The Fraud (36 page)
Authors: Brad Parks
The only thing that really helped was that I had something else to occupy my time and attention: a new person in my life, whose arrival was hastened as soon as we reached the hospital that night.
We marched right into the labor and delivery ward, where we had preregistered, and were taken to a room without delay. Tina and the baby really were doing fine, despite the excitement of the evening’s activities. Her water had broken on the early side and the contractions were starting to come faster, but she was buttoned up tight enough. The baby was still happily inside mama, with a heartbeat that was strong enough to keep everyone happy.
That said, Tina’s attempts to get out of a C-section got exactly nowhere. Dr. Marston arrived, performed a quick assessment, then sent us off to an operating room. There, I was given a mask and scrubs and Tina received an epidural that seemed to have the remarkable side effect of removing the four-letter words from her vocabulary.
From there, it was amazing how quickly it all went. Dr. Marston and her team had obviously done this once or twice before. They put a little tent up so Tina wouldn’t have to watch herself get sliced and diced. I got to be on the good side of the tent with her and was thankful for it. Just because I had been urging her to open up around me didn’t mean we needed to be literal about it.
I thought there would be more ceremony to it—shouldn’t someone say something in Latin? or burn incense? or summon the great animal spirits?—but they went about their task in quiet, workmanlike fashion as I held Tina’s hand.
“Just about there,” Dr. Marston said. “You’re doing great.”
Tina had an oxygen mask over her face, so I felt deputized to speak on behalf of the couple. My words, which perhaps should have been more memorable, were something like, “Thanks, Doc.”
Then there came this sound. And oh, dear Lord, it has to be the most joyous thing you can ever hear: the squalling of a baby who, having drawn first breath, now wants to tell the world all about it.
The next thing I knew, Dr. Marston was cradling this little human being and laying it on Tina’s chest. “Congratulations,” the doctor said. “It’s a girl.”
And, in fact, she was. Not that her gender particularly mattered to me in that moment. I was too busy looking at her tiny little fingers and her tiny little toes and her perfect little nose and these narrow slits where she revealed her blue-gray eyes.
“Hi, baby,” I said. “I’m your dad and I love you so much.”
I was calling her “baby” because we hadn’t picked out a name for a girl. Yet another detail we could sort out later. I reached out with my pinky for my daughter’s left hand and she grabbed it with surprising strength and squeezed. My other hand was cupping Tina’s head.
“Say hi to your mama,” I said. “She loves you, too. She can’t say it right now, because she’s got this thing on her face. But, trust me, she loves you more than anything.”
Tina was just holding on to her daughter, feeling our little girl’s skin against her own.
There was apparently a pool at the office over who would cry first during delivery. Let the record show that anyone who put their money on it being Tina Thompson was a blithering fool. My tears were everywhere, welling in my eyes, rolling down my cheeks, dripping off my nose.
I’m not even embarrassed to admit I outcried the baby.
“Oh, Tina, she’s beautiful,” I choked out. “Just beautiful.”
And, yes, I would have died for her. Without question.
But I have to say, in that moment—which immediately put every other moment of my life in a distant, distant second place—it worked out a lot better that I didn’t have to.
I do the vast majority of my writing in the corner of a Hardee’s restaurant near where I live. I get there by seven or eight each morning—or earlier, if the story rattling around in my head won’t let me sleep—and, fueled by free refills of Coke Zero, I stay until the words stop making sense.
Most days, I am joined by Teresa Powell, the longtime manager. Miss Teresa, as a lot of us call her, is the most reliable phenomenon this side of sunrise. In addition to running the show, she pitches in and works the counter, the grill, the drive-through, whatever needs to be done. If the biscuit maker calls in sick, she does that, too.
A lot of authors talk about how hard it can be to find the inspiration to write. Me? I just look at Miss Teresa. I figure if I work half as hard as she does—a single mom putting her son through college on an hourly wage—I’ll still be working twice as hard as most folks. And I’m grateful she lets me clutter up the corner of her restaurant, mumbling to myself, day after day.
A note about a few of the names in this book: Kevin Tiemeyer and Armando “Doc” Fierro donated generously to charities—a library and a women’s fund, respectively—to have their names used. Thanks for your generosity, gentlemen. Sorry I had to kill you, Kevin.
I have others to thank as well.
That always starts with you, the reader, without whom I would be just a guy muttering in the corner of a Hardee’s. I’m particularly grateful to those readers who travel great distances to stalk me, like Candace Perry and my polite Canadian stalker, Amanda Capper. Note to authorities: If I ever disappear under mysterious circumstances, you now know where to start your investigation.
I’m grateful to bookstore owners like Donna Fell of Sparta Books, who always looks for fun, innovative ways to engage her customers. (Not that we’re going to talk about what happened at Girls Night Out, right, Donna?)
And of course I remain a big fan of the library scientists who make it their life’s work to connect people and books. In particular, I’d like to acknowledge Lindsy Gardner, who is feverishly raising money for a new home for the Lancaster Community Library. If any of you have a spare hundred grand or so, please see Lindsy.
Professionally, I’d like to thank my agent, Dan Conaway of Writers House, giver of great wisdom; my editors, Kelley Ragland and Elizabeth Lacks, who make both me and Carter better than we really are; and the rest of the crew at St. Martin’s Press and Minotaur Books, including Hector DeJean, Jeanne Marie Hudson, Matt Baldacci, Talia Sherer, Andy Martin, and Sally Richardson.
I also remain indebted to publicist extraordinaire Becky Kraemer of Cursive Communications for her tireless advocacy on my behalf.
Personally, I need to give a big shout-out to James “Kato” Lum, Tony Cicatiello, and Jorge Motoshige for their never-ending hospitality; to friends at Christchurch School, like Jen and Ed Homer, who are unswerving in their support and fellowship; to my in-laws, Joan and Allan Blakely, whose enthusiasm for grandparenting is always so appreciated; and to my parents, Marilyn and Bob Parks, who remain the first people with whom I want to share good news.
Finally, to Melissa and our two children, who bring us so much joy: Thank you for blessing me with the greatest family a man could ever ask for. When I’m with you, all is right.
Brad Parks
is the only author to have won the Shamus, Nero, and Lefty Awards, three of crime fiction’s most prestigious prizes. A former reporter for
The Washington Post
and
The
[Newark]
Star-Ledger,
this is his sixth novel. He lives in Virginia with his wife and two children. You can sign up for email updates
here
.
ALSO BY
BRAD PARKS
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Contents
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THE FRAUD.
Copyright © 2015 by Brad Parks. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
Cover design by David Baldeosingh Rotstein
Cover photograph © Karl-Fredrik von Hausswolff / Gallerystock
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