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Authors: Laura Resnick

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BOOK: Dopplegangster
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“Yes, but is it
supernatural
?” I asked.
I immediately realized my mistake. Max started lecturing. The gist of it was, there is no such thing as “supernatural,” that’s a false construct; almost everything (though not
quite
everything) in the universe is natural, but some things are mystical or magical, and some are not.
Lucky summed up my feelings perfectly by interrupting Max’s monologue to say, “Whatever. Who cares? The point is, Doc, do you got any idea what the hell is going on here?”
We had left the laboratory and were upstairs in the bookstore, sitting in comfortable, prettily upholstered chairs in the reading area set up around the fireplace. The shop had well-worn hardwood floors, a broad-beamed ceiling, dusky rose walls, and a soothing atmosphere.
I had gratefully helped myself to coffee at the small refreshments station that Max kept stocked for his customers. It sat near a large, careworn walnut table with books, papers, an abacus, writing implements, and other paraphernalia on it.
Max didn’t bother opening the store for business yet. No one but us was awake this early on a Sunday in the West Village.
Nelli was busy exploring the shop, getting acquainted with her new home by sniffing row after row of bookcases, snuffling at modern books on the occult, and sneezing at ancient leather-bound volumes that needed dusting.
“Well,” Max said, “I hesitate to theorize about poor Chubby Charlie’s death without more information, but it sounds to me as if he may have seen his doppelgänger.”
“His doppelgänger?” I repeated. “I’ve heard the word, but . . .” I shrugged to indicate that my familiarity with it stopped there.
“Understandable,” said Max. “It’s a very rare phenomenon, and the study of German mythology doesn’t seem to have deeply absorbed your generation in the New World.”
“Kids these days,” Lucky said, shaking his head. “If it ain’t on MTV, it don’t exist.”
“Indeed,” said Max. “Plus ‘doppelgänger’ is hard to spell.”
“So what does a doppelgänger do?” I asked.
“It doesn’t really
do
anything,” Max said. “It’s traditionally a portent or omen rather than a proactive agent.”
“Huh?” said Lucky.
“A doppelgänger is an apparition,” Max elaborated. “Loosely translated, the term means ‘double walker’ or ‘double goer.’ It’s a second physical version of a person. A perfect double.”
I noted, “That’s exactly what Charlie said. That he’d seen his perfect double.”
“In some cultures,” Max continued, “it’s believed to be a reflection of a person’s soul; in others, it’s considered an entirely separate entity from him. In any case, it is a seemingly exact replica of a living person.”
Lucky said, “So are you saying this thing, this dopp . . . dopp . . .”
“Doppelgänger,” Max supplied.
“This doppelgangster—do you think it could’ve done a smooth hit?” Lucky asked. “Because if it was a replica of Charlie, well, he had a lot of experience at that.”
“A smooth hit?” Max repeated, puzzled.
I explained, “Lucky’s asking if the doppelgangst . . . er, doppelgänger could have killed Chubby Charlie.”
“Ah! I see. A ‘smooth hit’? What an interesting expression.”
“It was very clean,” Lucky said. “Very professional. One shot to the heart, instant death, no muss, no fuss. And no witnesses.”
“And no logical explanation for how it happened,” I said. “At least, not so far.”
“So what I’m wondering is, did this doppelgangster whack Charlie?” Lucky said.
“Whack?”
“Hit,” Lucky clarified.
“You think the creature
struck
him?” Max asked.
I said, “Lucky’s asking if the doppelgangster killed Charlie.”
“Interesting!” Max said to Lucky, “Your dialect fascinates me. May I ask where you learned it?”
Lucky shrugged. “I’m from Brooklyn.”
“I see.”
“To return to the question, Max,” I said. “Could the double have shot Charlie?”
“It seems unlikely,” he said. “The appearance of a doppelgänger is associated with the imminent death of the person replicated—”
“So
that’
s why Charlie was so sure that seeing his perfect double meant he was going to die,” I mused.
“—but the doppelgänger merely portends death, it doesn’t actually kill the replicated individual.”
“How you
pretend
death?” Lucky asked.
“Er, I mean the doppelgänger is a warning of death,” Max explained. “It’s a sign. As Chubby Charlie seems to have known, seeing your doppelgänger traditionally means you’re going to die by nightfall.”
“But does it mean you’re going to get whacked out by a hitter no one saw and a bullet that traveled around corners?” Lucky asked.
“Not as far as I know,” Max said.
“So do you think a doppelgangster could do a hit like that?” Lucky asked.
“I’m afraid I don’t know enough about doppelgangsters—er, doppelgängers—to postulate a response to that at this juncture,” Max said. “I’m not familiar enough with the phenomenon. Did I mention that it’s very rare? I’m going to need to do some research on this.”
Feeling very tired, I looked around the store without enthusiasm. “Does that mean we have to start reading?”
“Unfortunately,” Max said, “the Germanic portion of my library is very thin. I will need to summon assistance.”
“Will there be more smoke and explosions involved in this summoning?” I asked anxiously.
“No, no. I mean to say, I’ll need to make some telephone calls to see if I can locate some useful material.”
“What do you need Germanic books for?” Lucky asked. “Charlie was Italian. His enemies are all Italian. It don’t make sense that a German would be involved in this.”
“He had enemies?” Max asked with interest.
“Oh, yeah,” Lucky said.
“
Deadly
enemies?”
“Yep.”
“Hmm. In that case, we can probably rule out my second theory.”
“Which is?” I asked.
“That Chubby Charlie merely imagined seeing his double, and his violent death on the same night of these delusions was pure coincidence.”
“So you think there really was a double?” Lucky said. “A
doppio
? A doppelgangster?”
“A man with deadly enemies who sees his perfect double and then dies by nightfall? Absolutely,” Max said. “But the manner of the killing . . . Hmm, clearly there’s something here that we don’t understand yet. I must get some Germanic texts.”
Lucky objected, “But like I just told you—”
“Yes, I understand, my dear fellow,” Max said. “But the great German thinkers wrote about doppelgängers in more depth than anyone else, as far as I know, so my research must delve into their works if I am to gain sufficient knowledge of this rare phenomenon.”
We heard a sudden, piercing wail come from the far side of the shop, followed by Nelli barking. Then we heard the slapping and slamming of rapidly closing doors and drawers.
“What’s
that
?” Lucky jumped to his feet and automatically reached for his gun. I was glad he didn’t have it.
“Oh, dear. That thing is
such
a trial to me,” Max said.
“I think it’s scared your dog,” I said. “Er, your familiar.”
We rose to our feet, too, walked past several bookcases, and found Nelli barking in fear at a massive, dark, very old wooden cupboard that stood against the far wall. It had a profusion of drawers and doors, and it was about six feet tall and at least that wide. As near as I understand these things, the cupboard was enchanted by Max’s predecessor, and the effects seemed to be permanent. It could be dormant and inert for weeks at a time, but then suddenly, without warning, it would act up again. Apparently Nelli’s curious sniffing had stirred it up.
Its drawers and cabinets were opening and closing rapidly, slamming shut with a violence that seemed downright irritable. As we watched, flames started pouring out of some of the drawers.
“That’s
dangerous,
” said Lucky, wide-eyed and disapproving.
“It’s a . . .” I tried to think of a way to explain it to Lucky. “It’s a sort of . . .”
“It’s a possessed cupboard, right?” he said.
“Er, right.”
“My grandmother’s family had one, back in Sicily.”
“I see.”
“I keep trying to neutralize its energy,” Max said wearily, “but I don’t know how it got this way, and my predecessor cannot be reached for consultation.”
This sort of confusion seemed to be rather common among Max and his colleagues. In fact, Max was 350 years old because he’d unwittingly drunk a life-prolonging elixir in his youth (back in the seventeenth century) that no one could replicate, no matter how many times they tried. He had imbibed it
so
unwittingly that he was in his fifties before he realized that he was aging at an unusually slow rate.
He wasn’t immortal, but it seemed likely he’d be around for another century or so. Unless Evil got him first.
Unnerved by the aggressive, flaming, drawer-slamming cupboard, Nelli gave up barking at it and instead opted for hiding behind us and whining.
My head was starting to pound, and I decided what I needed most of all was a few more hours of sleep.
“I’m going home,” I said to my companions. “I’m tired.”
“I’ll contact you after I’ve learned something more about this phenomenon,” Max promised, looking pretty tired himself after spending the weekend summoning his whining familiar.
“Wait, Esther, there’s one more thing we gotta talk about.” Lucky turned to Max and said, “She saw the hit. Do you think she’s in any danger?”
Max frowned with concern as he considered this, but finally said, “I doubt it. I really do. A man with deadly enemies saw a portent of his own death. I think it very likely this was an isolated incident that will not recur, let alone involve Esther any further.”
At the time, it was a reasonable supposition. We had no way of knowing then just how wrong he was.
6
 
C
HORUS GIRL WITNESSES MOB HIT! was the first head line I saw on my walk home from the subway station.
“Chorus girl,” I muttered unhappily as I picked up the tabloid and read the caption beneath a photo of “alleged Gambello hitman” Lucky Battistuzzi embracing me outside of Bella Stella last night.
I tried to resist looking at the other tabloids, but there’s a certain ghoulish fascination to seeing yourself demeaned in semiliterate prose at the local newsstand.
CHUBBY CHARLIE CHECKS OUT! announced
The New York Post
.
ACTRESS ALMOST AXED? asked the
Insider
. This “news story” reported that a “confidential source” claimed
I
might be the intended victim of last night’s hit, and Charlie Chiccante just an innocent bystander. Since the story below this one reported that Donald Trump had been dead for a decade and an impersonator had been running his empire all this time, I didn’t worry too much that Charlie had actually died because of me.
BELLA MORTE?
quipped another headline. The article noted that this was the third violent death at Bella Stella in five years.
“Hmph.” I put the tabloid back down after reading a few lines. Then I saw that holding it for thirty seconds had been long enough to stain my hands with ink.
“Hey, ain’t this a picture of
you
on the cover of the
Exposé?
” asked the guy who ran the newsstand. He’d sold me my weekly copy of
Backstage
for several years, as well as various newspapers, magazines, and the occasional candy bar, but we’d never chatted before.
I took a good look and saw he was reading a copy of the
Exposé
that had my picture in it. I was not flattered that he’d been able to identify me from this shot: I was squinting and hunched over, trying to avoid the glare of the flash, and my mouth was gaping open in surprise. Lopez, whose arm was around me, had mostly been cropped out of the photo.
“
That’s
the photo they decided to use?” I said. “What did I ever do to them?”
The news seller frowned as he looked at me. “You got blue stuff on your face now.”
“I know.” The blue substance that had spilled on me in Max’s laboratory was on my arm, too, thanks to Lucky shooting up the place.
After looking at the photo again, the news seller said, “Well, at least your cheekbones look good.”
“My cheekbones always look good,” I said grumpily. “They’re my best feature.” Actors learn to be pragmatic about our looks. We need to know what casting directors see when they look at us.
BOOK: Dopplegangster
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