KAREN’S KILLER BOOK BENCH: Welcome to Karen’s Killer Book Bench, where readers can discover talented new authors and take a peek inside their wonderful books. This is not an age-filtered site, so all book peeks are PG-13 or better. Come back and visit often. Happy reading!

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NO LIE LASTS FOREVER
A Thriller
BY MARK STEVENS

BLURB

Imitation is the deadliest form of flattery

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NO LIE LASTS FOREVER
A Thriller
BY MARK STEVENS

Excerpt

Harry Kugel packs his briefcase at 5:15 p.m. The briefcase carries a sandwich-size Tupperware, two plastic baggies he reuses for a week or longer, and a copy of a newsmagazine he borrowed from the State Library.

The borrowing perk comes with his job in the human resources office at the Colorado Department of Education. This night, he packs a copy of a book called Playing Dead, a how-to about faking your own death, and a copy of Bach’s Mass in B Minor, the John Eliot Gardiner version. Harry is steadily assembling the hundred best classical performances of all time, based on a list in The New York Times. He likes scrolling through the options, deciding what to play. Ultimately, he will purchase the best, but the library option helps him save money during the research phase.

He likes leaving work late, the same as his preference to already be working when others arrive. His office includes himself and two others. One is his boss, a woman named Jennifer Hills. The second is his secretary, Sandy Ingalls. They are a team. He treats them well. They take care of him. They click.

Tonight his trip home will require a detour to a market on Broadway to meet his friend Mary, who works in the state treasurer’s office. They met at a statewide meeting of human resource officers. New procedures, new policies to be trained, et cetera. They sat next to each other, at a monstrous table in a windowless room, and she introduced herself while they waited for the presentation to start. She emailed him the next day and suggested a lunch. He preferred to eat lunch at his desk. So he suggested the after-hours option of a light supper.

This was now their routine. Of sorts. This was their fourth such sort-of date. Friends? More? She’s changed the restaurant each time, “to explore.” She is partial to organic food. She eats with care.

Mary has never been married. She belongs to the Denver Art Museum and the Museum of Contemporary Art. She’s talked about an art show by the former lead singer of Devo. She has a gentle, appealing laugh. She asks questions. Some of the questions hit on dangerous territory. Harry has a sense she wants to talk about explicit things.

Sexual things. Harry bluffs his way through, turns the tables back on her. He likes being friendly.

He likes pretending to be friendly, that is.

She offers no judgment on his status as a permanent single. He makes it clear, however, that he is heterosexual. At least, he looks for opportunities to do so. He conjures girlfriends from college days, postcollege days. He weaves a tale about one serious relationship and its four-year run. How can she check? She can’t. He keeps no Facebook.

He doesn’t live online.

“Having a good week?” she says.

The market includes a café with a limited menu. Caesar salad for her. Greek salad with chicken for him. She has a glass of white wine with dinner—her second. He doesn’t drink. If dating weren’t a thing, would restaurants survive? It’s all so silly. It’s all a game.

“No complaints,” he says. “Caught a guy today claiming he’d graduated from Howard University. I mean, terrific guy. Brand-new suit, you could tell. Smile a mile wide, and do they think we’re not going to check? We need Black guys. Everyone needs Black. But he only finished two years.”

“What did he say?”

“I’ll call him tomorrow. Or email. We can’t take a liar.”

“Email is better,” says Mary.

“Makes a better record,” says Harry. “See what he wants to claim. I mean, it’s a complete disqualifier. But the commissioner is after diversity.”

Mary Belson’s face is long. Clean lines, short hair. She looks like the type of woman who takes three minutes in the shower and doesn’t need a hair dryer. Her eyes are bright and blue. They show no sign of dull bureaucracy. Year fifty is eighteen months away—one year closer than for Harry. About getting older, she says things like “bring it on.”

She takes care of herself, cares about fitness. Harry tries not to say “Harry and Mary” out loud to himself. It sounds awful.

“What position?” says Mary.

“Assistant director of communications,” says Harry. “You don’t lie on your way to a job like that. Right? For a job where you’re expected to tell the truth?”

“Communications people tell the truth?” says Mary.

“You know what I mean.”

Harry laughs.

“He must have finished his degree somewhere else—that’s what I’m betting. At Metro or some other place that doesn’t look so, well, Howard.”

“It was almost too easy,” says Harry.

“Exactly. Candidates of a certain age have spilled their personal lives all over the stage for years, no respect for their own privacy, and then they don’t think it matters. It matters.”

Harry’s whole story about the applicant is a fat fib—but what does it matter? He likes to have something to talk about, make it sound like he is a worthy soldier.

“Van Gogh opens next week,” says Mary. They stand on the sidewalk, about to say goodbye. “The invitation stands. A weekend day, perhaps? Or evening?”

“Museums make me tired.” Harry has a genuine desire to see her body. She plays tennis three times a week. But he can’t imagine the complications of getting involved. He has taken care of his own sexual needs for a long time, and that is that. The last fifteen years have been all about not letting anyone get too close. He can leave Mary’s secrets and all the rest to his imagination. For now.

He has a hunch about her, but he isn’t ready to push that particular button. He will likely have to break off this “relationship.” Soon. They should be sleeping together regularly by now. He knows she expects that. Wants that.

Seeing Mary for these social exchanges proves he isn’t a typical loner. So do vague references to a divorce. He’s never wanted to be that guy, the slowly aging hermit with a closed-in life.

“You ever take the audio tours?” she says. “It’s a whole new Experience.”

“I’ve never seen the need to see art in person. I mean, it’s all online. Isn’t it?”

“It’s not the same,” says Mary. “The scale, the power of being right there where the artist stood. Your classical music, is it the same in your headphones as it is at a concert? Really?”

Harry grimaces. “I’m not a big fan of crowds. Sorry.”

About Author Mark Stevens…

Links to Mark’s websites, blogs, books, #ad etc.:

Amazon: https://amzn.to/4dQ1mrI

CONNECT WITH MARK ONLINE
Official Website: WriterMarkStevens.com
Facebook: /writermarkstevens
X : @writerstevens
Instagram: @mark54stevens
TikTok: @mark54stevens

Happy Reading!