Recorded Books presents Faker by Gordon Corman, narrated by Christopher Gebauer. Chapter 1. The dog is enormous. A purebred Great Dane.
Every inch a champion. His coat is a silvery gray, thick and shiny. His name is Lord Gladstone, who Dad says was a British Prime Minister from way back in the day. That makes sense, because the one word that describes this animal is dignified.
His massive head is held high, reaching all the way to my shoulder and almost up to Dad's. The sleek body is motionless, even though we're in the middle of an open field, with endless directions to explore and butterflies to chase. Lord Gladstone is above all that. Some training, huh, Trey?
Dad observes. He's holding a leash, but it's slack. The dog is the picture of self-control. He's awesome. I agree.
The helicopter appears as a dot in the sky, growing larger and more detailed as it approaches. The wind comes up as the craft hovers briefly overhead. then begins to descend. I raise my hands to my ears, but the roar doesn't bother Lord Gladstone. He doesn't move a millimeter, except for the slight rustling of his ears.
The chopper comes down on a flat section of grass about 40 yards in front of us. We hang back as the motor dies and the rotor slows and stops. Mr. McAvoy unfolds himself from the passenger seat of the bubble and starts toward us.
I've met him a couple of times before. Rudy, my roommate at the Spielman School, is his son. The McAvoys are pretty rich. That's not unusual for Spielman, which is a fancy boarding school.
I've gone to a lot of schools like that. My family isn't rich, but Dad needs to be close to people who are. It's important for his line of work.
Mr. McAvoy walks over to meet us, but his eyes never leave Lord Gladstone. Well, you weren't kidding about him. He's really something. I've never seen a dog who could keep his composure through a helicopter landing.
My father sticks out his hand. Parker Whitfield, junior to my friends. Dad's full name is Parker Whitfield II, which makes me Parker Whitfield III.
Those weren't our names four months ago, and they won't be our names four months from now. But it works. Because no matter what we call ourselves, he's always Junior, and I'm always Trey. Mr. McAvoy shakes hands, first with Dad, then with me. He even shakes with Lord Gladstone, which seems to please the man to no end.
What a beautiful animal, he exclaims. Mr. McAvoy then inspects the Great Dane like a man who's used to being around dogs, but isn't really an expert on them. That's exactly what we were hoping for. As Dad always says, the intersection of too much money and too little know-how is the sweet spot of our family business. Dad hands over a thick file folder containing Lord Gladstone's pedigree papers and other documents about his history.
Mr. McAvoy skims through the papers. I've had dogs my whole life, but I can't say I'm familiar with the show circuit. Seems like a solid investment, though. Dad nods confidently.
There are prizes to be won, for sure. But the real money will come in breeding fees once he's a champion. Yeah?
You really think he's got what it takes? We use only the best trainers, and our handlers are top-notch. My father assures him. It will happen with this one. He's special.
At that moment, Lord Gladstone stands taller, as if proving Dad's statement. Mr. McAvoy stays with the dog a little longer, peering and occasionally poking. The Great Dane bears this with restraint, like a movie star who has to put up with the paparazzi every now and then.
At last, McAvoy takes out a check and hands it over to Dad. My investment in full. I'm amazed at how fast it disappears into the pocket of my father's blazer. Dad beams.
You won't regret this. The next time we see each other, it will be in the winner's circle at Westminster. We shake hands again, and Mr. McAvoy asks me to give his best to Rudy.
Yes, sir, will do, I assure him, keeping my grip firm and looking him directly in the eye. Dad actually made me practice that before the helicopter came. You have to convince them you belong, he told me. If they think you're part of the club, the sky's the limit. Mr. McAvoy gets back in the chopper, and the three of us, me, Dad and the Great Dane watch it take off and disappear into the distance.
Dad pats his pocket. Another satisfied customer. Where to now, I ask.
Back to Spielman? Soon. First we have to get rid of the mutt.
I stare. He isn't ours? Are you kidding?
What would we do with a dog? But the dog show! The Winter Circle at Westminster! My father smiles. A warm, friendly smile.
It's honest and open and makes people like him and trust him. That's usually a mistake. We don't have to own a show dog. We just need marks like McAvoy to think we do.
This dog's a rental. We have to get him back to the agency before they charge us for an extra half day. I don't know why I'm so surprised.
I should know my father by now. You rented Lord Gladstone, I say. He nods. The dog's an actor.
I know a guy who rents out trained animals for TV commercials. That's where I got him. And his name isn't Lord Gladstone.
It's Ernie. My father is a genius. But not at science or art or inventing a new app that changes the world. His gift is in separating people from their money.
Mr. McAvoy thinks he's investing in a show dog, but since there is no show dog, what he's really doing is handing money over to Dad. Basically, my father is a con man, a swindler, a flim-flam artist. I know that sounds bad, but he's never tried to keep it a secret from my sister or me.
That's why our names change and we move so often. What he does is against the law. If he gets arrested, he'll go to jail, and Ariana and I will probably wind up with child protective services. That's a scary possibility. But believe it or not, I don't think about it too much.
Dad is good at what he does, and that includes being good at not getting caught. When a scheme is over, we move on. Ariana and I don't question it, because it's the only life we've ever known. It's not for everybody. Our mother couldn't hack it, and that's why she went her own way shortly after Ariana was born.
I barely remember her, and Ariana never knew her at all. Dad is all the family we've ever needed. He looks after us when we're sick and puts band-aids on scraped knees. Maybe he doesn't bake our birthday cakes, but he always remembers to order them.
We haven't been neglected. We've always been happy kids. There are other words for con man.
Crook. Thief. Criminal. But I never think of Dad that way.
If you win on Jeopardy, nobody thinks you're being sleazy because you used your brain to make money. Besides, Dad only takes money from people who have tons of it. Guys like Mr. McAvoy, who ride helicopters because they consider themselves too important to waste time and traffic.
That's why I'm always sent to fancy private schools like Spielman. It's to meet rich kids with rich parents and introduce them to my dad. Marks, he calls them.
It sounds better than victims. And anyway, they can afford it. Dad opens the door and Lord Gladstone obediently crams himself into the backseat of the car.
Even though I know the truth, I can't bring myself to think of him as Ernie. Most dogs hang their heads out the window and drool into the breeze. but not him.
He sits up straight on the floor, his huge head reaching almost as high as the dome light. He sure looks like a real champion. I comment. My father laughs. Of course he does.
Attention to detail. That's everything in this business. These are the moments I love the most, when it's just the two of us, and dad's telling me some of the tricks of his trade.
It's unspoken, but I'm definitely going to be his partner one day, so it's important for me to learn how he thinks. Plus, we don't get to spend a lot of one-on-one time together, since I'm always away at boarding school. On the way back to Spielman, we veer into an outer suburb of Boston and drop Lord Gladstone off at a small building with a sign reading, Critter Stars, furry and feathered talent.
Dad takes the Great Dane in and settles up with the guy he knows. That's another thing about my father. He always knows a guy who can provide exactly what we need. at exactly the right time. It's kind of Dad's superpower.
The Spielman School is less than an hour away, but it might as well be in another world. Picture Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother's place. Only instead of a house, somebody built a whole campus of stately red brick buildings with lead-paned windows.
Dad always pauses at the wrought iron gates to drink in the panorama of old New England prep school charm. To the outside world, He looks like a parent who is puffed up with pride that he can send his son to this storied place of learning. In reality, he's breaking his arm patting himself on the back that he has an inn with a place where practically everybody is rolling in money. As a Spielman parent, my father is like a fox with an all-access backstage pass to the hen house. And that access is me.
We pull up to the Ralph Waldo Emerson Dormitory, where I share a room with Rudy. Home sweet home, Dad announces cheerily. I'm not so happy.
The only downside of boarding school is I don't get to spend that much time with my family. I miss Dad, and it's never a bad idea to keep an eye on my kid sister. She has kind of a wild streak.
Guess I won't be seeing you for a while, I say ruefully. He seems surprised. What are you talking about?
I'm picking you up at three o'clock tomorrow. Stuart Atwell's father wants to buy in. I've got him on the hook for 60% of Lord Gladstone.
Didn't you just sell 50% to Mr. McAvoy? I ask. He grins at me.
If I play my cards right, I'm pretty sure I could sell about 500% of the mutt. But isn't 100%- You know, the whole dog? He shakes his head.
There's what the Marx believe, and then there's what's really happening. You have to keep those things separate in your mind. The Marx think they're buying a piece of a show dog, but what they're really buying is a piece of nothing.
And the beauty of nothing is you can sell as much of it as you want. 500% of nothing is still nothing. What is that?
I almost say... Legal, but I catch myself. That's not a word we use in my family. Obviously, none of this is legal. Fair?
I finish. Of course it's fair. The investors want to make money.
I want to make money. We're all in this for the same thing. What could be fairer than that?
But to make it happen, you have to be smart. I regard him in admiration. He is smart.
That's how he puts food on the table for his family and can pay for expensive schools like Spielman. In my opinion, the life lessons I've learned from Dad are a more important education than anything I've learned in even the fanciest academies. I get out of the car and shut the passenger door behind me. Got it.
Thanks, Dad. He does offer one piece of advice before he drives off. If any of your friends start talking about a certain Great Dane around the dorm, do me a favor and change the subject.
The last thing we need is these rich kids comparing notes about Daddy's latest plaything. Chapter 2. Dad's been teaching me the family business since I was pretty young. It even has its own vocabulary words.
Like, extraction, which he taught me in kindergarten. It was during our big play. I honestly can't remember the name of the school anymore, but it was the same kind of snooty place as Spielman.
I earned the part of the gingerbread man by being the fastest in my class. Even in the bulky felt cookie costume, I could really move, running circles around the other kindergartners, who were dressed as various fairytale characters like Hansel and Gretel and the Big Bad Wolf. Run, run as fast as you can.
You can't catch me. I'm the gingerbread man! As I darted around the stage, Who did I spy but Dad, crouched in the wings, beckoning wildly?
Five-year-old me assumed he was so proud of my performance that he'd left his seat in the auditorium to urge me on to even greater feats of speed. But as I wheeled around for another lap, Dad grabbed me under the arms, lifted me up, and pulled me back into the wings. He carried me out of the auditorium, out of the building, moving with long, loping strides. So help me, I thought this was an extension of the play, an interactive section, maybe. In a few seconds, the audience would burst out the fire doors and chase the gingerbread man across the parking lot.
Staying in character, I threw back my head and bellowed, Run, run, as fast as you-Pipe down, Trey, Dad hissed urgently. You want the cops on our necks? When we got to the SUV, Ariana, age three at the time, was already strapped into her car seat, wailing like a banshee at being left alone. Pipe down, I snapped at her.
You want the cops on our necks? I turned to my father. What's a cop? Another vocabulary word. At that age, I wasn't even old enough to sit in the front.
I had a booster seat next to my sister. That's where I rode out my very first police chase, still half buried in my gingerbread man costume. We could hear the howling of the siren. At one point, the squad car was so close that the flashes reflected off the ceiling of our SUV. In school, Miss Asher said the policeman is our friend.
I reminded Dad. Looks like we got the only unfriendly one, he replied tersely, squealing around a corner on two wheels. It should have been scary, but believe it or not, Dad made it fun, like the whole thing was a thrill ride at Disneyland.
I remember thinking, my father is the greatest driver in the world. I was really proud of that. It was enough to make me forget the fact that I wasn't going to get to finish my role as the gingerbread man.
In fact, I never saw that school again, or the really nice rented house we lived in while I went there. We drove for a pretty long time. Long enough for Ariana to fall asleep.
I might have dozed off too. It was dark when we stopped. We got out and watched three men push our SUV over a cliff and into a ravine.
Ariana threw a fit because she wanted to help and Dad wouldn't let her. Then we got into a different car, drove to the airport, and went on vacation. Never mind that we didn't have our stuff, not even our clothes. We bought everything new. Even toys.
We went to the beach, rode water slides, played mini-golf. It was the greatest adventure we'd ever had. I was only able to fill in some of the details as I got older.
For example, Dad chose that resort because it was located on an island where U.S. law wasn't in effect. Also, the reason the police were chasing us was that my friend Bruce's father found out that the Mickey Mantle rookie car Dad sold him for $300,000 was actually a fake worth about 30 cents. Don't get me wrong. I mourned the life I had and the friends I lost. I was really looking forward to Bruce's laser tag birthday party.
Don't be surprised if your invitation gets lost in the mail. My father consoled me. Delivery service is lousy down here in the Caribbean.
Dad never tried to tell us that the life we were leading was the same as everybody else's. As we got older... He was honest about my role in the family business.
He needed me to gain access to my friend's wealthy parents, who would become our marks. But even though he was using me, I never felt used. I was important. I was part of this.
You can always find new friends, he would tell us. But family is forever. That's always been his message. That we do the things we do so that we can stay together.
With our mother out of the picture, we three, as Dad calls us, are all we have in the world. Missing out on one laser tag birthday party is a small price to pay for that. The back stairs of the Ralph Waldo Emerson Dormitory squeak like the door to a haunted house.
Not so loud, I hiss at Rudy. You want the- dorm monitor on our necks? I can't help it.
He complains in a voice almost as squeaky as the stairs. It's not my fault this building has been here since 1886. That's another thing about schools like Spielman. If the place isn't falling down ancient, there's not enough tradition.
This is where your great-great-great-grandfather got educated, and the place hasn't had a paint job since then. We're lucky they added electricity. It's over a week since the last of the show dog visits with Dad, and Rudy and I are sneaking down to raid the basement kitchen.
It's our turn to host midnight snack, which is being catered by Spielman, even though they don't know about it. If we get caught, we'll be up at 5 a.m. peeling potatoes for the rest of the semester. But that doesn't bother Rudy. There's a kind of confidence that comes from being rich.
It's not that he doesn't get caught. He's peeled more potatoes than anybody at Spielman, but he doesn't let little details like that slow him down in his pursuit of a good time. The stairs are too loud? No problem. There's another way to get to the bottom.
I watch as he climbs onto the polished mahogany banister. Hey! I whisper.
Watch out for the-Too late. He rockets down, smashing into the heavy wooden newel post at the bottom. knocking it off the rail, considering what he hit, and most important, where he hit it.
It must hurt like crazy. He opens his mouth to scream, but somehow he swallows the howl of agony. It's one of the many reasons my roommate is a legend at Spielman. Not only that, but he reaches out his hand and manages to catch the carved newel post just before it would have hit the floor.
and Rat-a-tat tatted all the way to the basement. I race down to join him. Are you okay?
Fine, he croaks, getting to his feet in a doubled-over pose. I cast tragic eyes on the broken newel post in his hand. We are so dead.
Maybe not. Rudy spits a wad of chewing gum into his free hand, slaps it onto the stump of the post, and sticks the carved top back into place. See?
Good as new. Like that's going to hold, he shrugs. It might.
And if it doesn't, we'll just act twice as amazed as everybody else when we find it broken. Even though I'm pretty shaken up, that strikes me as funny. Especially coming from a guy who just sacrificed a pretty important body part to avoid squeaking on the stairs. Pretty soon I'm laughing into my fist, chirping like a chipmunk in my effort to stay silent. That sets off Rudy, which is even more hilarious because he has to hold on to bits and pieces that must hurt like crazy.
By the time we make it to the kitchen, me tiptoeing and him limping, the threat of potato peeling is the last thing on our minds. As we stumble between the pantries and fridges, stuffing snacks, cookies, and sandwich meats into our canvas bags, I remind myself that one day I'm going to have to move on from Rudy like I've moved on so many times before. The way things work, I won't even be able to say goodbye. Who would have thought that goofy Rudy, out of all the friends at all the schools, would be the one to make it so tough? There are 12 people packed into our room when we get back upstairs with our hall.
No ice for the drinks, you guys, Rudy announces. Why not, challenges Stuart Atwell, because I'll be sitting on it. When he explains his trip down the banister, the laughing in our room threatens to bring the 1886 walls down on us.
Pipe down, I hiss. The dorm monitor's just at the end of the hall. In reality, we don't have much to fear from Patrick, our monitor.
He's a scholarship kid, and they like to avoid drama. He pretty much ignores us unless we're taking the place apart brick by brick. That's important because, for me... Getting caught means more than just getting up early to peel potatoes. At private schools, if they think you're a troublemaker and your wealthy family doesn't have a long history there, you can be expelled.
And me being a Spielman student is a big part of how my family makes a living. Midnight snack is a huge success. The cooks made lava cake for tomorrow's dessert, and we warm it up on Rudy's video game console. which is so old that it overheats every time you run something invented after 2011. It's a pretty fun party. Even Rudy seems to be loosening up a bit, so I assume icing his undercarriage did the trick.
We got our math tests back earlier today, so we have paper airplane races in the corridor. Peanut Butter makes an amazing nose cone, which keeps the craft flying straight instead of catching a draft and turning up into the ceiling. Dev Parham teaches us that. His dad is the head of aerodynamics at MIT, at a school like Spielman. The parents are not only rich, but also super successful.
I'm having a great time. Until I overhear Rudy saying to Dev, Your dad owns a show dog? My dad owns a show dog! It jolts through me like 10,000 volts straight to the gut.
Mr. McAvoy and Mr. Parham are both part of the Lord Gladstone scheme. The show dogs they own are the same show dog who- isn't a show dog at all. I look around the room.
Rudy has a lot of friends at Spielman, but I'm a newbie. I could only invite the few guys I know, as it turns out. Every single kid on my list is someone dad targeted because he wanted to sell their parents a piece of his fake show dog.
And even though dad changed the name of the dog for each investor, Lord Gladstone, Lord Tweedsmere, Lord Churchill. Lord Cavendish, etc. There was only one name he couldn't change.
Parker Whitfield III, a.k.a. Trey, i.e. me. My father's words come back to me. The last thing we need is these rich kids comparing notes on Daddy's latest plaything.
And I've brought the whole lot of them together in one little dorm room. If I don't find a way to change the subject... These guys are going to figure out that their families all own 500% of the same dog.
I do the first thing that comes to mind. I yank the straw out of my chocolate milk container, aim at Rudy, and give the carton a mighty squeeze. A jet of brown liquid sails across the room and scores a direct hit on my roommate's face. Rudy lets out the scream he's been holding ever since he made contact with the Newell Post.
In mere seconds, a dozen or more plastic straws are flying through the air as kids prepare to turn their drinks into weapons of mass destruction. The atmosphere crackles with hilarious anticipation of a battle that will leave everything and everybody dripping milky slime. A sharp rap at the door freezes the combatants into place. Is everything okay in there?
Comes the voice of Patrick, the dorm monitor. What's all the screaming about? I couldn't answer, even if I wanted to.
I'm turned to stone. We're good, Rudy calls. Just a bad dream. All right, well, settle down.
It's one o'clock in the morning. We listen to the sound of Patrick's bare feet patting down the hall back to his room. We're still armed and dangerous.
But suddenly, no one is in the mood for a food fight, and Rudy and I are- definitely not in the mood for cleaning up after one. We give Patrick ten minutes to get back to sleep, and then break up our party. As we say goodnight, I think of each of the guys by the name of the dog their dads think they've bought into. Lord Coventry?
Lord Worchester? When I'm brushing my teeth that night, Rudy comes out of nowhere and empties his chocolate milk over my head. I owed you that, he declares happily. And when I nod my reluctant agreement, he adds, best roomie I ever had, for bombarding him with chocolate milk. Unbelievable.
I have to shower again, but it's all worth it to keep Dad's operation from falling apart. Rudy's one of those people who drops into a deep sleep the instant their head touches the pillow. But I toss and turn. Best roomie I ever had.
I don't think I've ever known a friendship like this before. In the end, I'm always moving on. And sooner or later, that's what will have to happen with Rudy.
Chapter 3. One thing about fancy schools, you get really good at lacrosse. Oh sure, they play all the other sports too. Baseball, football, basketball, soccer.
But for some reason, lacrosse is always number one. The last time we went out on vacation, which means that we disappear between operations, Dad hired a private lacrosse coach to keep my skills sharp. No fair, Ariana complained.
How come Trey gets a coach? I want a coach. There's girls lacrosse too, you know.
Your turn will come, Dad promised her. Although I'm not sure lacrosse is the right sport. Field hockey, maybe.
It should be my turn now. I'm older than Trey was when you started sending him to private schools. Then she played her trump card.
I'll bet mom would treat me fair. Ariana has figured out that dad will never answer this kind of challenge. He doesn't badmouth our mother, even though she abandoned us. She's just out of the picture, that's all.
So when my sister uses the M word, it's always a weapon. because she knows Dad won't give her an argument. Since our father wasn't going to respond to that, I did.
It's tough to break into a new school where you don't know anybody, I tried to explain. But if I can make the lacrosse team, that helps me fit in, which helps all of us, right? I replay that conversation in my head as I trot onto the field in my cleats and lacrosse gear. I'm wearing the school colors of crimson and gray. Or, as Rudy calls it, blood on gravel.
He's our goalie, and the fact that we're teammates is just another reason why we get along so well. Ever since Midnight Snack Night, I've gotten pretty popular. People love a wild man, and I guess that's me.
Every time someone mentions their family's show dog investment, I do something to change the subject. Overturn a soup bowl, pull a chair out from under some unsuspecting kid. Even trip over my own feet and face plant on the grass.
I'm known as a joker, and I'm okay with that. It's better than being known as the kid whose father is ripping off half the families in the school. It's our annual game against Wilmington Hall, which is kind of a big deal, since they're our rivals.
The bleachers are filling up with students and a pretty decent turnout of parents. As I scan the stands, I'm surprised to spot Dad about halfway up. smiling and waving.
I haven't seen him in three weeks, since we sold 50% of Lord Blenheim to Sean Albazi's parents. Dad's wave turns into a beckoning gesture. I jog over to meet him at the fence that surrounds the playing field. Thanks for coming, Dad. I didn't even know you were going to be able to make it to this game.
His reply is a single word. Houdini. The lacrosse stick drops out of my gauntlet.
Stooping to pick it up gives me a split second to think. Houdini is the panic word. It means the operation is going bad, and it's time to disappear. Houdini? I choke in a strangled whisper.
Now? Houdini, he repeats, and starts away. It means I have to meet him at the designated place.
We chose it the very first day we arrived at Spielmann. The short lane in front of the carriage house that used to be the stables back in the 1800s. It's the most direct route from the parking lot out onto the main road, just in case a quick escape is necessary. I look over at our goal cage, where some of the guys are taking practice shots on Rudy.
I feel an instant lump in my throat. This is it. The moment I've been trying not to think about for weeks now. I'm never going to see my friends again. I'm never going to see Rudy again.
After a long string of schools and long string of Houdinis, I've given up on the pipe dream that one day, years from now, Rudy and I will get together to look back on this and laugh. There's nothing funny about what went on here. I helped my dad swindle his family. Sure, they're rich and they can afford it. That doesn't change the fact that Rudy's going to hate me from now on.
So much for best roomie ever. Dad is already heading for the exit. I shake myself like a wet dog.
Why am I so shocked by this? I've been through it a dozen times, and I'll probably go through it a dozen more. There'll be plenty of time for regrets later on.
Right now, I have to act. Nothing is more important than family. Family is everything.
Family is forever. Family is the top priority. I take a step toward the gate.
But a sharp whistle blast freezes me. It's the ref, waving the teams into position. The game's about to start. Get in there, Trey!
Coach barks from the sidelines. Uh-oh. I play center midfield, which means I take the face-offs.
If I run out now, every single eye in the place is going to be watching me go. I look back toward my father. We hope you enjoyed this preview.
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