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Book: EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories by Sean Chercover
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Authors: Sean Chercover
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driver’s license photo.
A variety of other searches came up empty. George hadn’t sued anyone or been sued, hadn’t bought or sold property, hadn’t applied for a firearms permit, and no warrants had been issued for his arrest.
I stopped at my office and stuffed an envelope with $200, the photocopy of George Garcia’s picture and the address of Sparky’s Bar in Bensenville. Phil had told me that Sparky’s was Garcia’s favorite local watering hole before he took off. I called Kate Barrett, a uniformed cop I knew. Kate was happy to earn some quick cash and she was on days, so her shift ended at six.
I left the envelope for Kate at the First District Station. The cop at the desk felt the need to inform me that private detectives are pathetic, bottom-feeding wannabes who make a living on other people’s misery.
I thanked him for sharing.
Seven o’clock found me at Sparky’s, with two pints of beer in the belly and more on the way. I’d lost thirty bucks at the pool table and gained two new buddies. Losing money at pool is an efficient way to gain new buddies who see you as a nice-enough guy and a bit of a mark. Definitely not a threat.
My new buddies were Tibor and Nick. Tibor was a crazy Hungarian who looked like Sean Penn and talked like the listener was holding a stopwatch. He spent some time arguing the proposition that Kiss Alive was the greatest live rock & roll album of all time. Nick was a quiet chain-smoker who preferred Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! I sided with Nick and proclaimed my love for the Stones.
The front door opened and Kate Barrett approached the bar and came to a stop to my immediate left. Although now off duty, she was still in uniform. Nice touch. She showed the picture of George Garcia to the bartender and the waitress, both of whom acknowledged knowing George as a customer but professed not to know his whereabouts. Kate turned my way and handed me the picture.
“How about you, sir,” she said. “You know George Garcia?”
“No, Officer,” I said, “I’ve never seen him.” I passed the photo back to Kate and she showed it to Tibor and Nick and asked them the same question. They only knew George as a fellow Sparky’s regular and casual drinking buddy. She asked if any of us knew where she could find of any of George’s family. Nobody did. Kate thanked us all and left. So far, so good.
“Cops,” I mumbled, opening the door to conversation. “You can’t ask a guy’s family to rat him out. That’s just wrong.” Translation: I’m on George’s side.
“Right on,” said Tibor.
“Unless this George guy did something really bad,” I reconsidered. “Like, if he’s a child molester or something.” Anybody care to defend him?
“Wait a second,” said Nick. “George ain’t no child molester.”
“Hey, I don’t know him,” I said, holding my hands up in a ‘no offense’ gesture. “He could be the greatest guy in the world. I’m just saying, if .”
“There is no if ,” said Tibor. “George is good people. You can ask anybody here.”
“That’s right,” said Nick. “George is solid.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said. “If you guys say George is a good people, then I feel sorry for him, ’cause the cops will get him. That was my whole point.” Care to prove me wrong?
“Don’t bet on it,” said Tibor, “unless they get the idea to look in Indiana. Even then, George’s mom has a different last name.” Bingo! You’ve still got the touch, Dudgeon.
Nick shot Tibor a look and I knew it was time to change the subject. I made up a story about a friend who got convicted of a burglary even though he was innocent. Then I lost another $10 at the pool table and drank another beer, hoping that the subject of George Garcia would come up again. It didn’t.
In addition to the $200 I’d given Kate, I’d dropped $60 on beer and lost wagers. Indiana is a big state, but I considered Rik’s money well spent.
The next morning, I phoned Rocky
A variety of other searches came up empty. George hadn’t sued anyone or been sued, hadn’t bought or sold property, hadn’t applied for a firearms permit, and no warrants had been issued for his arrest.
I stopped at my office and stuffed an envelope with $200, the photocopy of George Garcia’s picture and the address of Sparky’s Bar in Bensenville. Phil had told me that Sparky’s was Garcia’s favorite local watering hole before he took off. I called Kate Barrett, a uniformed cop I knew. Kate was happy to earn some quick cash and she was on days, so her shift ended at six.
I left the envelope for Kate at the First District Station. The cop at the desk felt the need to inform me that private detectives are pathetic, bottom-feeding wannabes who make a living on other people’s misery.
I thanked him for sharing.
Seven o’clock found me at Sparky’s, with two pints of beer in the belly and more on the way. I’d lost thirty bucks at the pool table and gained two new buddies. Losing money at pool is an efficient way to gain new buddies who see you as a nice-enough guy and a bit of a mark. Definitely not a threat.
My new buddies were Tibor and Nick. Tibor was a crazy Hungarian who looked like Sean Penn and talked like the listener was holding a stopwatch. He spent some time arguing the proposition that Kiss Alive was the greatest live rock & roll album of all time. Nick was a quiet chain-smoker who preferred Get Yer Ya-Ya’s Out! I sided with Nick and proclaimed my love for the Stones.
The front door opened and Kate Barrett approached the bar and came to a stop to my immediate left. Although now off duty, she was still in uniform. Nice touch. She showed the picture of George Garcia to the bartender and the waitress, both of whom acknowledged knowing George as a customer but professed not to know his whereabouts. Kate turned my way and handed me the picture.
“How about you, sir,” she said. “You know George Garcia?”
“No, Officer,” I said, “I’ve never seen him.” I passed the photo back to Kate and she showed it to Tibor and Nick and asked them the same question. They only knew George as a fellow Sparky’s regular and casual drinking buddy. She asked if any of us knew where she could find of any of George’s family. Nobody did. Kate thanked us all and left. So far, so good.
“Cops,” I mumbled, opening the door to conversation. “You can’t ask a guy’s family to rat him out. That’s just wrong.” Translation: I’m on George’s side.
“Right on,” said Tibor.
“Unless this George guy did something really bad,” I reconsidered. “Like, if he’s a child molester or something.” Anybody care to defend him?
“Wait a second,” said Nick. “George ain’t no child molester.”
“Hey, I don’t know him,” I said, holding my hands up in a ‘no offense’ gesture. “He could be the greatest guy in the world. I’m just saying, if .”
“There is no if ,” said Tibor. “George is good people. You can ask anybody here.”
“That’s right,” said Nick. “George is solid.”
“I didn’t mean anything by it,” I said. “If you guys say George is a good people, then I feel sorry for him, ’cause the cops will get him. That was my whole point.” Care to prove me wrong?
“Don’t bet on it,” said Tibor, “unless they get the idea to look in Indiana. Even then, George’s mom has a different last name.” Bingo! You’ve still got the touch, Dudgeon.
Nick shot Tibor a look and I knew it was time to change the subject. I made up a story about a friend who got convicted of a burglary even though he was innocent. Then I lost another $10 at the pool table and drank another beer, hoping that the subject of George Garcia would come up again. It didn’t.
In addition to the $200 I’d given Kate, I’d dropped $60 on beer and lost wagers. Indiana is a big state, but I considered Rik’s money well spent.
The next morning, I phoned Rocky
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