Free EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories by Sean Chercover Page A

lakes. Garcia’s cottage backed onto one of them.
    I passed the driveway and parked a hundred yards up the road and walked back with a six-pack of beer in my left hand. The property was thick with trees and I could just make out a one-story, wood-shingled building. Behind the cottage, the early evening sun reflected orange off the tiny lake. It was hot and humid and I’d fed about a dozen mosquitoes by the time I reached the top of the dirt driveway that led to the little house.
    There was no car in evidence and no lights burned behind the screened windows. But there was no reflection off glass behind the lower half of the screens—the double-hungs were open for breeze. A good sign.
    The little cottage sat on cinder blocks. I climbed four creaky wooden steps to the front door, put the beer down and knocked. No answer. Knocked again, harder.
    The door opened and George Garcia stood before me with a week’s worth of stubble on his tanned face. His orange t-shirt had an R. Crumb cartoon on the chest, with the slogan KEEP ON TRUCKIN’. He smelled like Brut antiperspirant and body odor, in equal measure. He was long overdue for a haircut and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a month.
    “Whatever it is, we’re not buying any,” he said and started to close the door. I stopped it with my right foot.
    “I’m not selling anything George,” I said, “except maybe a clear conscience.” He disappeared inside and I picked up the six-pack and followed him in.
    We sat on threadbare furniture and I put the beer on the coffee table between us. Next to me was a floor lamp made from an old rifle. I turned it on. The wood paneling behind George sported a needlepoint wall-hanging that depicted a flotilla of ducks. Mallards. There was an old cast-iron woodstove at the end of the room and a doorway led to the kitchen. No door, just a doorway with a painted plaster crucifix hanging above. Looking into the kitchen, I could see about a dozen gallon jugs of water lined up on the counter. The place had no running water.
    It was hot inside the cottage but not as bad as Phil’s trailer. The place smelled musty, like my grandfather’s house in Georgia. I always loved that smell.
    George plucked a bottle from the six-pack. He twisted the cap and took a swig and said, “The cops on TV don’t bring beer, so I guess I’m not under arrest.”
    “You’re not under arrest,” I said, “and I’m not a cop. But if you keep running from this thing, there will be cops soon enough. They definitely won’t bring beer.” Then I explained subpoenas and bench warrants and the perils of perjury. I explained that giving a witness statement might motivate Juno to settle and George might spare himself the trauma of testifying in a courtroom. He drank two bottles of beer and smoked half a dozen cigarettes during my sales pitch. When I talked about Sarah Shipman and how she’d lost the use of her legs, the cigarette in his hand trembled and his eyes welled up, so I closed on the morality angle. “Everybody tells me you’re a good man, George. Phil, Tibor, Nick, Betty…everybody. It’s time to do the right thing.”
    He covered his eyes with his left hand and exhaled hard through his nose. I opened a new beer and handed it to him and opened one for myself. I took a mini-cassette tape recorder from my pocket, pressed record, and placed it on the table between us.
    “You don’t understand, man” he said. “I can’t. The lawyers from Juno, they put a lot of pressure on.” The tape was recording and I didn’t stop it. He lit a new cigarette and now I wanted one too. I took a swig of beer instead. Thinking, Two months without a smoke, Dudgeon, don’t blow it now.
    “The lawyers from Juno…,” I nudged.
    “Yeah, see, they told me to move out of state. They’re giving me enough cash to buy food. They said they’ll get me a job at a Juno Auto Center in another state when the lawsuit is over. California, maybe. All I have to do is stay here for