Page 11 of The Lie Maker

My birthday wasn’t today, it wasn’t last week or the week before, and it wasn’t coming up any time soon, so I had no idea what the occasion was, why my father wanted to get together now.

He showed up about fifteen minutes after our phone call, driving a mid-engine, two-seater Porsche Boxster. I knew my cars well enough to know this was one of the early models, and even if I didn’t, the pimples of rust around the wheel wells would have been a clue. He pulled up to the curb, the top down, which showed off the cracked leather passenger seat with some of the padding sneaking out. This was pure Earl. Something that looked flashy so long as you didn’t look too closely. Like shining the toes of your shoes so you make a good impression when you meet people, but not polishing the backs because you don’t care what they think of you when you leave.

“Well,” I said, casting my eye across the dash, the stick shift, and then him.

“Just basic transportation,” Earl quipped, a smug grin on his face.

I had to admit he was looking pretty good. In his mid-sixties, he could have passed for mid-fifties. Still had most of his hair—albeit silver—and he was trim and tanned, which I was guessing was either sprayed on or maybe he had a friend on the Cape who’d let him flake out on the beach for a few weeks. He had on a pair of knockoff designer jeans and a white, short-sleeve, button-down-collar shirt.

“What happened to your car?” he asked, aiming his thumb over his shoulder as we pulled away from the curb.

“It blew up.”

Earl shot me a concerning look. “What?”

I filled him in.

“That why you weren’t at this new job of yours?”

“Long story. Let’s walk.”

He quickly put up the car’s convertible top, which had some rips and tears to match the upholstery. Once it was locked up, we strolled down the sidewalk and I told him about the job that was pulled out from under me.

“The son of a bitch,” Earl said.

I shrugged. “I’ll find something.”

“I don’t understand why you even wanted that gig, working on magazines you can’t even buy at a newsstand. Was it research? You doing a book set in the construction industry? Something like that?”

“No.”

Earl looked puzzled. “I thought you were writing another book.”

“I did.”

“So when does it come out?”

“My agent hasn’t found a home for it.”

There was something in Earl’s look of disappointment that suggested it was more for himself than me.

“But he will sell it, right?”

“Hope so.”

“And for a lot of money, right? When a writer sells a book, it’s usually for a hundred grand or half a million or something like that, right?”

“Some writers, sure.”

We’d come to a bench and I motioned to it. We sat facing the street. I watched the people who walked by, the cars that went past.

“Maybe it’s this fake name you’re using,” Earl said. “‘Oscar Laidlaw.’ Where’d that even come from? The Oscar part sounds a little, I don’t know, pompous or something. Off putting. Jack Givins sounds better. You could finally put your picture on the cover. Readers see you, it’s like they make a connection. And I’d stop feeling hurt that you don’t want to use my name.”

“It’s got nothing to do with you. I like keeping a low profile.”

“How do you expect to sell books that way? Did you even do one TV interview for them when they came out?”

“I might have had I been asked,” I said. Neither of my novels had exactly been a Today show pick or anything. “Earl, why’d you want to meet up? My birthday’s four months away. You’re early.”