Thieving Weasels - Billy Taylor Page 0,6

years ago next month. He was a hero.”

“I’m sure he was.”

The trooper handed back the paperwork. “Good luck with your decision, but if you want the advice of an old Marine, I’d finish school first. The Corps will still be there in June.”

“Yes, sir.”

He glanced at Uncle Wonderful. “And you get that taillight fixed.”

“You got it, Officer.”

The trooper headed back to his cruiser, and Uncle Wonderful laughed. “Djibouti? Where the hell’s Djibouti?”

“Africa.”

“Never heard of it. How’d you know that guy was a Marine?”

“His posture. Only Marines move like that. And ballet dancers, but he didn’t look like a ballerina to me.”

Uncle Wonderful nodded. “You always were fast on your feet, Skip.”

“So? Did I pass the test?”

“With flying colors.”

“Good.” I adjusted the rearview mirror and said, “Damn, that trooper’s coming back.”

Uncle Wonderful turned to look and when he was halfway there I punched him in the jaw.

“Son of a bitch!” he screamed.

“Don’t talk that way about my mother,” I said. “And the next time you try something when I’m using my good name you’ll get a lot worse than that.”

• • •

So, what’s a good name? A good name is an escape hatch. An emergency exit. A ticket out. In other words, it’s the cleanest, safest, most bulletproof fake identity there is. My Grandpa Patsy used to say that if a good name came in a box there’d be a sign on the front reading, “Use only in emergencies.” But good names don’t come in boxes. In fact, good names don’t come anywhere anymore. The computer-controlled, interwoven world we live in has taken care of that, and soon the only name you’ll ever have is the name you were born with. Law enforcement types sleep well at night knowing this is the case, but I find it sad and even a little un-American. This country was founded on the possibility of new beginnings, and guys like me have been using good names since the Pilgrims landed on Plymouth Rock.

My good name is Cameron Michael Smith—Cam to my friends. The real Cam Smith was born on April 26, 1995, and died nine months later from a lung infection. That would have been the end of him, but Grandpa Patsy knew a guy in the Schenectady County records office who was in charge of scanning death certificates into their fancy new computer system. For a hundred bucks and a bottle of Bushmills the guy accidentally forgot to scan Cam Smith’s death certificate, and it was like the poor kid had never died. After that, we applied for a passport and Social Security card in Cam Smith’s name, and just like that I was a whole new person. This was a very popular technique back in the day, and for years our family picnics were filled with dozens of relatives with unscanned birth certificates who were making a nice living cashing checks from every state and federal agency there was. But like I said, computerized record-keeping has put an end to all that.

Good luck and vigilance is the key to every good name. Or, in the case of Mr. and Mrs. Bradley Smith, bad luck and vigilance. Not long after the death of their only son, the Smiths were killed in a car accident. Mrs. Smith was behind the wheel, and the police listed the cause of death as driving while intoxicated. But I think Mrs. Smith died of a broken heart. On nights at Wheaton when I couldn’t sleep, I sometimes wondered if the Smiths were looking down on me. If they were, I hoped they were proud because I was taking excellent care of their son’s legacy: I had a 3.92 GPA, averaged 1.4 points per game in lacrosse, and wrote smart and funny pieces for the Weekly Wheatonian. Plus, I’d just been accepted to Princeton University. I don’t mean to brag, but thanks to me Cam Smith had a very bright future ahead of him. Or at least he did until my family came along and messed up his life.

Or should I say, messed up my life.

5

“SO, HERE’S THE DEAL,” UNCLE WONDERFUL SAID THREE hours later as we drove through the entrance to Shady Oaks Psychiatric Hospital in beautiful Amityville, Long Island. “Your mother’s here under the name Sheila O’Rourke, and I’m her brother, Phillip O’Rourke. Her husband’s dead, I’m divorced, and we’re her only family.”

“Why are you using our real names?”

“It’s a Medicaid deal. And remember, no matter what happens, don’t mess things up. I went through hell getting your