I kept an innocent look on my nine-year-old face as I asked, “Grandpa, isn’t it acceptable that all humans lie?”

“No. Well, as I ponder your question. My answer is yes,” he said in a quiet, introspective voice.

“Why?” I asked, expecting more details. 

He paused. 

“Because everybody has secrets.” 

“What do you mean?” I asked with a cautious smile.

“Some people are born liars. Some are white liars. Some are hiding behind the truth.” 

“Hiding behind the truth?” 

“Yeah. Skimming around the edges of lying, by being dead serious. They act as if they are being honest with you,” he said with two bobs of his head.

“So, is that how you know?” I implied with a sense of guilt.

“Yes, that is how I know you’re lying without you admitting you’re lying.” 

“Damn, you’re smart!” 

In his devil-may-care attitude, he said, “Thanks for noticing. Now tell me who killed the cat?”

Wary I was about to step into a trap, I replied, “I am not saying it was me. But I did witness the incident.”

“Good answer, my boy.”

“Can I go now?” I asked, glancing down at my Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers. I could tell he was aware that I might be hiding something. 

“Go where, son?” 

“I got a cat to bury.”

& & &

That is how it all began. I learned to lie, cheat, and steal. And for the record, I was in and out of Boston city jail over thirty times by the time I turned twenty-four. My mode of operandi: petty crimes consisting of robbing the neighborhood apartment dwellers of cash and jewelry while disguised as a cat burglar. I also must confess to occasionally borrowing rich folks’ sports cars. You know, stuff to sell. Usually, to raise quick cash for beer and clothes and comic books. I hoarded Superman collector comics for my retirement pension plan.

& & &

The years have passed me by. As I tell this to you now, I am fifty-three and comfortably seated at the house of corrections in Devens, Massachusetts. It is known as the big house. The FBP. The Federal Bureau of Prisons. The reason I am here, you ask? I shot a tire. Yes, a tire. The troubled tire was on a U.S. Postal truck. That makes it a federal crime. Yes, it was an accident. It didn’t matter to Judge Higgins that I shot the tire with my skeet rifle. Nope. My lawyer told him I was shooting clay pigeons in our backyard, and a few stray pellets ricocheted off a tree and embedded themselves in the mail truck tire. The Feds got me dead to rights. Thank God that they did not find Vinny Boom Boom Robbins with the rest of the shell casings inside of his belly. He did get a nice dark suit— compliments of mom’s sewing circle. Vinny had a closed casket ceremony at Ray’s Funeral Home in Braintree. I heard from the family it was a nice send off. 

& & &

I have been here in Devens for a month. I began my social contact by writing letters. If I have one gift, it is my writing. My mom said I had the gift of a natural born storyteller. Right off, the initial batch of letters to the prison psychiatrist were nothing more than venal sins. I can attest to this as a former altar boy at Saint Sebastian Church. They are known as catholic white lies. I bent the truth in those letters more often than Maine white tailed deer get hit head on by Chevy pickups. Smack, bang, boom. He never saw it coming. 

Dr. Good shared my sad story with Warden James and my spiritual counselor as well as the weekly bible teacher, Helen. They believed most of it. I could see it in their body language. They started to gesture acknowledgments, smiles, and nods of approval. In plain view, they would make an effort to bend at the waist, genuflecting while saying hello to me, as we passed in the prison workshop or in the library. Yet their training by the Bureau of Prisons told them “All inmates lie.” Do not listen to their shit.

& & &

All staff are told: “All inmates lie three times during their first thirty-minute prison interview.”  Prison guards, social workers, medical providers, chaplains, anyone.  Everyone is told not to trust an inmate’s sob story. Yet they all want to believe every inmate is capable of change. Nope, it is never happening. Especially not in my case. As the song goes … I’m bad to the bone. Trying to fix me is like trying to get dog shit off your penny loafers. You might get the brown stuff off, but the smell sticks forevermore.

& & &

During my second month’s visit with Dr. Good, he asked some personal questions about my

upbringing. I was all set to feed him my fresh concoctions of lies. Hook. Line. Stinker. (Not sinker.)

Dr. Good looked to be in his sixties, bald, stooped over with a dowager’s hump, and he was missing several teeth. And his right hand had thin, tobacco-stained fingers. He snapped out in a start.

“David, we need to complete your psychological-social intake today.”

“Great doc, what is it you need to know?” I asked.

“My first personal question is … Did your parents use drugs or alcohol while you were growing up?”

Frowning, I replied, “Hell yes. My dad drank a six pack every night. And often double high balls on weekends.”

“Hmm. Did your mother drink as well?” He asked with cow eyes.

“Nope,” I replied. If I did not know better, I would say Dr. Good was a bit crestfallen with my answer.

“Okay onward, David. What kind of work did your dad do?” he asked.

“He ran a gambling operation.”

“David? What do you mean ran a gambling business?” asked the Doc in a nonjudgmental way.

“Doc, he ran a four to five nights a week poker and blackjack business,” I said uninhibited.

I believed I could see the ‘good doctor’ aligning my medical history with his psych 101 education.  The fact is he was as gullible as a grade school janitor. After all, he is a government paid employee. This happened to be a remarkable thing for me. I wondered how would his Ivy Leaguer education stack up against my training at the Mafia College of “BS” of Hard Knocks. Why should I worry? He’d eventually see it “my way”—thank you, Frank Sinatra.

& & &

As the good doctor restored a sense of order to his proceedings, he asked, “Where did your father run this business?”

I knew Dr. Good was not prepared for the next revelation. “Hey. Doc, he is dead now. So, I can tell you.  It was in this special room in The Black Widow Bar. It burned down about ten years ago.”

He looked downright pale in the jowls. “Tell me, David. How did your dad die?”

“Shot by another gangster while eating spaghetti at Nona’s House of Pasta in Little Italy.”

He readjusted his skinny butt in his chair and asked, “… Boston’s North End?” 

“None other, my friend,” I said proudly.

Looking a bit frazzled by my storyline and the details, Dr. Good took a deep breath. My psych investigator redirected his questioning towards my mother. He was about to get entangled in some of my finest muck and mire. Curiosity killed the cat. By yours truly at the tender age of nine.

Throaty and rasping Dr. Good asked, “David, what kind of work did your mom do?”

“She was a seamstress. She made suits for men,” I said with a broad grin.

“Only suits?” he asked.

“Yeah. Dad’s friends needed suits for working attire. Mom got paid out of dad’s business budget and expenses.”

“That’s unusual,” he implied. Then his eyes widened. 

I was not sure what he was thinking, I quipped, “Not really. But excellent work and steady income. She did suits for funerals. It kept her in fine shoes and dresses,” I said. “Plus, she got a new Sears and Roebuck sewing machine every year.” 

“Every year? Can you clarify that for me?” 

“Huh? Sure. She always wanted something better. The latest model. And dad sent me and Louie to pick it up,” I said grinning.

I gave him background information he could have done without. But he seemed to soak up my cow pies like an early April morning’s wet pasture grass. He did not smell a thing wrong with my utterances. By the time I shared the inner details of my mother’s job, he looked like a kitten. A confused kitten. Gotcha.

I could tell that he thought I might be hiding something. 

He appeared to be thinking about my prior explanations when he asked, “Who is Louie?”

“Louis is my older brother.”

“What did Louis do for a living?” he asked. 

Stubborn as a bull moose in heat, I said, “Sold life insurance to gangsters.”

“You’re pulling my leg? Right? David? You are— aren’t you?” he asked in a good-humored way.

“No. No. Louis had his own insurance shop on the North End. He was phenomenally successful.” 

The Doctor shook his head in the negative. “David, did you witness any of your dad’s work life?”

“Well, I did serve food and stuff on some game nights at the house.”

“Your dad had poker games at your home?” He asked with a bit of surprise in his voice.

“Sometimes for high rollers.”

The good doctor wiggled his eyebrows. “Did you witness any other parts of his business?”

“You mean prostitution?” I said lightheartedly.

“Hold on. You’re telling me—” 

I interrupted him mid sentence. “Dad was a gangster and did gangster stuff. So, I saw stuff. Bad stuff.”

“Killings?” he asked with a stoic tone.

“Shootings. Yeah. Sometimes …  bad guys who had it coming. But only under exceptional circumstances.”

“Exceptional circumstances? Damn it, David. You were exposed to: Alcoholism. Crime. Killings. All while growing up,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief.

I figured this was my chance. I swallowed on my words as I sputtered out, “So, doc. Do you suppose I got PTSD, substance abuse disorder, and personality disorder from my shitty childhood experiences?”

He faced me for a quiet moment of thought and then said, “David, you never had a chance.”

Dr. Feel Good made me swell with justified pride. He said I was a person with a personality disorder. I was not intimidated by his diagnosis or his lack of intelligence. I must admit he was spot on. Should I have done the honorable thing and agreed with his medical conclusion? Nope. It started with a few tears, and then I cried. Whew, somehow, I showed him my deepest emotion. God knows, he gifted me at least one from my mom. So, I let Dr. Good witness my scared soul. In his compassionate voice,  he apologized and said he was sorry. At the closing of our session, he “labeled” me a child of domestic violence and abuse. At that very moment, I knew that God had saved me. Dr. Feel Good would now cater to my every nasal twanging need. 

That is how I sold that quack psyche doctor on my one-two-three lies of the day. Okay, maybe a few extras tossed in for good measure. Shaking my olive-skinned head, I knew I had let him off easy. You see. Louie is my brother. He’s a self-made man. Louie’s job, you ask. He works as a hit man and occasionally as dad’s muscle. His sideline work is selling .38 snub nose life insurance policies. Bing. Bang. Va boom.

& & &

After a good two weeks of producing handmade cribbage and chess boards, I got word that Dr. Feel Good requested my presence for a 1 p.m. appointment in his prestigious office.

Did I mention before that his prestigious office is a 12 by 12 cinder block cave? One window with bars.  His view is the prison courtyard. Kind of nice if you can get it. He has a single, four- draw filing cabinet from the 1990s. Speaking of patient confidentiality. All his medical charts are handwritten and only readable to his eyes. That is called job security in the Federal Bureau of Prisons. His psych digs have one heavy poly-plastic chair for “the patient” and a metal gray desk with a cushy chair for the investigator. Dr. Good’s desk displayed just two books. One on ACT therapy and the other is your traditional psychiatry DSM-diagnostic manual. No coffee cup or mason jar of pens and pencils. Rats.

Dr. Feel Good wears the same style of Van Heusen shirts and Oxford black pants for all his patient visits. Most of the inmates refer to him as four-eyes. He wears gold rimmed bifocals when filling out forms. I now figured after my first visit he must have been dead last in his graduating class. You know what they say, “First or last. If you graduate. You are a doctor for life.”

& & &

“David. I didn’t get to finish my intake with you during our last visit. Are you okay with completing it this afternoon?” 

“Sure, Doc. I got no place pressing to be …” I said while bobbing my head in a friendly agreement.

“Good. Let us get going with today’s session.”  

For the first time, I notice his sunken, deep brown eyes as I said, “Ready. Fire away.”

“David, what makes you unique?” he inquired.

“Wow. Doc, that is a tough opening question. Where is that written in the psyche books?” I asked in a know-it-all joking tone.

It only took a couple of seconds for him to figure out my operandi. “David, does anything about you—make you special from other folks?”

“You mean in here,” I said pointing to my chest. “On the inside?”

He refused to laugh at my risqué humor. He grittily said, “On the outside or inside of these prison walls. You have years of experience. Let us take a five-minute break. You drink some water, and I will restart a new line of discussion. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” I said with a broad grin.

& & &

Fuming a bit under my breath,I decided to take my time pondering any of his future trap questions. I needed to see his motive behind those golden bifocals. So, I figured I would start him off with some old-fashioned bullshit. 

“Doc, I think I know what makes me unique.”

His body language told me that he was second guessing my opening statement. 

Then he said, “Okay, David. Try answering this question honestly: I am uniquely qualified to …”

“Bury bodies,” I said, a bit show-offy.

Peering down his nose and under those golden glasses, he asked, “In what way? Are you qualified to bury bodies.”

“At the age of nine, I started burning the neighborhood cats’ tails with firecrackers and burying them.”

“And that taught you how to bury the dead?”

“Yeah. My grandfather taught me how to get rid of evidence at an early age.”

He hesitated and then asked, “David, what are you saying?”

I grinned again. “Doc. Best, we move on. Next question.”

“David, are you aware that it appears you’re lying most of the time throughout the day?”

“Who says?” I answered as I fidgeted in my seat.

“Most people you’re in contact with feel you seldomly tell the truth,” he said. 

‘Hmm. Folks in here are natural born liars. I trust no one. I suspect you don’t.”

In a bass toned voice, he asked, “No one? David, don’t you have someone to confide in?”

“No one. Just you Doc. In my mind, you are as sane as Jesus and Joseph.”

“David, are you religious?” 

Here goes. “Doc, I faithfully recite my prayers at bedtime and at sunrise. I attend Mass when it is offered on Sunday and take my holy communion under the tongue.”

Smiling as if he had taken one of his own prescriptions, he said, “Glad to hear that. Is it okay if I record that in your chart?” 

“Please do,” I nodded.

# # #

Lying is my greatest gift. It has made me rich and placed me among the all-time greats. P.T. Barnum. Richard Nixon. Benedict Arnold. None of them come close to me. Well, there is one exception. Lance Armstrong. Now that guy was a world-class, number one, home run king of liars. Par excellence, Sir Armstrong. I fall on bended knees when Mr. Armstrong passes by. He is a Liar of Liars among Gods. He is a king in my big book of liars. His picture is over the head of my bed. The spot traditionally saved for Jesus. King Armstrong rode the fastest and won the biggest races. Lying paid the bills and made him rich. Long live King Armstrong.

& & &

After a weekend of chess and backgammon, I asked to see Dr. Feel Good for a prescription to help improve my mood. I sensed a bout of depression was heading down my highway to hell. Dr. Good agreed to see me the following day per his nurse Ratchet. She had a big bosom and wide hips. She filled out that white nurse’s uniform with matching nylon stockings. Trouble is her head housed a small mind. I accepted my 10 a.m. Tuesday appointment.

Tuesday morning, I arrived for my appointment at 9 a.m. and waited an hour in Dr. Feel Good’s cement block holding area with two guards. There were three other inmates waiting to see the good Doctor for prescriptions and work release passes.

At approximately 10:05 a.m., the door swung open.  Nurse Ratchet invited me in to see the psycho healer, Dr. Good. I sat in my customary chair;  Dr. Feel Good was behind his desk drinking coffee and had my medical chart open. I assumed he was reading my request for medication.

He lowered his cup and said, “David, Nurse James explained to me that you wanted to see me about a prescription. A prescription for what?”

“Doc, I had a terrible weekend. I am slipping into a state of depression. My mind is full of awful thoughts. I think it might be related to your sessions and the things we have been talking about.”

“David, why do you think our sessions have caused you to feel depressed?” he asked as his Adam’s apple bobbed in and out. 

“Hey, Doc, I am not trying to sell you the farm. I have been telling you my story. Plain and simple.”

 “What are you saying, David?”

I gave him a look of shame. “We waded deep into my past indiscretions. You dug a bit too deep and opened some of my wounds. Things I regretted doing.”

Looking like a-deer-in-my-headlights, Doc Feel Good decided to pounce. “David,  your story that you shared with me is of utmost confidence. How about we discuss a few things today.  Then, I will see if medication is called for. Do you agree with this plan?”

I thought over his plan and decided it was pure bull shit. “Sure, Doc. I am onboard with that.”

“David, I have a half-an-hour. So, let’s begin. Shall we?” he asked, sitting back in his chair.

“You’re the boss,” I said with my trademark grin.

# # #

Doc Good figured the time had arrived to get an even deeper glimpse into who I was emotionally. He studied my chart notes and began a new line of questioning. I slew out a bunch of shitty answers and sunk back in my chair with a sigh. 

He looked at me with sad eyes and said, “David, my, my, you got a kindred soul. You are finally being honest with me. Continue please.”

“Doc, I got loads of unpleasant habits I inherited from my dad. I drink too much, bite my nails, pick my nose while eating, don’t flush the toilet after taking a big smelly crap, interrupt people who are talking, don’t brush my teeth as much as I should, pick fights with punks, swear too much, burp loudly at meals …”

Jotting down notes, Doc Good looked me in the eye and then said, “Okay, David, that was quite a list. Can you tell me … think first before you speak …what is your very worst and despicable habit?” asked my serious looking psycho specialist.

“Well, that would be that I offer friendly advice when it is not wanted,” I said with a smirk.

“You’re not serious?” as he stared at me, expecting me to offer a witty comeback.

“I go shoplifting while parked in a handicapped parking space at Walmart.” 

He shook his head in the negative. “David, let us shift gears a bit if that is okay with you?”

“Sure.”

He paused for a moment and then said, “I want to get to understand you better. I got a couple of questions. First question: Were you ever sad in the past? If so, what made you feel that way?”

 “Christ’s sake, Doc! I was sad from twelve to twenty-four. You would be too if you got locked up in juvenile hall, county jail, and state prison over thirty times. As a young punk, I got beat up and threatened with all kinds of shit.”

“David, what was the worst thing that happened to you in jail?” asked my father, the confessor.

“Doc. I was assaulted. Forced to do stuff I don’t want to talk about. I just want to forget everything.”

“Hmm. Can you forget about it?” he asked me in a kinder voice.

“No. I can’t,” I said as my eyes glazed and became wet.

He glanced down at my chart. “That’s enough for today.” 

Our session ended. No script for my mood. Just instructions to return tomorrow afternoon.

I have never been that honest with anyone. Not ever. It felt good to get rid of some of my bullshit. Doc’s right. I am an antisocial, impulsive prick with a lack of conscience or guilty feelings for my injurious behavior towards innocent folks. He thinks he can help me become a better guy. Hmm. “Son, don’t think you can change a zebra’s strips.” That is what my dad said a million times. He was right. 

& & &

The next afternoon at 3:30 p.m., I was back in my psycho chair. Now, it was my turn. 

Doc Good began, “David, yesterday’s session …” He paused, studied his handwritten notes, and continued introspectively, “I have all the details and boxes filled in. Your psych evaluation looks good.”

Today, I was going to be as stubborn as a bear trying to get a hamburger off a picnic table in Yellowstone National Park.  “Doc, can you prescribe some medicine for my depression?”

“Possibly. But I need something from you in return.” 

“What can I help you with?” I asked a bit aloof.

While he started drumming his fingers to The Saints Go Marching In, he then asked, “The thing I need to know David … is … if you know how Martin Chandler died?”

“The con in cell block six?” I asked, grinning.

“Yes,” he said with a sign of impatience.

“What has that got to do with my psych evaluation? If you don’t mind me asking?” 

“Nothing. Your chart is done. I was just wondering if you knew anything about Martin?”

“Well, I was told unofficial-like—” I began explaining and stopped mid sentence. Second guessing his motives for asking, I glanced down at the floor.  “He hung himself in the wood workshop where we work together making coffee tables and chairs.”

 “Yes, I know that, David. He was found by the guards last Tuesday morning during the sunrise inspection.” he said in a tone like a short, fused thug. 

“Doc, I had nothing to do with it.”

“I didn’t say you did.”

“So why are you asking me about his demise?”

“I knew him, David. He was not necessarily a bad guy. Dangerous. But decent.”

“Doc, if you don’t mind me asking … what good thing did you know about him?”

“He left his fortune to his children and charities,” he said with his face aglow.

“Hmm. Good to know. Is that all, Doc?” 

“Yes. Nothing else for today. David, keep your nose clean,” he instructed. He then said he would see to it that I got a prescription for Zoloft to help me with my depression.  Mmm, drug money. 

“And Doc, don’t be seen picking yours in public. See ya around,” I said to the sanctimonious asshole.

I left our session feeling that the important thing is  I am sane, reasonable, and respectful. That is a crock of bull. 

# # #

I have dreams that I am going to the underworld. It is a fiery pit of bubbling lava, heated with furnaces of red-hot, West Virginia coal. I know all my drug money will not buy me a bottle of Poland spring water in Hades. Assholes like me do not deserve much. My night school psychiatrist doesn’t want me to tell him the truth. He does want to get his hands on a dead man’s money. Martin Chandler’s fortune is up for grabs. Shame on Doc Feel Good. He should stay in his lane. He could get his hands pinched. 

I got a phone call to make.

& & &

Two days later, on the evening news, one of the buried stories was about the son and daughter of the recently passed inmate of Deven’s Federal Corrections Facility, Martin Chandler. His two adult children had been victims of home invasions and robbery in the North End. The thieves got away with $280,000 in cash and another $200,000 in jewelry. Wink. Nod. Kaboom. Yours truly, David.