Dopplegangster (19 page)

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Authors: Laura Resnick

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“It’s not like Johnny will be missed,” the hit man said, taking a seat at the old wooden table with me. “It’s just that it looks so bad. The don’s nephew whacked, and we ain’t got no idea who done it? It’s embarrassing!”
I thought this seemed like a secondary concern compared to the issue that had my skin crawling. “I just thank God that
thing
in the crypt didn’t try to shake my hand.”
“It shook
my
hand,” Lucky said, looking a little queasy.
I thought about this. “So we know the doppelgangsters can touch people. Was its hand cold or somehow lifeless?”
“No.” Lucky gave a brief shake of his head. “Normal temperature. And felt just like Johnny’s hand always did—damp palm, weak grip.”
“Hmm.” After a moment, I said, “Still no reply from Danny Dapezzo?”
“Not yet,” he grumbled. “I’ve left three messages.”
We weren’t sure what to think now of the story that Johnny’s doppelgangster had told us about Danny the Doctor. True, Mickey Rosenblum had confirmed the story. He had also answered Lucky’s phone call this morning (which woke him before dawn in Nevada) and talked some more, but we realized we couldn’t be sure Lucky wasn’t talking to
Mickey’s
doppelgangster in Vegas. Did we indeed need to warn Danny Dapezzo that he was marked for death? Or had Johnny’s doppelgangster simply distracted us with misleading bait? Or, in seeking out Danny, were we entering a trap?
After an hour of head banging this morning, we had agreed that we were theorizing in a vacuum and needed to speak to Danny Dapezzo—or to whatever was masquerading as Danny now. One or the other anyhow.
“And you’re sure it was Johnny yesterday?” I asked Lucky. “Er, I mean, you’re sure that you were sure at the time?”
“I known that mook since he was in diapers,” Lucky said. “It was Johnny all right. Or, I mean, something exactly like Johnny.”
I shuddered again, creeped out. “What is going
on
?”
Nelli’s toenails clicked on the floorboards as she trotted around a bookcase and approached us. She held a book clamped between her massive jaws. As I stared at her, she came over and dropped it at my feet, her immense floppy ears swinging as her head moved. Then she looked at me expectantly.
“We can’t play fetch with Max’s books,” I said to her. “Bad dog.”
She whined at me.
Since Max was still down in the laboratory, I gingerly picked up the book, which had some drool on it, and rose from my seat to reshelve it. Nelli blocked my path and barked at me.
Lucky said, “Hey, I think she wants you to
look
at that book.”
“Good God, this is like some warped episode of
Lassie
,” I muttered.
“Come on, be a sport,” Lucky urged. “Open it.”
“I need this advice from a man who hasn’t deigned to open a book since we got here this morning?” I said irritably.
“Fine, give it here.” Lucky reached over and took the book from my hands.
It was old and ragged, with a plain black cover. Its edges were frayed, and scarcely anything was left of the gold lettering that had once adorned its cover. Lucky opened the book and frowned as he read the title page.
“What’s . . . ‘bilocate?’ ” he asked me.
“I don’t know.”
Nelli nudged Lucky.
“Knock it off,” he said. “Your nose is cold.”
My cell phone rang. I checked the readout. “Oh, good. It’s my agent.” I flipped open the phone. “Thack?”
“ ‘Singing Server Sees Slaying’?” quoted Thackeray Shackleton—not his real name, I suspected.
“Huh?”
“It’s certainly not how I want to see you packaged,” said my agent, “but that’s some lovely alliteration, don’t you think?”
“Oh!” Surprised, I asked, “You read tabloids?”
“Geraldo does. He left it on my desk this morning, after he recognized your name.” Geraldo was Thack’s assistant. “He wasn’t sure it was you, though, because of the picture. Not a flattering likeness, is it? I keep telling you, your left side is better. When you see a camera, give them the
left
profile, Esther.”
“I was a little overwrought at the time,” I pointed out tersely.
“Oh, my God. What am I even saying? Of course you were!” He sounded contrite and horrified. “
Esther
. Are you all right?”
I liked Thack because, like me, he was originally from Wisconsin, so he was hardworking and polite. This is a rarity in theatrical agents. Despite his conventional middle-class Milwaukee origins, he was gay and flamboyant in an uptown yuppie way, so he fit in well in his profession here.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “Listen—”
“This mobster was killed right in
front
of you?” Thack said.
“Yeah, I saw him get whacked,” I said absently. “Look, I called you yesterday because—”
“My God!” he said again. “Are you
okay?
Are you traumatized? Are you going into the Witness Protection Program?”
“What? No, I’m not going anywhere. And I’m fine. Really.”
“I can’t imagine what you must be going through! Are you able to sleep? Are you able to eat? Have you left your apartment at all? Can you even get out of bed? Do you want me to have Geraldo bring you anything?”
As Thack continued fretting about my well-being, I started to wonder if I was less empathetic and humane than I should be. Although I had indeed been scared and distraught when I saw Chubby Charlie die, I wasn’t as traumatized as Lopez supposed, with his theory that I just couldn’t remember what I’d really seen; and I
certainly
wasn’t as shattered as my agent assumed I was.
“Look, Thack,” I interrupted as he continued wondering just
how
devastated I must be. “Chubby Charlie and I weren’t close, it was three days ago, and I’m over it. Let’s move on.”
“What? Oh!
Oh.
You don’t want to talk about it, do you? I’m sorry. I’m making it even worse, aren’t I? Bringing it all up again. I’ll stop now.”
“Okay, so what I wanted to talk about is—”
“I just want to know one thing. Are you getting counseling? Taking any medication?”
“What? No, of course not. I don’t need counseling or medication.”
“That’s denial talking, Esther,” Thack said.
No, no, I’m just focused on more pressing matters, such as the two deadly doppelgangsters that I’ve met lately.
“I’m fine,” I said firmly, wondering if, in fact, I needed a whole boatload of counseling and medication.
“You can’t get through this alone,” Thack insisted. “You’re an actress. You’re sensitive!”
“Let’s be frank,” I said wearily. “I’m not nearly as sensitive as the men in my life think I should be.”
“You need to talk with someone about this. A professional.”
“Well, I . . .” I shrugged and said, “I talked to a priest about it yesterday.” Sort of. For twenty seconds.
I would actually rather tell my mother that I was described as a “chorus girl with Mafia connections” in the tabloids than tell her how much time I had spent in a church in recent days. But Thack, being neither Jewish nor my mother, was wonderfully oblivious. He simply said, “A priest? Oh, good!
Good
. Yes, that was a wise instinct on your part. Someone who can offer you spiritual comfort, not just pills and analysis.”
Recalling the way a bevy of overdressed female parishioners had been gazing at the hunky priest yesterday, I wasn’t sure how many people went to see Father Gabriel for
spiritual
reasons. But he had been warm, gracious, and tactful both times we’d met, so maybe he would be a good professional to turn to in a crisis.
I said, “Thack, the reason I’ve been trying to reach you—”
“I’m sorry, Geraldo wants something. Hang on a second, Esther.”
“Hey,” Lucky said, “this ‘bilocation’ stuff? I think we’re on to something here.”
Nelli barked cheerfully.
“Shh,” I said to her. “I’m on the phone.”
Thack was still talking to Geraldo, who sounded agitated. I heard Thack say, “Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Then he said into the phone, “I’m sorry, Esther, I’ve got to go. I’ve got a client doing an episode of
Criminal Motive
this week—you know, the ‘brainiest’ of the
Crime and Punishment
spin-offs? His character gets found hung upside down in a Brooklyn meat locker. Well, you know what sticklers they are for gritty realism on all the
C&P
sets.” Thack sighed. “So they had a little mishap. Now they want me to dash over to the hospital and see if my client is planning to sue them. I’ll have to talk him out of it, of course—but really, I wouldn’t blame him. A series wins a few Emmy Awards, and suddenly it’s, ‘Hey, how close can we come to
really
killing our guest performers? ’ I swear, it’s enough to make you want to go back to doing Shakespeare in the rain, isn’t it?”
“I
do
Shakespeare in the rain,” I pointed out. “But, in fact,
Crime and Punishment
is what I wanted to talk to y—”
“Gotta go. Bye!”
“Wait! I wanted to tell you about . . .” I realized I was talking to dead air.
I tossed my phone on the table in frustration and said a bad word.
“Is there a problem?” Lucky asked, eyeing me.
“Sort of. There’s this part that’s opened up,” I said, hearing Max’s footsteps approaching us from the cellar.
“A part of what?” Max asked, setting some dusty volumes and two scrolls down on the table.
“An acting part?” Lucky guessed.
I nodded. “On
The Dirty Thirty
.”
“Pardon?” said Max.
“It’s the newest
Crime and Punishment
spin-off,” I said.
“Crime and Punishment?”
Max frowned. “Are we talking about Dostoyevsky?”
“She’s talkin’ about that TV show,” Lucky said. “The one that’s got a million spin-offs and wins all the Oscars.”
“Emmys,” I said. “TV shows win Emmy Awards.”
“Whatever.”
The latest venture in
C&P
’s empire of prestigious law enforcement dramas was its most controversial spin-off to date, a gritty, morally ambivalent show about police corruption in the Thirtieth Precinct, a.k.a. “the dirty Thirty.”
After
C&P
’s regular network had rejected the series, afraid its dark subject matter and antihero protagonists would scare away advertisers, the innovative
C&P
producers had sold
D30
(as it was now known to fans) to a cable network. The show had premiered last year, and had become a critically acclaimed cable hit with a steadily growing audience. Some New York City cops condemned and boycotted the program, while others reputedly provided much of the show’s material from their own experiences on the force.
“So you’re gonna be on TV?” Lucky asked.
“Only if I get the part,” I said. “Which can only happen if I get this audition. The actress who was cast in this role isn’t in performance condition anymore—not after this weekend—so they’ll need to recast. And fast, too, because they start shooting the episode in a few weeks.”
“How come they’re shooting now?” Lucky asked. “It’s May.”
“Some cable networks have had success launching new shows in the summer, when the competition mostly consists of reruns. That’s what happened with
Dirty Thirty
last year, and it worked well. So the show is launching its second year of episodes this summer, off-season again.”
“And your agent called you about this audition?” Lucky asked.
“No, I found out about this from a friend of mine who knows the actress who had to drop out of the show two days ago because she’s in traction now. A good agent is a big asset, but actors who keep their ears to the ground and go after opportunities get a lot more work than actors who just sit around at home hoping their agents will call,” I explained. “Anyhow, instead of a general call, the casting director will want to choose the replacement fast, from just a small pool of actresses. And I’m trying to talk to Thack about it so he can get me into that audition.”
“What’s the role?” Max asked.
“I would play a graduate student who’s trying to convince the precinct cops to do something about hoodlums hanging around her street.” I hadn’t seen the script, of course, but I suspected that in the usual pattern of the show’s morality tales, the cops would probably do too little, too late, with a gut-wrenching conclusion to the episode.
“Yeah, I can see you doin’ a part like that,” Lucky said. “Someone smart and respectable . . . who nags a lot.”
I gave him a look. “Plus,” I said, “the casting director for this is someone who liked me last year, on a different
Crime and Punishment
audition. He didn’t think I was good casting for the part of the killer—”

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