Assuming Names: a con artist's masquerade (Criminal Mischief Book 1) by Tanya Thompson Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t the slightest bit concerned. He kept his finger curled hard against his lips to keep from smiling, shaking his head no to each inquiry I made, but at the same time raising a brow as if in doubt I had actually asked, “Not one of you has fired a gun?”
    I flipped the page and it was finally more than Sergiu could take. He saw something he recognized. His smile broke free and he leaned forward to point out, “AK-47. Eugene, Daniel, you know this, Kalashnikov AK-47.”
    But they both looked away making Sergiu laugh aloud.
    The conversation dropped into stilted Romanian, full of terse warnings and suspicious glances that did not exactly fall on me but in my direction. Eugene took the offending magazine from my hands and started to absently fan through the glossy images, as though we could be done with it faster. At the back, he stopped on a block of type. He passed it to Daniel, and they studied it together, then returned it to me, asking, “What is this?”
    I read it twice before explaining, “It’s an ad for a mercenary.” Then when all three men looked at me from the top of their eyes, I clarified, “Someone who accepts payment for fighting.” And then even plainer, “For shooting people.”
    “This is job in America?”
    “Well,” I considered the ad again, “it appears so.”
    While Daniel and Eugene exchanged apprehensive glances, Sergiu gave up trying to conceal his humor.
    “Constanzia?” he pointed at the ad and then to another magazine opened to a scoped rifle, “You like this?”
    “I thought you did. It’s sports.”
    “This is sports in America?” Eugene had been a professional tennis player and Daniel had been a professional soccer player, and both were hoping what I said wasn’t true.
    I was shrugging but not inclined to argue with the titles of the magazines when Sergiu started chuckling. “I think you play trick, Constanzia. I think you play trick on everyone. You make your face,” he turned his features deadpan serious, “but you laughing. This very good trick,” he smiled like we were sharing the joke, but then abruptly he ceased to show any humor. Leaning forward to bring his face close to mine, he was severe, “But you remember, you no trick me.”
     
    ~~~~~~
     
    When Tricia told me the twenty-odd men from the Eastern Bloc were afraid of me, I laughed.
    She said, “I knew you would react like that. You don’t see it, but you scare them.”
    “There is nothing even remotely frightening about me.”
    “Imagine it from their perspective. I cannot explain who you are or where you come from. And because you work here as a volunteer, this makes them very suspicious. They don’t understand why you would not work somewhere for pay.”
    “Because I do not have the thing you say I need.”
    “A green card. But they don’t believe this, or how else would you be here with the agency?” Tricia grinned, “They think you are a government agent that has bamboozled me.”
    I laughed again.
    “It is the way things work in their country.”
    It was comically absurd that anyone would think me tough or forceful enough to be either FBI or CIA, but apparently, “Your gentle mannerism is what makes you particularly dangerous.”
    It was funny to consider, but I didn’t believe it. I tried to convince Tricia she had heard the men wrong, that the misunderstanding was one of language, but then after two weeks of thwarted efforts, I suspected she was right.
    I would spend hours on the phone arranging job interviews for the Eastern Europeans, and the men would say to me, “Yes, yes, thank you, I go to interview,” but then they wouldn’t. I would call the prospective employer once more, apologizing, charming, lying, saying, “It was my fault, I gave the wrong date,” or, “the wrong address.” I’d reschedule and then implore the wary men not to make me look unreliable again, pressing them to accept my offer to drive them to the appointment, cornering them with solicitous