The Book of Lies

3

Cal . . . I need help!” Roosevelt screams.

My tenth-grade English teacher once told me that throughout your life, you should use only three exclamation points. That way, when you put one out there, people know it’s worth it. I used one of them the day my mom died. But tonight, as I sit in the van and hear the sudden panic in Roosevelt’s voice— Across the wide patch of grass known as Victoria Park, he flicks on his flashlight. But all I see is the bright red blood on his hands. No. Please don’t let tonight be another.

“Rosey, what the hell’s going on?” I yell back, clawing over the passenger seat, sticking my head out the window, and squinting into the darkness. He’s kneeling over our newest homeless client—“86” on the radio means “vagrant”—who’s curled at the base of a queen palm tree that stands apart from the rest.

“It’s a bad one, Cal. He’s a bleeder!”

A ping of rain hits the windshield, and I jump at the impact.

If this were my first day on the job, I’d leap out of the van and rush like a panicked child to Roosevelt’s side. But this isn’t day one. It’s year two.

“You got his Social?” I call out.

Kneeling at the base of the queen palm, Roosevelt tucks his flashlight under his armpit and rolls what looks like a heavyset man onto his back. As the light shines down—the lumpy silhouette—even from here, I can see the blood that soaks the man’s stomach.

“His wallet’s gone,” Roosevelt shouts, knowing our protocols. “Sir. . . . Sir! Can you hear me? I need your Social Security number.”

In my left hand, I’m already dialing 911. In my right, I prop my laptop on the center console. But I never take my eyes off Roo-sevelt. Breast cancer took my aunt, the aunt who raised me, a few years back. I don’t have many friends. I have this job. And I have Roosevelt.

“Cal, I got his Social!” Roosevelt shouts. “Sir, were you mugged? You have a gunshot wound.”

“Gimme one sec,” I call out. The computer hums, our tracking software loads, and I click on the button marked Find Client. On-screen, a blank form opens, and I tab over to the section labeled SSN.

“Cal, you need to hurry,” Roosevelt adds as the man whispers something. At least he’s conscious. “He’s starting t—”

“Ready!” I insist, all set to type with one hand. In my other, I grip my cell and hit send as the 911 line starts ringing.

Years ago, if you wanted to drive around and work with the homeless, all you needed was a van and some Lysol. These days, the state of Florida won’t let you pick up a soul unless you’re logged on to the statewide computer network that tracks who’s where. The better to see you with, my dear. And the better to see what diseases, medication, and psychological history you’re carrying around as well.

“Zero seven eight, zero five, one one two zero,” Roosevelt announces as I key in the man’s Social Security number.

In my ear, the 911 line continues to ring.

In the distance, refusing to wait, Roosevelt rips open the man’s shirt and starts applying pressure to his wound.

And on-screen, I get my first look at his identity.

LLOYD RANDALL HARPER

DANIA BEACH, FLORIDA

DOB: JUNE 19—52 YEARS OLD

A swell of heat burns my chest, my throat. I can’t breathe. I open my mouth to call Roosevelt’s name, but my lips won’t move.

LLOYD RANDALL HARPER

My father.

“This is 911,” the operator announces in my ear. “What’s your emergency?”