve it myself. Feeling good is what we sell, Harley liked to say when we were scamming. If a store lady was
really
nice to me and was about the right age, I'd tell her she should be my mother. That would always make her laugh and get blushy, so you could tell she liked it. Once in a while I'd find myself wondering if she
was
my mother, maybe even wishing it a little bit, you know. Which is strange, because I've imagined lots of parents, but I never saw them working in a store.

After we hit the stores, we met in the food court and then did the health club. Harley said he was my dad and got me sent on a tour to see if I liked it enough for him to take out a family membership. This studly guy with too much tan walked me to the elliptical trainers and all the weight machines. I bet the ladies liked him, but he creeped me out. He was completely hairless. Every so often he'd check himself out in the mirror. I glanced back at Harley; he already had the switch done. I told the guy I'd think about it. He gave me his business card.

Outside, I remember, Harley stopped to put on his two-tone shades and settle the collar of his yellow polo shirt out over his blazer. Then he adjusted the cuffs of the blazer too, so his big silver watch showed. Harley was just so about everything, especially his hair. He was getting thin on top, and he was short enough that you'd notice. He was carrying an empty laptop case and a small gym bag that he'd stashed the pin machines in. He looked like Joe Business, just done a workout.

He took out a pack of gum and popped in a couple of pieces, and we started across the parking lot for the van. Everything was bright and glary, and the heat was pounding up from the pavement in shock waves. August in Tucson is no joke. I was dragging, but it didn't matter to Harley. Harley never walked—he strutted.

“Good day's work,” Harley said around his chewing.

“How much will Dennis pay?” I asked.

“I'll handle that.” Harley didn't look at me while we talked. I knew he was scoping out the parking lot for incidental action.
You ever had too much money
? he liked to ask me, even though it wasn't a real question. I never had any money unless he gave me some, and I had no clue how much we—I mean, he—had.

“Hey, hey,” Harley said. “Check it out. You see him? Fat Boy.”

I knew by now what to look for. Sure enough, two rows of cars over a lumpy guy with spiky hair was huffing and puffing, a big bag from the mall's stereo store in each hand and a laptop case slung over his shoulder.

“Go,” Harley said, chewing faster. “Good car, we do it.”

It was the key game—easy and just exciting enough to be fun. I peeled away and hustled through the heat and the parked cars to the row just past Fat Boy. Then I slowed down, staying behind him. He stopped at a black Lexus. Perfect. I ducked down. I heard his door locks click open. I saw him slinging the stuff into the back seat. He was sweating in the sunshine; you could see the dark patch where his shirt stuck to his back. He opened the driver's door, and as he got in, I crept to the car right behind his. Harley was strolling in front of the Lexus, pretending to look at his big watch from behind his shades. Fat Boy reached for his shoulder belt. I stood up and stepped forward. Harley looked up from his watch. “Hey!” he yelled to Fat Boy. “Hey!” He rapped on the car's hood, then pointed. “He's keying your car!”

Fat Boy freaked. He was scrambling around so much, the Lexus started rocking. Then he tumbled out all redfaced and wild-eyed, yelling, “Hey! You little—”

I froze at the back on the passenger side, as if I was scared stiff. Really, I was counting to three. He came at me. I ran.

It was no problem to outrun him; I'm small for my age. All I had to do was distract him long enough for Harley to scoop everything and get away. Then I'd loop back to the van and we'd be gone.

I could hear Fat Boy gasping behind me, the slap of his loafers on the pavement. We were far enough away by now.
Never look back
, Harley always said, but I did it this once, as I sped up. Fat Boy's face was purple. He stumbled, and his hand came up. There was something in it. It could have been a Blackberry. It could have been a gun.
That
scared me. I yelled as I dodged around a monster suv. Two rows of cars over, I glimpsed Harley's head. It snapped around at the sound of my voice. Then I heard three things all in a row: a horn blare, brakes shriek and this muffled
clunk
, like something falling over in a closet. Then Harley was dead.

TWO

I guess I could've got away right then. What I would have got away
to,
I couldn't tell you. I had five bucks in my pocket and the Frank Rolfe ID. Harley had everything else, even the key to the motel room, which was way across town anyway.

So maybe it didn't matter that I ran back to Harley. I was still there, stunned, numb, kneeling on the pavement beside him and the blackening puddle spreading under his head, when the ambulance and the cops showed up and the little crowd that had gathered moved aside. One of the ambulance people put an oxygen mask on Fat Boy, who was still gasping, slumped against a light pole.