Veneer Read Online Free

The fight inside his body made Russo double over in pain. Collapsing onto one knee, he wondered how long it had been since he ran from the police.
    “Are you going to come out?”
    Russo started at the gravelly voice. For the first time, he noticed the shadows on the evercrete sidewalk, two rounded sections of black stretching across the entrance to the kiosk. One of them wavered as the uniform tapped his foot.
    “Are you going to arrest me?”
    “Yes,” said the uniform, drawing out the word. “You made me run. And I just had breakfast.”
    “Ouch,” said Russo, feigning sympathy. He cycled through various ways to escape the clutches of the law, but nothing seemed viable. “That doesn’t sound good,” he continued.
    “Not good for me. Worse for you.”
    “If it helps, my side hurts.” He was on autopilot, making conversation until the moment was right for him to burst out and make a break for it.
    “I thought you’d be in better shape than your friend.” He laughed to himself.
    The sound was unsettling. Its resonance suggested a thick neck and powerful lungs. Easton’s finest were notorious for being big and dumb.
    “Come on,” he urged, “we need to take a ride downtown.”
    He was playing cordial, but Russo knew it was just a veneer, a way to get him to surrender quietly. With an even voice, he asked, “Whatever happened to ‘you’ll never take me alive, Copper’?”
    “Sounds like a good way to get your ass shot.”
    Russo hurled himself out of the kiosk in a desperate bid to escape. For a brief and beautiful moment, the outside world seemed welcoming, drawing him from his temporary jail cell into a realm of infinite freedom. But as he moved, a massive forearm broke in from the left side of the frame.
    It caught him on the nose, blurred his vision, and sent him sprawling backwards to the sidewalk. He felt a strong hand grip him on the upper arm; it dragged him easily towards the street. A patrol car pulled up on cue and out stepped another brick house of a uniform.
    “You look out of breath,” said Brick, opening the back door for his partner.
    “The little fucker’s fast,” said the uniform, pushing on Russo’s head and forcing him into the car.
    Russo held his breath; it smelled like someone had recently puked all over the seat and floorboards. Only after the pain threatened to overwhelm did he venture a tentative gasp.
    “What’s your name, kid?”
    “George,” replied Russo.
    “What’s your last name, George?” There was a palette on the dashboard that showed Russo’s face. The uniform reconciled the name into a search box.
    “Washington.” When he got a tired look in response, he added, “Do you think this’ll hurt my political career?”
    “I don’t think you have to worry about any kind of career.” Then, to Brick, “What do you say? Failure to present identification?” He got a nod in response.
    “I cannot tell a lie,” Russo recited.
    “What,” the uniform asked, turning sideways in his seat, “you think you can just reconcile a veneer and no one will know it’s you? Don’t you think more people would be out robbing banks if that really worked?”
    Russo considered the question, but kept his face neutral.
    “I blame the schools,” he continued. “They teach kids to reconcile, but they don’t teach the limits.”
    They rode in silence for the next few minutes, giving Russo ample time to imagine what kind of technology they had downtown that would reveal his true identity. Impossible, he thought. Although he’d seen the inside of a police station once or twice, it was for minor infractions. They had never even taken his fingerprints.
    Outside, the TNC Bank building loomed as the car pulled up in front of the Easton PD. The uniforms dragged him out and escorted him to an empty holding area. Russo walked casually to a bench along the back wall and when he sat down, he saw the uniform still staring at him. Just for fun, Russo changed his hair color to green,