Liars and Thieves: A 21st Century Fable

By Andy Michael Miller

For the past two years, Dawson Hunter has been sleeping with his brother’s wife. But now he’s getting married, to a bright, cheerful young woman named Tabby—who happens to belong to a large and swiftly growing doomsday cult.  Suddenly Dawson finds himself torn between a woman he can’t resist and a woman he just might actually love. He might expect some good advice from his younger brother, Eric, but Eric is having problems of his own; he’s been struggling with his own romantic feelings for a man named Miles—who was transformed years ago into a talking goose—and after discovering a vial of strange blue powder hidden away by his own father, the only thing Eric wants is the truth.

As the Hunters gather in Cleveland for Dawson’s unusually quick wedding, Eric resolves to tell their brother, Richard Milhous, the truth about his wife’s affair. While Dawson scrambles to cover his tracks, Richard Milhous searches for a way to save his broken marriage, but the secrets they uncover may not be the secrets that any of them expected. Especially since the boys’ mother, Gloria, has become entangled in her own conspiracy, one involving her pharmaceutical business, the CIA, and a select test market of forty-five American cities.

LIARS AND THIEVES: A TWENTY-FIRST CENTURY FABLE is a personal drama set in a satirical world, a large-scale character study shot through with government paranoia, economic collapse, and the ongoing battle for the rights of every man, woman, and goose in a splintered America.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andy Michael Miller
• Release date: Feb 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386903383

Book preview

Monday

First light

WHEN GLORIA HUNTER awoke one morning from unsettling dreams, she found herself transformed in her bed into a fifty-four year-old woman.  How could this happen?  Just last night, she’d only been fifty-three; spry, fierce, with plenty of time left to fix her mistakes, plenty of time to put the past few years behind her!  But now it was Monday morning, and here she was, fifty-god-damn-four, more tired than she’d ever felt in her life, and staring down the barrel of a day she’d been dreading for a long, long time.

It was the first of October that day, the year 2012.  Election night was coming.  Cable news was packed with violence in Syria, embassy bombings in the Middle East, drought across the American West, mass shootings, climate change, drug wars, and the sluggish growth of a deeply recessed economy.  It was one hell of a time to be alive.  Gloria reached over and clicked off her alarm clock, twenty minutes before it was set to ring.  These days, her body had been dependably nagging her awake each morning all on its own.  Normally, she didn’t really mind, but today she wished to God it would have let her sleep.  Her devoted husband, Louis, had insisted on holding her birthday party last night, inviting all their affluent friends to their spacious home in Westlake.  The guests brought a pile of tasteful gifts, along with enough wine to drown a French infantry.  What followed were hours of laughter, hilarity, fun, and too damned many people who didn’t know when it was time to leave.  When the last well-wisher had finally filtered out at 1 a.m., Gloria had collapsed into bed, with her husband had crawling in after her.  Not a word passed between them as they drifted off to sleep.  They both knew she’d had a terrible time, but neither one had the heart to admit it out loud.

Now, as morning came, Louis continued to sleep away, his own internal clock ticking away slowly and gently like a teenager’s.  Gloria jabbed him in the side with her elbow.  Wake up, she said.

Her husband opened his eyes, then closed them again.  It can’t be morning, he muttered.  It’s too dark.

It’s October.  And we live in Cleveland.  It’s always dark.  Gloria started to ease herself out of bed, but fell back again as a sharp pain tore through her skull.  Fuck... of course she was hung over... of course, today of all fucking days, she had to go in to work like this.  Louis, she said, how much did I drink last night?

Let’s just say, a lot more than usual, Louis said.  With a groan, he rolled out of bed and started walking toward his closet.  Gloria watched him move, envying his calm, relaxed tread.  For a man of fifty-seven, he was in great shape, the muscles strong beneath his browned skin.  If it weren’t for his receding hair and the smile lines around his eyes, it would be hard to imagine he’d aged at all since the day they met.  His kind and gentle nature had preserved him, keeping him young.  If only she could say the same for herself.  Getting older was only making her more and more pissed off every day.  Listen, he said to her, why don’t you work from home today?  Might be a nice break, huh? 

I’d love to, but I have to drive down to Industrial Valley and visit the factory.  They have a shipment ready to go out.  And I think before that I have a conference call, and another call with the FDA... And before any of that, she had her meeting, the one she’d been dreading every day for the past year.  She’d known it was coming, and she’d hoped she could stop it, but now the day was here and there was finally no escape.  It’s a busy day, she said.

Across the room, Louis nodded silently.  She knew that the past few years had taught him not to pry.  Gloria was the CEO of Houston PharmaCo, a company she’d founded a little over seven years ago.  As of right now, the company produced only one product, a light veterinary sedative used in the Middle East and North Africa to pacify camels (of all things).  To the amazement of her family, this sedative had made enough money to catapult Louis and Gloria into the upper middle class virtually overnight.  Ever since then, the company had been working diligently on new product development, achieving FDA approval for two new drugs just a short while ago.  But whenever she looked into her family’s eyes, she could see them wondering how she’d done it.  How had camel money kept her corporation funded through seven long years of product development and testing?  More than that, how had it made her rich?  Gloria refused to talk about her business, and the less she said, the more convinced everyone became that something was going on.  But Louis didn’t push the issue.  I have a bit of work ahead of me, too, he said.  Mrs. Walker brought a blender into the repair shop.  It’s been a while since I had to fix one of those, but you know, it’s just electricity and spinning parts.  It shouldn’t be too big a deal.

I’m sure you’ll do fine, Gloria said. Slowly, keeping one hand pressed to her temple, she got up and walked toward the bathroom, lightly touching her husband’s shoulder as she passed. Once she was inside, she closed the door and reached up to unscrew two of the light bulbs in the vanity, then flipped on the light switch.  The dim glow felt soothing to her aching head. 

Alone now with the bathroom mirror, Gloria leaned in and stared closely at her reflection.  She’d been losing weight lately, becoming thin and birdlike.  She hadn’t been jogging or cycling through the park every night like she had in the old days, and it was starting to show.  She ran her fingers through her graying hair, gazed at the redness of her small, sunken eyes.  She opened her medicine cabinet and pulled out all the concealer, eye shadow, bronzer, lip liner, and everything else she could find.  She needed the face of a strong woman to carry her through this day.  She would not let them see her as weak, or old, or frightened.  She simply wouldn’t allow it.

But before she could begin her beauty regimen, the sound of a ringing telephone called softly down to her through air duct in the ceiling.  She cracked the bathroom door open and listened.  Far away upstairs, she could hear her cell ringing, its dulcet, feminine tone a contrast to the pragmatic jangle of the landline.  Quickly, she jogged out of the bathroom and ran upstairs, toward the small bedroom that had been converted into her home office.  Panic twisted her stomach.  Who could be calling so early?  It was probably her office.  Something had probably happened, a factory accident, or a fire in one of the research labs, or a surprise visit from the FDA... Jesus, that would be the last thing she needed this morning, another catastrophe on top of all the shit she already had to deal with. 

The phone had stopped ringing by the time she finally found it on her desk, sandwiched between a file folder and a stack of papers.  But then it immediately started again.  She looked at the caller ID and was surprised to see who it was.  It was her eldest son, Dawson... why would he be calling this early?  Whatever it was, it wouldn’t be good news; family calling before eight o’clock was never a good sign.  With great reluctance, she tapped the screen to answer the call.  Hello?

Hey, sorry to bother you before work, Dawson said.  Did I wake you?

Surprisingly, no.  Although I’m tired as hell from my party last night... and on that note, is there a reason you decided not to show up?

Yeah, sorry, last night was crazy, he said, with his signature blend of sincerity and evasiveness.  I was on my way over when something came up.

Something more important than visiting your aging mother?  She tried to make the question sound light-hearted, but deep down she was genuinely hurt.  Of her three sons (Dawson, Richard Milhous, and Eric), Dawson was the only one who still lived in Cleveland, the only one she saw regularly.  And these days, even he wasn’t showing up that often. 

JMom, lay off the guilt trip, all right?  I called because I have something to tell you.  Are you sitting down?

"Do I need to sit down?"

I don’t know, probably.  It’s a surprise.

Well, why don’t you just tell me what it is, and I’ll decide on my own reaction.  How’s that sound?

For god’s sake, why do you always have to make things so hard?  Listen, you remember Tabby, right?

Sure.  She’s that girl we met, what, two, three weeks ago?

"It was three weeks ago.  And you liked her.  You told me that you thought she was very sweet, and polite, and that she was really good for me.  And I want you to remember that while I tell you this next part, okay?"

Why are you stalling?  I don’t like that you’re stalling.

Mom, Tabby and I are getting married.

All the quick comebacks and snappy comments Gloria could have made died in her throat.  Slowly, she sat down on the edge of her desk.  Out of all the things she’d imagined coming out of her son’s mouth (Mom, I wrecked my car last night and got a DUI, or Mom, I need you to help me make bail, or Mom, I got a girl pregnant and her boyfriend’s pissed), this was somehow the least likely.  Dawson, getting married?  And to Tabby?

Gloria thought back to the night three weeks ago when Dawson had brought his new girlfriend over for dinner.  At the time, they’d been dating for a little over a month, and had seen each other nearly every day during those weeks.  That Friday night at Gloria’s had been a simple dinner, with just the four of them.  The girl (at twenty-five years old, it was hard to think of her as a woman) had been a pleasure to talk to, bright and cheerful and friendly as could be.  She was grateful for the food, loved every nook and cranny of Gloria’s carefully-decorated house, and had a relaxed, joking manner with Louis.  By the end of the night, Gloria could honestly say that she was looking forward to getting to know this girl.  But after that, neither Tabby nor Dawson had ever stopped by to visit, and now this stranger was marrying her son.  Gloria rubbed her temples, her headache evolving into a pounding migraine.  You’re getting married, she said.  To Tabby. I see...  Dawson, as my eldest son, I’ve always thought of you as the most intelligent...

Stop.  Just stop right there.  I’m thirty-three years old.  I own my own company.  I have a house with two cars in the garage, one of which is a fully-restored vintage.  Are you honestly saying that you don’t trust me to know what I’m doing?

He had a point.  Dawson was wildly successful for his age, in a way that his two brothers could only dream of.  At the age of twenty-three, fresh out of college, he had designed a revolutionary toy for pet owners:  the Fetch-n-Fire, a small-bore tennis ball launcher that could be strapped securely to a dog’s back, and with the help of motion sensors and a ball reservoir attached to the side of the unit, it allowed pet owners to play a sort of high-speed game of catch with their dogs.  It even allowed them to play a rudimentary game of tennis if they were brave enough to pick up a racket.  The product quickly became a local phenomenon, and two years later, with the ink fresh on his MBA, Dawson founded a corporation, with plans to market his new product nationwide.  Soon, the Fetch-n-Fire became a top seller, and he was hard at work trying to expand the product line.  In this way, Dawson had always reminded Gloria of herself:  the boy was confident, aggressive, tough, and driven. Unfortunately, he’d also inherited the bad right along with the good, which meant he was stubborn, resistant to authority, and hated being questioned.  But that wasn’t going to stop her from questioning him anyway...  I don’t understand this, she said.  Why would you promise to marry this girl, when you’ve only known her for two months?  Don’t you want to get to know each other?  Don’t you want to take some time?

What did I just say?  You can trust me.  Isn’t that good enough?

Well, Dawson, that’s not really an answer, Gloria said.  She was trying to keep her voice steady, but she could already feel the heat creeping up the back of her neck as her temper got the better of her.  "You know that I trust you, but you have to admit, I barely know this girl.  I’ve met her once.  You can’t expect me to be happy that you’re marrying someone I’ve spent all of three hours with."

"Yeah, and I’m sorry, I’ve been busy.  But look, just because you don’t know her very well doesn’t mean I don’t.  I’ve seen her every day for the past two months—"

"Are you listening to yourself?  Two months?  That’s sixty days.  In some places, they call that a return policy."

She is a bright, generous, wonderful person—

She’s not pregnant, is she?

Dawson made a noise somewhere between a sigh and a growl.  No, he said, she’s not.  Not that it would be any of your business.

All right, all right, I know you don’t like me prying into your personal life.  I’m just trying to understand, okay?  You can’t blame me for that.  I mean, here we are, not even seven o’clock, and you’re calling me to say you’re marrying this girl.  What’s the rush?  You couldn’t tell me later?  Is there a reason you couldn’t tell me in person?

For a moment, Dawson said nothing.  Gloria tipped the phone away from her ear, checking to make sure the call hadn’t dropped.  When her son spoke again, he was even more forceful than before.  I’m calling you because time is a factor, he said. The wedding is in two weeks.  Saturday after next.

The phone slipped from Gloria’s hand, and she barely caught it as it fell.  She held it in both hands, squeezing hard as if she were ringing its neck.  "Two weeks?  TWO... WEEKS?"

Two weeks, Dawson repeated, cool as champagne on ice.

"I... I don’t even know what to say to that, Dawson.  That is insane.  That is literally something an insane person would do."

"Okay, well, I don’t need your advice.  I can make my own decisions, and this is the decision I’ve made."

Oh, no.  No, no, no, that is not how we do things.  You are still my son, I don’t care how old you get.  Gloria looked up to find Louis wandering past the doorway, drawn by her shouting.  He looked at her with a puzzled expression.  Irritably, she waved him into the room, and gestured for him to sit down beside her.  She put the call on speakerphone so they could both hear.  "Dawson, it is not unreasonable for your father and me to expect some kind of explanation.  Why are you rushing toward this?  Why does this have to happen now?  She paused and waited for a response.  Nothing.  It’s a fair question, Dee Dee."

"Oh, god, don’t call me that.  I have asked you for years to stop calling me that."

Just answer the question.  What is it you’re not telling me?

You know what?  I’m sorry, but I have to go, Dawson said.  I need to get to work early.  Can you please call Richard Milhous and give him the news, without all the hysterics?  I have time to call Eric, but I don’t have time to call them both.

"You’re asking me for a favor?  After what you just said?"

Please, can you just do it for me?  Please?  I’m asking for one thing here.

Gloria felt the heat rising up from her neck and burning its way through her cheeks.  She could picture Dawson on the other end of the line as well, his own face flushed, his own hands gripping the phone with white knuckles.  No matter how much Dawson physically resembled his father (jet-black hair, tall, athletic build), his personality was all Gloria’s. There was no point in keeping this conversation going.  They were both too fired up to back down or apologize, and the longer it went on, the worse it would get.  I’ll call Richard Milhous, she said, flatly.

Okay.  Thank you.  And let him know I’ll pay for his plane tickets, so he doesn’t have to worry about the cost.  I know those things can be expensive on short notice.

I’ll tell him, Gloria said.  And you and I will talk more about this later, okay?  I mean that.  Come over after work, and we’ll sit down and try to act like adults.

Can’t today, but I will soon.  I promise.  Oh shit, now I really have to go... I’ll talk to you later.  Call Ritchie for me, and I’ll email him the schedule and everything.  Okay?  Bye, Mom.  And with that, his voice dropped away, ending the call with his usual abruptness.

Gloria set the phone down on the desk, her hands moving automatically as her mind swam.  Slowly, Louis stood up and walked around behind her, his old husbandly reflexes compelling him to rub her shoulders and try to calm her down.  What was that all about? he asked.  From his tone, it was clear that he was ready to take her side of the argument, whatever it might be.

Gloria took a deep breath and let it out, leaning forward as Louis kneaded her back.  She could feel the dull, pining need for a drink forming in the back of her throat.  Damn, it was way too early in the day for that...  Dawson’s getting married, she said. 

Louis stopped rubbing her shoulders and stared down at her in bewilderment.  She looked up and saw his eyebrows crease as he struggled to understand what she’d told him.  She could see that his mind was working furiously, flipping through his mental rolodex of Dawson’s recent girlfriends... who could it be?  Was it Katie?  No, not her, his last breakup with her had been especially rough... Maureen?  Dawson hated Maureen.  He dated her, but not because he liked her.... who else?  What about Maria?  Tanned, dark hair, fiery Spanish eyes... no, he hadn’t seen Maria since last winter.  Who was it, then?  Louis finally shook his head in defeat.  I’m speechless, he said.  I can’t even imagine who it is.  Do we know her?

You met her, Gloria said.  You remember Tabby, from dinner a few weeks ago?

Oh.  Her?  Really?  I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s great.  I just didn’t know they were serious.  He only met her about a month ago, didn’t he?

"Two months.  For all the difference that makes.  Oh, and they’re getting married the week after next, so that’s the cherry on top of the sundae."

Are you sure you heard him right?  He really said Tabby?  I don’t understand... why would Dawson marry a girl he’s only known for two months?

Gloria simply shrugged.  She had no explanation to give. Dawson refused to justify himself, and since she didn’t know Tabby very well, she couldn’t as much as guess at the girl’s intentions.  All she knew was that this wedding was happening, and there was apparently nothing she could do about it.  And so, on top of everything else she had to deal with today (on top of being fifty-four, and hung over, and having to fight through her awful meeting later), now she had to call Richard Milhous and try to explain a surprise wedding.  And why on earth would Dawson refuse to call his own brother?  That made no sense... and knowing Dawson, there had to be a reason.  No matter what he did, he was always playing an angle that would work to his benefit.  He never did anything for nothing.

Work, waste, and a thousand lakes

IT WAS SEVEN-THIRTY in the morning in Minneapolis, and Richard Milhous Hunter was already at work.  The office building was quiet at that hour, only a few trickles of footsteps and the hum of the ventilation system echoing through the empty hallways.  Soon, though, the walls would tremble with the sounds of amassed humanity, and this peaceful stillness would be broken.  Richard Milhous watched the clock, sighing as its minute hand inched forward.  Nothing ruined a person’s day quite like other people.

Swiveling around in his desk chair, he gazed out the small window behind him.  The morning’s light was still dim, faint enough that it just barely touched the corners of his dusty office.  He closed his eyes and pretended that the desks of his two coworkers weren’t even there, that the office belonged solely to him, that his job was important.  He tried to imagine, just for a moment, what it would be like to feel happy.  When he opened his eyes, nothing had changed.  He still had the same office, the same job.  He’d still spent last night alone, his wife off somewhere in another city.  It would be nice if this was something unusual, but it really wasn’t.  With Victoria Bennett, this was simply the way things were.

At least he had a basic idea where she was.  For the past week, she’d been working for the Akron, Ohio, school district, a new client she’d recently taken on.  And it was a big client, which made Richard Milhous somewhat proud of her, in spite of everything.  The district was having a problem with occupations in many of their buildings (a term which was instantly familiar to those experienced with ectoplasmic psychotherapy; the uninitiated would refer to them as ghosts).  Victoria had been called in to help.  She was supposed to finish the job and come home yesterday, but then Saturday night she’d phoned her husband to let him know that she wouldn’t be back until Monday.  She’d spoken quickly, explained little, and gotten off the phone without offering any real explanation.  To be fair, there were a number of likely reasons:  maybe the occupations had taken longer to deal with than expected.  Maybe, since it was his mother’s birthday party last night, she’d decided to make the short drive up to Cleveland and stop by.  Or maybe she’d finished her first job quickly, and then immediately landed another one.  That happened sometimes, especially in the Cleveland metro area, where so many lonesome spirits rattled around in all those empty houses.  Still, these were only the best possibilities.  There were a whole lot of other reasons a woman might decide not to come home to her husband on some particular evening...

Richard Milhous spun his chair back around and faced his desk.  It was better not to think about these things.  He needed to get back to the task at hand. On the desktop before him lay a yellow legal pad, with a blue pen perched beside it.  He ran his fingers over the page, tracing the outlines of his sharp, angular handwriting.  He loved hand-written letters; they felt important somehow, like a piece of history.  They carried a weight of authority and timelessness.  He picked up his letter and read it over again, from the top:

To the editors of the Minneapolis Star-Tribune,

Once again, our Minnesota Orchestra finds itself in trouble.  The battle between the musicians’ union and management has reached an impasse.  Management has proven to be intractable, offering nothing less than a 28 percent pay cut, while taking no cuts themselves (as was done in Atlanta earlier this year).  They refuse to authorize an independent arbiter.  They will not raise the curtain on the new season until negotiations are through, refusing to allow the musicians to play while the union works (as is being done with the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra). 

Most of the blame lies with management.  But at the same time, the players have made no counter-offer, insisting solely on an independent audit of the Orchestra’s finances.  Now management seems poised to announce a lockout, cancelling an unknown number of performances.  How did things come this far?  Certainly, there’s the issue of money.  Orchestra revenue has been low.  The organization has been forced to withdraw from its investments to cover deficits.  But there’s also the matter of prestige; the Minnesota Orchestra have played at Carnegie Hall and the BBC Proms.  They are a world-class group, and require world-class compensation to attract top talent, which is a valid point.  But eventually, the question must be asked:  if ticket sales are down, does prestige matter?  Why fight for world-class stature if no one is listening? 

Perhaps once they’ve finished arguing over the last few scraps of diminishing revenue, the Orchestra should focus on how to engage the community in their art.  Los Angeles has been successful with this; orchestras in Brazil and Venezuela have been even more successful.  We are continually fighting over symptoms.  Let us work, once this is over, to cure the disease.

It wasn’t a bad letter, all in all.  Maybe a bit pedantic, but the point was valid.  For some reason, every time he looked at the news, he saw people squabbling over income and profits and tax revenue, while the root of the problem eluded them.  Americans seemed obsessed with money, and seemingly had no clue how to solve problems without it.  Satisfied, Richard Milhous signed his name to the letter:

Your reader,

Richard Milhous Hunter

Setting his pen down, he cocked his head and looked closely at the signature.  The capital H seemed a bit slanted... he fought the urge to grab a bottle of White-Out and do it over again.  It was fine.  Didn’t need to be perfect.  Besides, he needed to reach the mail room before it opened, or else someone might catch him once again trying to mail a personal letter on the company’s dime. 

He stood up and went to find an