FaceMate Read online

  FACEMATE

  FACEMATE

  STEVEN M. GREENBERG

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  FaceMate

  Published by Gatekeeper Press

  2167 Stringtown Rd, Suite 109

  Columbus, OH 43123-2989

  www.GatekeeperPress.com

  Copyright © 2018 by Steven Greenberg

  All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

  ISBN (hardcover): 9781642375305

  ISBN (paperback): 9781642375312

  Printed in the United States of America

  To all the Bens out there who have made our

  world so much richer and more fascinating.

  And to the Lizzies who have made it more beautiful,

  even with the agony of loss.

  1

  He must have carried the knife with him.

  Carried it in his hand right out in the open, for all the world to see; if there’d been anybody outside that night or watching through a window who might have seen it. But there was no one, apparently, who did; at least no one admitted to it during the next few days when the detectives canvassed the neighborhood to gather all their evidence, to dot their investigative i’s and cross their forensic t’s, as such things are done in such cases by such offenders at such nightmarish times. And as for someone having happened to notice him and not having managed to remark it, well, it wasn’t as if a glimpse of creepy Eugene strutting down the street carrying a dagger in a quiet residential neighborhood wouldn’t have rung an alarm bell or two and prompted a 9-1-1 call.

  But, bottom line, no one seems to have seen him, no one at all; meaning that he must have left his house sometime after dark and walked those hundred and fifty or so yards from his place to the Sommers’ residence with that dagger featured prominently in his hand: Clear evidence, if evidence were even the slightest bit required, of intent, of deliberate premeditation; though premeditation was something of a moot point in the end. Sure, since everyone knew right up front that the defense team would enter a plea of criminal insanity right from the get-go. Yes, it went without saying that criminal insanity would wind up being crazy Eugene’s ultimate plea.

  So they reasoned logically that he left his house sometime after dark, walked the hundred and fifty-odd yards, knife in hand, then stood outside the windows watching the young folks at the party having their fun. Windows in the plural, as the prosecutors phrased it, seeing that his footprints were found beneath more than one of them, both to the sides of the house and to the rear; he standing there patiently waiting, evidently holding that dagger at the ready in his hand the entire time, since the blade of it was much too long to slip into a pocket of those grungy khaki slacks he always wore, and way too jagged at the business end to have been tucked inside his waist band, say, without leaving some visible evidence of its presence there on his skin: His father’s dagger, presumably, although the less-than-cooperative Mr. Everhardt would neither confirm nor deny its provenance for the sake of shielding his son. Parents of even the most outrageously destructive offspring can be like that. But diligent research showed that Eugene’s dad had been a hunter once, back in the day, and had a whole steel cabinet full of guns in his house kept locked up tight: unfortunately the dagger not having been one of the items locked in there. Had it been tucked away in the cabinet, obviously, the night of the party would have been remembered in a whole lot nicer, fonder way. Oh, and as to the story hereafter to be told: well, this might have been no more than a chronicle of marital contentment and accumulated wealth, with not one hundredth of the fascination Ben’s life, and the lives of everyone around him, engendered in the end.

  So, there it is, regrettably: Even agreeing to leave the violence offstage, as the best dramatic convention would require; even then, this horrid act, this blackest and nuttiest of deeds, is not a very auspicious beginning for what will ultimately turn out to be an uplifting tale by most interpretations of the term. That much is agreed.

  But where else could such a strange adventure start out? For after all, it was Eugene’s senseless act that night that set the whole train of events in motion. And it was from that night—that awful, agonizing night—that all of the subsequent pathways in the story will inevitably spring.

  To relate it with due justice, with all the multifarious weaves and threads along the way: That’ll require an omniscient narrator as guide. But to tell it properly, to get into the joy and pain and pathos, the omniscient narrator will have to slip into the minds of each of his characters in sequence and see the world through their eyes more subjectively than he possibly could have seen it through his own. That’s the soundest way to get to know the several folks intimately involved, each in his own proper turn.

  And, given that dictate, as far as characters go, not a lot of them, in fact, so we might pick and choose. But of our choices, it’s eminently arguable that far and away the easiest and most persistent personage to usher our piqued curiosity back thirty years to the time and place of the prefatory events that night and thereby send us blithely on our way, will be no other than the notable and lovable and ever-fascinating….

  Eddie Parker, he of the good times and of regrettable, perpetual debt.

  So let the tale begin with him. And having made the managerial decision to send him to the plate as lead-off man, to have Mr. Eddie Parker of Red Bank, New Jersey, batting first, stadium full, opening game of the season, pitcher at his stretch, edge of our collective seats, breathlessly anticipating: Let me tell you straight out the gate, right from the outset, blissfully unaware of what awful things that memorable evening would ultimately bring:

  Eddie

       was

           PSYCHED!

  Well, sure; he was always psyched about something or other. Mostly psyched to the up side of the situation; but on occasion, some chance occurrence might get him a trifle down. The super-highs—well, they would mostly come as the result of a lucky trifecta, say, that paid out forty-five-to-one, or maybe the feel of some new, exotic beauty on his arm. The occasional low? An endless string of crappy dice might do it, disastrous hands at poker maybe, or sure-thing tips that turned out total duds—Oh yeah, or possibly one of those not-so-rare occasions when a gambling debt came due.

  Today—this seemingly promising evening—Eddie’s mood partook a little of both. One of those bloody debts was due, all right. Yes, but the good news was, that there was money flowing in by the pipeline-full to make up for the bleed. The only thing that Eddie had to do just at the moment to square things with the gangster lenders, was to get his best friend Ben to open the fiduciary spigot, and his fear of busted kneecaps would be gone. And so that persistent enthusiasm that Eddie wore so brightly on his sleeve was trending mainly to the upside just now. This farewell party, once Eddie got that snazzy little grin of his stirred into the equation, would turn out to be a gala time for all.

  Down the sidewalk, tripping lightly up the pavement leading to the house, up three wooden steps to the porch, through the open doorway, into the crowded vestibule, past the smiling kids with various refreshments in their hands, a folded paper in his fingers carried banner-high: Close-columned, microscopic print—It was the stock page, from the looks of it. And Eddie waved it triumphantly, exultingly, as he made his gleeful beeline through the crowded front-room, in th
e general direction of…. Well? Who else would he be looking for, but his lifelong buddy, the astounding money-maven, Ben?

  Ben was sitting on a sofa at the far end of the room with his arm draped across Lizzie’s shoulders. Ben’s arm was always draped across her shoulders; or slung around her waist; or his hand nestled in her palms, or resting on her lap, or her hand perched lovingly atop his knee. They never disengaged for very long from one another’s touch. And when they were obliged to put a painful pause to touching, whether the wrenching separation was due to Ben’s required trips to school or to some other vexing bit of business that kept one from the other for just little a bit of time: Well, you might just have to figure that they were united at the soul, a spiritual union, and had been linked like that ever since the day they’d met back at a dance in eleventh grade. They were a sickening pair, those two, like two old boring married folks—Ah, but everyone had always envied them anyway. There was an innate charm, there was a fundamental kindness in them, the both of them, that all the kids had always loved

  Ben looked up at Eddie from the sofa with a prescient grin across his face. He figured what was coming sure enough. That Journal stock page in Eddie’s hand—Ben could read the numbers just as well as Eddie could. Everything was trending upward, just as Eddie’s finances almost certainly were trending down. He’d win a little one day, then lose a lot the next. And what he didn’t lose, he squandered on the girls. Which, by the way, turned out way, way better in the end. At least his gangster bankers wouldn’t tend to finance that.

  But stocks? No, Eddie’s passion had never been for stocks. The money from them: Well, that was a different thing entirely. So money was the issue here, as it all too often was with Ed, and since it was, Ben went straight ahead and asked him:

  “OK, Eddie, give me a number, pal. What’s the bottom line?”

  “What, Benny? You think I’m hittin’ you up for dough again?”

  “Hey, I know you’re hitting me up for dough; and I don’t even mind you hitting me up for dough—I’m used to it by now. What I’m asking is—how much?”

  “Aw, man, it’s not that much this time, Benny—A couple grand is all—Maybe three tops. Yeah, three’ll definitely handle it, and then I’m totally in the black.”

  “OK, great, I can definitely come up with three; I’ve got three in the checking, I’m positive of that. Now if it’s more than three, that might be something of a problem, because I’d need to go to the bank, and I don’t have time to go to the bank before I leave for school. But if it’s only three—You need it right away? Like Monday morning early? I’m on the road first thing tomorrow, so….”

  “Yeah, well that’s just it, though, Benny. That’s the thing. Look, you don’t even need to write a check. Let’s do this instead, OK? Let’s just make our periodic distribution from the fund a couple weeks ahead of time. There’s plenty in there now to cover it. You see what your friggin’ automotives are up to as of Friday’s close?”

  “I know, I know, but they’re headed higher still. Just let me write you out that check, man; you can pay me back later if you want—Or not; it’s up to you—But I hate to dip into the group’s investments when they’re really on a roll, so….”

  But Eddie was determined: mind made up, foot put down. Nope—he shook his head and wagged his finger –No more checks from Bennie, no more cash advances from Liz. How many times had they helped him out these past few months alone, huh? And that’s not figuring last year, and the year before, and…. “Please,” he said. “Come on, Benny, there’s plenty in the fund; and even if we draw a little out, it’s gonna grow again, right? And soon–so….”

  Ben shook his head and Lizzie smiled complacently at his side. She had a mind of her own, for sure; but she and Ben were so much alike, they generally thought alike and acted alike. So if Ben came to the conclusion that something was OK, Lizzie almost always went along.

  “OK, OK,” Ben agreed at last, nodding his head in reluctant resolution. “I guess we could draw a little out if you’re that dead set on doing it. Let me see the paper, Ed—That’s the weekend Journal, right? With Friday’s close?”

  It was, and Eddie handed it across. Whereupon Ben unfolded it, fluffed it out, and read. Or no, ‘read’ wouldn’t be the proper term to use. Ben never really read the stock page; he merely scanned. Ben scanned financials the way an all-star point guard scans the court for open men. His mind had always worked that way, with results that needed to be seen to be believed.

  “OK, pal, OK, I guess we could draw a little of it out if you really want to go that way. If I realize the last month’s profits first thing Monday morning, let’s say dump a little GM and Southern Company only, I can distribute…. Umm, let’s see….” Ben looked down at the paper again, swiping with a finger, then glanced up at the ceiling, calculating in his head. “OK, I figure … oh, probably four grand apiece without touching the really profitable stuff. That enough? If not, I can….”

  “Yeah. Yeah, more than enough. That’ll fix things really great. I won’t need a cent from you—from either of you—Hey, that’ll be great, Bennie. That’ll be….”

  Eddie went on for a good five minutes longer, filling the babbling room with his gratitude and enthusiasm. This was a periodic ritual with him—not weekly or monthly, thank heavens, but often enough. Poor Eddie always owed—and usually owed big time. His cash flew out the window before it even trickled in. Maybe if he hadn’t been born and raised right here in coastal Jersey just ninety minutes north of Caesars and Bally’s and the rest of the Atlantic City joints; maybe if he hadn’t turned twenty-one two years ago and had the photo-ID proof; maybe if he hadn’t loved to rest his elbows on the tables so often and so long—craps and poker being the ones that did those eager elbows so much ill—maybe if the glitzy females hanging on the guys with cash in hand hadn’t been quite so gorgeous, quite so willing, quite so taken with the big bucks being spent—maybe then he could have done what the other kids there at the party had done with their periodic pay-outs from the fund: Sprung for tuitions, say, opened little shops and eateries, stuck their unearned fortunes in the bank. Or maybe done what Ben himself had done—for Ben had always been a kind and selfless guy—namely paid his parents’ mortgage on the house, bought a nice but cheapo car for classy transportation, put a little bit aside to help with baby sister Jennie’s education. Eddie could have done a bit of that, of course. But then, if he’d done a bit of that, he wouldn’t have been Eddie Parker, the carefree mover and shaker who’d long been Ben’s best friend. Ben was good old Ben; and Eddie could be nothing else than good old, spendthrift Eddie. And in the end, even all the misery about to happen to them both could never alter that.

  So Eddie, having thanked his friends sufficiently, went back and joined the party with the rest–Which was a sort of farewell party, by the way–a sendoff get-together for handsome, nice guy Ben. Lizzie, it seems, had thrown a party for her darling Ben every end-of-August for the past four years, just before his heading off to school. Not so very far a heading off to school, admittedly; and his leaving wasn’t likely to be for very long, since he drove back every other weekend to be with Liz. And, as far as distance was concerned, the trip from Red Bank to Philly through the Jersey country roads took just a matter of an hour-forty-five when the traffic was light; sometimes a trifle less, seeing as Ben made the trek in the ‘72 Corvette he had purchased with a prior windfall not too different from this latest windfall that would help get Eddie out of debt. Philly to Red Bank in Ben’s refurbished ‘Vette or Red Bank to Philly in Lizzie’s dinged-up yellow Ford. Whichever one had fuel in the tank and air in the tires on any given weekend, the two of them were never far apart for very long.

  They’d been together, and almost never parted, since that wondrous eleventh grade dance. A regular Romeo and Juliet phenomenon all right, a love connection right from the very start: First glance to fall in love—no kidding or exaggeration, truly. First love for the both of them—first and only, just like the romance novels
tell. A bond, a connection so intense and all-pervasive from the evening of that fateful meeting on the dance floor to the no less fateful evening of the party here at Lizzie’s home tonight—so intimate a bond that they were looked at by their friends and classmates right from the very get-go as spoken for, so steadfastly committed one to the other that the boys had stopped approaching gorgeous Lizzie for a date, and the girls no longer batted eyes at Ben, lean build, red sporty wheels or not. Tedious folks—disgustingly so—despite their uncontested attractiveness and wit and brains.

  So this was no great shakes of a farewell party, as farewell parties go, not too many dour-faced celebrants here in Lizzie’s home to say goodbye—And why should it be that solemn an occasion anyway, viewing things objectively? A going-away gathering for someone you were bound to see again in a week or so? Bah! Eddie’s sudden interruption promised to be far and away the high point of this Sunday’s bland soiree.

  “So, Eddie—Georgene said Ben’s gonna cash us in a couple weeks ahead of time.” Alan Serwin cornered Eddie fifteen feet from the sofa where Ben and Lizzie sat. Alan was at Rutgers now, studying something useless and arcane. Eddie neither knew nor cared exactly what that field of study was.

  “Georgene? How would she know?”

  “She heard, I guess. Weren’t you guys discussing it over by the couch?”

  “Yeah, right. Well, it’s no deep dark secret anyway. There’ll be a profit distribution in a day or two.”

  “You know how much we’re gonna get?”

  “Around four grand I think. Ben’ll tell everybody later.”

  “Lucky we got Ben, huh? What would all us nitwits do without Ben to watch our backs? Hey, you know if he’s plannin’ on sellin’ his car?”

  “His car? The ‘Vette?”

  “Yeah, somebody said he might be sellin’ it. Is he?”

  “Not that I know of, man. Why would he sell it? He needs it to get home every Friday evening to be with Liz.”