FALSE FRONT Read Free Page A

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?”
    “I
usually get that response when I talk about the book to strangers, but I didn’t
expect that from you, Tony. You know me. Don’t you?”
    “I
don’t think so,” Tony says, tightening his grip. He grows nervous as the man
shifts around in the chair, folding one thin leg over the other and says, “I
don’t think you should be moving around with this aimed at your