|
Double Trouble
He first noticed her on a Monday morning. He had reached the top of the ramp leading to the main concourse
of Grand Central Station and had found a small eddy just off the human river to check his old Timex against
the big wall clock. He happened to look back and there she was: fashion model tall with a wedge of white-blonde hair,
rising up from the subterranean gloom, zigzagging her way through the crowd. The overhead lights had caught her hair
which was swept forward on both sides ? twin shark fins ? and he stood momenmentarily transfixed as the bright fins
sliced effortlessly through the gray chop of commuters. The scene struck him on some mystical level ? the easy grace
of the preddator among lesser creatures.
He turned and gave a self-deprecating snort: an accountant with an appreciation for art.
He was late for a meeting uptown and, once outside, was having little success hailing a
cab when a shrill whistle from behind him blasted his ears. It was her.
Almost immediately, a cab pulled over.
“Want to share a ride,” she said.
He held the door as she slid her long legs in. After an awkward silence, he turned toward her holding out
his hand. “Tom Sanders, nice to ...”
“Please, no names.” A pause. “Please excuse my brevity but we obviously don’t have much time. Would you like to make some fast money?”
Had he died and gone to heaven? “I thought that was my line,” he managed to say.
He didn’t know what to make of her. His first impression had been Connecticut Princess but the accent,
the directness was pure Brooklyn. He looked into her green, merry-go-round eyes. Was he being taken for a ride?
“I’m serious ... we don’t have much timme.”
“Who do I have to kill?”
“Nothing like that. An acting job.”
She reached into a small red bag and extracted a tidy stack of one-hundred dollar bills.
‘There are twenty of these here,” she said. She rifled the money. “For two- minutes work,” she added.
“I’m listening.”
“Okay, here’s the deal: You walk into the station tomorrow like you normally do and ...”
“Excuse me?” he said, suddenly alarmed.
She shrugged. “I’ve been following you for awhile.”
“Why?”
She went to the red money bag again. “A picture is worth a thousand words.”
She handed him a small color photo of her and another man, sitting poolside somewhere. He raised an eyebrow.
“Look like anyone you know?” she prompted.
He raised the other eyebrow.
“Try the mirror.”
He looked closer, rocked one hand. “A bit of a resemblance I suppose.”
“A bit? He’s your double.”
“Who is he?”
“My boyfriend, Tony. We’re planning ... ”
He put a finger to his lips. “No names, remember?”
“Sorry. Well, now you know. Tony and I are planning to run away to Italy but there’s a problem.”
“Let me guess ...you're married.”
“Bingo. My husband’s an old, rich pussycat. But possessive. He knows who Tony is and he has spies following me.
My husband is harmless but he likes to keep tabs on me. He’s also tapped our phone. A plus really.”
“A plus?”
“Fits right in with my plan. I had Tony call last night ... all pre-arranged. My husband will hear it all.
I had Tony pllead with me not to leave him. I told him I had made a mistake and was staying with my husband.
Tony wanted to say goodbye in person. I told him just one more time and only in a public place. My husband’s
spies will be watching. It’ll be more convincing than just a phone call and it’ll take the pressure off the both of us.”
“How’s that?”
“Because of the break-up play were going to perform.” And she went over their roles.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Why doesn’t Tony do it?”
“Because I haven’t yet told you the end of the play.”
“Probably for good reason.”
“I have to slap you ? hardd enough to make it look good. I don’t want to hit Tony and he certainly doesn’t want me to either.”
“I’m touched.”
She rifled the money again. “Are you in?”
His thoughts turned to the Cartier watch that had winked at him the other day and he pulled out his wallet from the inside pocket of his sport coat.
She placed the money in it. “You’re saving my life.”
The train doors opened and he joined the Tuesday morning weary walking up the ramp to the station. Entering the main
concourse he saw her at once, sitting on their designated bench, innocence personified.
He walked over. She stood, frowning, as rehearsed. He made motions of entreaty with his hands, as rehearsed.
She executed her part perfectly, pushing him away and shaking her head. He held onto to her and then kissed her, ...
hard. She pushed him away and slapped him, ... hard.
Three men appeared from nowhere, looking like they meant business, none of it good.
“This the one?” the smallest of the three asked.
She nodded.
“Hey, wait a minute. I’m not your guy. She put me up to this. My name is Tom Sanders.” He reached for his wallet. “I can prove it.”
“Nice try, Tony, but we already know who you are.” The small man snatched the wallet away; it looked brand new.
The small man held up the license. “See? Tony Romero.”
She walked away. He realized he had shown her where he kept his wallet; she must have made the switch
while he was kissing her.
The small man’s coat parted slightly revealing a flash of blade. He watched helplessly as the small man,
with practiced ease, thrust the knife upward between his ribs and into his heart.
The three men helped him down into a sitting position on the bench. He could still see her walking away,
her shimmering hair the only bright spot in a rapidly dimming world. Was that the light at the end of the tunnel?
Michael Barber
Email: Michael Barber
Return to Table of Contents
|