Generation of Liars (35 page)

I coughed into my sleeve as the
plaster and drywall billowed in the air. “That must be a fun career.”

“Oh, it is,” she said, smugly
peering at the blistered gape in the wall. “Are you a fan of art, Alice?”

“Me? Sure. I’m a total masterpiece
junkie.”

“Really? What galleries do you
visit? I’ll try not to steal any of your favorites.”

I wasn’t about to tell Vivienne
that I didn’t know a Monet from a maggot. I really hated the bourgeoisie look
people gave me when I told them that mostly I liked Andy Warhol. “I like a lot
of galleries. High art mostly. Classy stuff. I often visit the Galleria de
Pinut
.”
I made sure to give my nose a dignified upturn as I cough-spoke the last part.

“The Galleria de
Pinut
?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ve never heard of that one and
I’ve robbed from pretty much every place in Paris.” She placed a finger on her
chin. ”Actually, it sort of sounded like you just tried to say the Peanut
Gallery, except you added a French accent.” 

“Hardly.”

A big wide grin formed on
Vivienne’s face, like she had just pulled back the curtain on Oz. “I get it
now,” she said. “You’re a liar too.”

“Too?”

“I’m a liar,” Vivienne announced.
“My real name isn’t Vivienne Ting. That’s just a fake name I bought off some
guy with a briefcase in Pigalle.”

“You must be talking about Wally,”
I said. “I know him. I have to say, you’ve certainly chosen an interesting
profession with your new alias.”

“The fake Social Security number I
bought came with a complimentary MFA from Barnard
,
so I used it to get a
job as a tour guide at the Louvre. After a while, I figured I would take a more
creative spin on having a master’s degree in art.”

“Do you work alone?”

“No, I am employed by somebody, a
well-known art dealer based out of Paris. I’m his secret weapon.”

“You work for Jean Etienne, don’t
you?”

She beamed a smile that revealed
teeth that were as white as fresh ocean pearls. “Yup.”

“You were Rabbit’s source, weren’t
you? You gave us a lead on the thumb drive coming in from Tokyo. Rabbit
wouldn’t tell me who the source was.”

“He was protecting me. He said he
didn’t want me involved in his line of work.”

“You were there that night at the
masquerade party too, weren’t you? I remember seeing Rabbit intimately touching
a raven-haired girl as I walked down the staircase with Etienne.”

“That was me.”

“Well, you’re a good thief, but
you’re a lousy source. The disk was bogus.”

“I know. I’m sorry. When I saw that
disk pass through on one of Etienne’s invoices I got excited. I knew Rabbit was
looking for the dynamite stick. But I was wrong about what was on the disk.”

“I still can’t believe you would
choose to date Rabbit, and that you risked your job to help him find the
dynamite stick, especially since you seem to enjoy your career with Etienne.”

“Trust me, I do enjoy working for
Etienne. It’s so much better than the twelve-hour days at my parent’s takeout
restaurant back in San Francisco. Oh, and I’m much hotter as a liar. When I was
still Amanda Ling I was a loser. Everybody loves Vivienne Ting. Especially
Rabbit.” Her smile tugged downwards into a pout. “Except that now I can’t find
Rabbit anywhere.”

An idea popped into my head. I did
all I could to hide the flicker of mischief that I was certain must have
flashed over my eyes. “That’s why I’m here, Vivienne. There’s something I nee
d from Rabbit’s flat. Something that will help us find him.”

Her sad, almond-shaped eyes seemed
to go brighter. “You have a way to find Rabbit?”

“Rabbit told me that if he ever
went missing, that I should come to his apartment and locate a special
container. He said whatever is in the container would help me find him - and I
know how eager you are to find your boyfriend. Think carefully, have you seen
him stash anything away lately?”

Vivienne broached a finger to her
lips and contemplated for a moment. “Actually, there was something.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll show you.” I followed the
velvet tread of her feet into Rabbit’s bedroom. “He was really excited about
this new console for Guitar Hero that was recently released. He had one custom
ordered. It’s a fuchsia guitar with little red flames all down the side.”

“A toy guitar?”

“You can only custom order it in
that color,” she explained, as though I would now understand the incalculable
worth of the object being discussed. “I’ll show you.” She jaunted to the closet
and returned cradling an unimpressive plastic guitar in her arms. I wanted to
tell her that this was no time for geek show-and-tell. I gave her a befuddled
look and let her go on talking. “He brought it home yesterday. He told me if
there was a fire in the apartment that I had to make sure and grab it.”

“He said that?” I asked.

“Actually, he also told me never to
take it out of the closet, and especially never to show it anybody.”

“Let me see that guitar, Vivienne.”

“Oh, you can call me Viv,” she
said, laying the guitar into my arms.

“Damn, you really are a sweet girl.
This is going to make what I’m about to do that much harder.”

“Make
what
so much harder?”

“You’ll see.” I ceremoniously
raised the guitar above my head while Vivienne looked on. Then, with a rapid
motion, I threw it down to the floor. The impact of the crash sent the plastic
fingerboard scuttling across the room.

Vivienne let out a bloodcurdling
scream. “Alice, what are you doing? You’re ruining it! It’s custom made!” Her
tongue vibrated in her throat, another shrill cry ripping from her teeth, as
she exclaimed, “Custom made!”

“I’m sorry, Viv, but I’ve got to do
this. You will see why in a minute.” I scooped the guitar up and smashed it
against Rabbit’s bed’s headboard.

Vivienne’s hands flew up to cover
her eyes, the carnage overwhelming her. “I can’t look.”

The guitar shattered in half with a
clean split. “Trust me,” I said, “you will want to see this.”

Vivienne peeked between the slits
in her fingers. “Sweet Dali and Da Vinci!” she cried out, as her eyes feasted
the explosive smattering of cash that was whirling around the bed. It had that
stale scent money always does.

“This is it!” I said. “Rabbit was
hiding the money inside the guitar.” I scooped the rest of the money out of the
guitar and began piling it neatly into stacks.

I could feel Vivienne’s shadow
closing in behind me. “Wait a minute. What are you planning to do with that
money?”

“This was strictly an ATM run,” I
said.

She pinned one of her spiked heels
down onto the bills I had freshly stacked. “I don’t think so. This is Rabbit’s
money, and you’re not going anywhere with it.”

“You can’t lecture me about taking
Rabbit’s money. You’re a professional burglar.” I licked my finger to help
separate some of the bills. “There is no honor among thieves, less so among
liars.”

“I am not letting you leave this
apartment with that money.”

I sprang to my feet. “Listen, Viv,
Rabbit has no use for this money right now. I might as well tell you the awful
truth.”

“What awful truth?”

“Our boss shot Rabbit last night.”

Vivienne’s jaw dropped and she
sucked in the air around her into a hideous gasp. “You saw somebody shoot
Rabbit?”

“Not exactly,” I said. “I heard the
gunshot and then I saw him lying there.”

“Did you check to see if he was
alive?”

“Well. No. Again, not exactly.”

The taut skin on Vivienne’s
delicate little nose crinkled. “What kind of person doesn’t check on another
person who they suspect has been shot?”

“Up until now, I hadn’t realized my
conscious wore a leather cat suit.”

 “You’re a terrible person.
You don’t even have a conscience.”

“I took care of it. I called the
emergency number and reported a gun shot at Motley’s house last night.”

“That was really stupid,” Vivienne
said.

“Why?”

“Rabbit told me that his boss has
the Parisian police paid off. The police do not respond to police calls,
emergency or otherwise, reporting anything from Motley’s address.”

I slapped my hand against my
forehead. “That would have been a nice fact to know eight hours ago.”

“That means if Rabbit was shot at
your boss’ house, he’s probably still there. I have to go rescue him.”

“That idea is dangerous and
stupid.”

“I’m not leaving my little snuggly
wuggly wabbit all alone, bleeding to death in some mobster’s house. I’m going
to get him.”

“Good luck with that.” I turned my
attention back to the process of hedging the money into orderly rows.

“And you’re coming with me.”

“Like hell I am.”

Vivienne crossed her arms and let a
nasty little
tisk
sound cross her lips. “Listen to me, Alice. Wherever
this money came from, I know it isn’t yours. It probably belongs to Rabbit’s
boss, the big scary one who shoots people.”

“So?” I asked.

“So, I’ll happily march into that
mansion and take Rabbit home in exchange for ratting you out.”

I tickled out a laugh. “You have
nothing on me. I’m going to grab the money and disappear faster than you can
swipe your next painting.”

“Alice,” Vivienne said, “you’re
wearing a man’s shirt and hospital scrubs that are at least three sizes too big
for you.”

“What’s your point?”

“Obviously you have a boyfriend who
works at one of the hospitals in Paris, and you’ve borrowed his clothes. I’ll
tell Motley. He’ll track him down and do worse to him than what you did to that
guitar.”

Don’t underestimate Vivienne Ting,
that’s what I learned right then and there, staring at the pointed toe of her
spiked heel an inch away from crushing my finger. I couldn’t stand the thought
of violence happening to Ben. “Fine. But if Rabbit is already dead, I’m taking
this money.”

“It’s a deal,” Vivienne said. “But
if Rabbit is alive, this money is his, fair and square.” She pulled a Hermes
purse from the closet and tossed it at me. “You can store the money in this for
now.”

I caught a glimpse of myself in the
full-length mirror fixed inside the closet door. I barely recognized the girl
with the disarrayed blond hair and harshly underweight figure who was staring
back at me through green eyes lined in raw pink skin. The Hermes purse was
stylish on my shoulder. “You have good taste in bags. Unfortunately, I can’t
say the same thing about your taste in men.”

“Why are you so down on Rabbit?
He’s a good guy.”

“You’re right.” My lips twisted
uncomfortably. “He is a good guy, and a good friend, which makes me feel terribly
guilty about leaving him injured there like I did.”

“You were spooked. It happens.” She
offered a consolatory pat on my shoulder. “Panic can make us all act a little
strange. Except the part about coming here and trying to steal a guy’s money
after he’s been shot. That’s just straight up devious.”

“I know.” I shut the closet door
and locked away my reflection. “I’m really sorry and I am going to help you
save Rabbit. I just hope he’s okay.”

“I hope so too,” Vivienne said.
“Because I think I’m in love with him.”

We left the apartment and hailed a
cab. “After you.” I swung the door open for Vivienne.

“What’s the plan when we get
there?” she asked, wiggling her petite frame onto the seat. The black leotard
she wore gave her an abstract poise. She had her long hair, slick as ink,
smoothed behind her shoulders; the fading daylight gave a glisten to her eyes,
which were dark like henna. Her rope was lying beside her on the passenger
seat.

“That depends,” I answered.

“Depends on what?”

“Rabbit isn’t the only person who
got hurt last night.”

“Who else was hurt?”

“Motley got run over by a car
during our altercation, but I couldn’t tell how serious his injuries were. I
mean there’s a fifty-percent chance he’s spread out on a slab in the morgue, or
at the very least he is hurt at the hospital.”

“What’s the other fifty percent?”

“That he got away only partially
scathed and now he’s pissed as hell and bloodthirsty for revenge.”

“So, if he’s dead, that’s going to
make breaking into his house super easy. But if he’s alive, we will both be
shot dead on sight.”

“I appreciate the fact that you
understand how things work, Viv.”

The cab driver adjusted the
rearview mirror and glanced back at the two of us, posed side by side, in the
backseat. “Where to?” he asked.

“The 18
^th
arrondissement,” I replied.  

“Is that where Motley’s house is?”
Vivienne asked.

“Yes. I plan to have the driver let
us off a few rows down from his townhome and we can approach the house on foot.
Less likely to draw attention.”

“Once we’re in the house, how will
we know where to look for Rabbit?”

“That depends on whether or not
Motley came back to the house last night. If he didn’t, Rabbit may still be
lying on the floor of the office where he was shot.”

“And if he did come home, do you
know where he would have taken Rabbit?”

I shut my eyes and pictured the
inside of Motley’s house, travelling through the layout of the rooms in my
mind’s eye. The expansive marble hallways, crowned walls, and imperial door arches
all aligned in my sight. Every twisting turn of the house, the curving
limestone walls and snaking floorboard paths, seemed to be leading my
imagination down to the wine cellar. I remembered my conversation with Pressley
in the wine cellar after he had escaped from a holding cell in the basement.
Suddenly my eyes flew open. “I think I know where. Last time Motley needed to
lock someone up in the house, he used a small cell beneath the wine cellar.”