The Book of Lies - Brad Meltzer [84]
“You really believe it’s all fake?”
I stop at the door to the men’s room, still picturing the way Ellis stroked his tattoo and stared so obsessively at his pointy-eared dog.
“Cal, the only thing more frightening than a disbeliever is a true believer.”
Entering the bathroom, I know Roosevelt’s right. But that’s what brought me here.
A quick glance around tells me I’m alone. Perfect.
Ducking into the single open stall, I ignore the usual mess of graffitied insults that decorate the walls, step up on the toilet, and reach for the grid of white ceiling tiles that’re directly overhead. With a push, I shove open the nearest square grid and pat inside the ceiling. Nothing. I lift another tile and try again. Still nothing. I don’t panic. This is the third restaurant I’ve tried. Sooner or later, one’ll be here.
Studying the rest of the ceiling, I spot a tile with a few smudges. Fingerprints. Bingo. With my fingers spread apart like a waiter balancing a tray, I lift up the white tile and slide it aside. Patting around inside, I feel nothing . . . nothing . . . kuuunk.
My hand slides around the grip even as my finger hugs the trigger.
“Finally find one?” Roosevelt asks.
From the ceiling, I pull out a polished .380-caliber pistol. No serial numbers. No question, illegal. Cain grabbed a book. My father grabbed a trophy. I need something for myself.
It’s hardly a perk of my job, but it’s the same in every crap neighborhood in America: Show me the local fast-food joint, and I’ll show you where the kids are hiding their guns.
I tuck the pistol in the back of my waistband, then zip my jacket and dive back into East Cleveland’s ferocious cold. It’s a two-minute walk back to our motel—a two-story dump that doesn’t even have a name, just a sign out front that’s painted red, white, blue, green, black, and more red. U.S. and Palestinian colors, with the word Vacancy along the bottom.
“You got the supermarket stuff?” Roosevelt asks.
In my jacket pocket, I feel for the vinegar and fabric softener. “All set,” I tell him.
“So you’re gonna do the rest by yourself, yes?”
I circle up the outdoor stairs and follow the signs for room 216.
“Cal, please tell me you’re doing the rest by yourself,” Roosevelt pleads.
“Listen, I should run,” I say, stopping at the door.
“You’re not even listening, are you? Dammit, yo momma’s so fat—”
“Don’t start,” I warn as I twist my key and use my shoulder to shove open the motel door.
“Didja get it?” Serena calls out, leaping my way.
“Cal, you’re a big boy,” Roosevelt warns in my ear. “You do what you want. But please: I know what happened at the Siegel house, but don’t feel the need to protect her just because she protected you.”
I slap the phone shut.
Serena’s already holding my hand, dragging me inside. I take my jacket off slowly. They know about the supermarket. They don’t need to know about the gun.
“You get it or not?” my father calls out from the narrow bed. He’s no longer holding his side. The bleeding’s stopped.
“Of course I got it,” I say as I toss my two supermarket purchases onto the empty bed. My dad knows it from his painting days. Vinegar and fabric softener. The best way to unstick wallpaper glue.
From my backpack, I take out the swatch of wallpaper we found in Jerry Siegel’s old bedroom. Four panels glued on top of one another. Ellis called it the rest of a map. Looks like torn-up pages from an old comic book to me. But whatever Jerry Siegel hid by gluing them together, it’s time to finally peel it apart.
57
August 3, 1900
Brussels, Belgium
Mikhel Segalovich was vomiting. It was coming fast now, a hefty heave that emptied his stomach of the stale bread he’d fished from the trash. From his lips, strands of drool twirled in the wind, dangling down to the cobblestone of the narrow alley, but even as he wiped it away, he never once let go of the leather hold-all at his side.
It’d