Read EIGHT LIES (About the Truth): A collection of short stories for Free Online Page B

about the Chicagoland Rio De Janeiro Ball.”
    “Not a lot. Each year a bunch of rich folks get together for a fancy party, raise a lot of money, and give it to charity. The party’s theme is a Brazilian Carnival. I understand that it can be quite decadent.”
    “Quite. Last year the waiters and waitresses were completely naked, their bodies painted gold. As usual, a great amount of alcohol was consumed and…let’s just say a great many guests had gold paint on their own bodies before the evening was over.”
    “Fascinating.”
    “Naturally I’m invited on the understanding that I never write about what transpires at the ball, only the size of their magnanimousness.” Crawley drew a cigarette from a silver case and set it on fire while I made a mental note to check a dictionary later and find out if magnanimousness is a real word. “The ball is very exclusive. You fill out an application and, if approved, you are granted the privilege of attending. At the cost of $3000 a plate.” He wrinkled his nose like the price carried with it a bad smell, then shrugged, “It’s tax-deductible. Anyway the woman in charge of the ball died last month and their executive board is set to choose a new president. In Chicago society, there is no better position for a wealthy housewife. Consequently, the competition is becoming rather nasty.”
    Crawley reached back into his briefcase, produced a single piece of paper, and handed it to me. “Your task is to find out if this is true.” It was a fax addressed to Delwood Crawley at the Chicago Chronicle and written in hand. The cursive script suggested a woman’s hand. Written in the ‘From’ field was: “A defender of family values.” And the message was simply: “Margarita Chapman used to be a prostitute.”
    I said, “Judge Chapman’s wife?”
    “The very same. She’s the odds-on favorite to ascend the throne. That is, unless something such as this comes to light.” Crawley took a deep drag on his smoke and now I wanted one.
    Judge Chapman sat on the bench of the Circuit Court and I’d appeared before him as witness in connection with a couple of cases. I downed the rest of my beer, thinking Nobody’s business. We’ve all got things we’d like to leave behind us…
    “The executive board meets next Monday,” said Crawley, “so I require it in time for Sunday’s paper. Your deadline is eight p.m. Saturday.”
    I’d made a deal with Crawley and he’d fulfilled his end. I knew from the get-go that my end would involve something repugnant. But the thought of doing this job did not make me feel like one of the Good Guys.
    As we used to say in the schoolyard, a deal’s a deal.
    I took the ‘L’ down to Daley Plaza and spent the afternoon looking at government records. I slipped forty bucks to Judy Baker, a pretty face behind the counter in the Cook County Clerk’s Office, and she fetched files for me without making me wait in line with the civilians.
    Brian Chapman and Margarita Vasquez were joined in holy matrimony fourteen years earlier. At the time of their wedding, he was 45 and she was 22. It was the first marriage for both and they’d since had two children—Kyle, now 11, and Stephanie, now 8. They lived in Highland Park, an affluent suburb north of the city.
    Although the marriage license listed Chicago as Margarita Vasquez’s place of birth, no matching birth certificate existed in the Cook County Clerk’s files.
    Ah-ha , I thought. I ripped a sheet from my notebook and wrote, “Name change for an adult. From: ? To: Margarita Vasquez.” I gave the paper to Judy and she ran a search for the two years prior to the wedding date.
    And there it was. Eleven months prior to the wedding, the Circuit Court had approved a change-of-name petition to Margarita Vasquez. But the court had ordered the record sealed and I couldn’t access her former name. The presiding judge had been Edward Lens. His name was not familiar to me.
    Back in my apartment, I Googled