Play It Again

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  It was a wonderful moment of hope. R.J. had never seen it done better, not in any movie or play. This was a great performance. If only he could live through it.

  Dexter went on very quietly. “I tried, you know. I followed her for two weeks. I became a dozen different people, two dozen. She would have to notice me sooner or later, to recognize my talent. She would have to.

  “But—she—did not.”

  “I did,” R.J. said, and the eyes came back to him with a click he could almost feel. “I noticed.”

  “Yes,” he said. “You did. You noticed. A boy. Her boy. You see, right away there was the beginning of this bond between us, though you still deny the idea. You noticed me.”

  “I knew it was the same person, but you were in all these different disguises,” R.J. said. “I thought I was nuts. Then I figured you must be. I was right.”

  “You’d like to think so, wouldn’t you? You’d like it to be that simple, to remove any blame from your dear departed mother. But the facts are never so simple. The truth is not a tame animal. The fact is, you noticed me. No one else did. And now after all those years we are together again. Because there is something between us, and it is unfinished and can only be completed in one way.

  “With your death.”

  CHAPTER 32

  “R.J.?” Henry Portillo called softly. He stood cautiously at the shattered door of R.J.’s apartment. He held his gun out, ready.

  There was a small sound. Portillo let his breath out halfway, and with a fluid grace gained by years of practice, he slid through the door in a shooter’s crouch.

  Nothing. Then he heard the small sound again. Portillo moved carefully across the room toward the closet.

  He whipped the closet door open and stood back and to the side, his gun covering the interior of the closet.

  “On the floor, now!” he commanded.

  “Jesus, man, please don’t kill me!” a voice said.

  Portillo saw only a pair of battered high-top basketball shoes under baggy green pants.

  “Come out slow and easy and I let you live,” Portillo said. “Fuck with me and I’m gonna cool you.”

  “All right, no problem, be easy, my man,” said the voice.

  A kid of about sixteen came out, hands high. He had a slight mustache and wore a striped shirt.

  “I’m here, man, no problems, okay?”

  “What’s your name, chico?” Henry asked him.

  “Ronnie.”

  Portillo gestured with the gun. “On the floor, Ronnie, facedown.”

  The kid scrambled down onto his face. “Whatever you say, man.”

  Portillo patted him down and took a wicked-looking black device that said ninja nife on the handle.

  He also pulled out a few handfuls of portable valuables belonging to R.J.: some cufflinks, a hammered silver-and-turquoise belt buckle Portillo had given him, a pair of Argyle socks.

  Portillo snorted. “What are the socks for, chico?”

  “I liked ’em. Never seen socks like that.”

  Portillo stood over the kid. “All right, Ronnie. Slow and easy, show me your hands and sit up.”

  Ronnie did as he was told.

  “What’re you doing here, Ronnie?”

  Ronnie shrugged. “Just, you know. I seen the door like that and thought, you know. Get some stuff.”

  “You see what happened to the door?”

  “No man, I swear, it was like that. That’s why I come in here. Look, I won’t do it again—”

  Portillo stepped closer. “Don’t fuck with me! I want the truth!”

  “That is the truth, I swear to Jesus! Please, man, honest!” The kid almost foamed at the mouth he was so scared. Portillo believed him.

  “Stand up, Ron.” The kid did so and Portillo got up into his face, staring him down with his best hard cop glare. “Listen good, Ron.” He pulled the hammer back on his gun; it was very loud. He put the barrel right up to the kid’s face.

  “This what you want, chico?”

  “Please, man, no.” The kid was shaking.

  “I want you to remember something Ron. Next time you think about getting some stuff. Or doing some drugs. Look right down there, Ron. See the bullet?”

  “I see it, please—”

  “That bullet has your name on it, chico. Remember it, ’cause it’s gonna remember you.”

  Portillo held the gun where it was for just a moment longer. Then he turned the kid around, booted him in the ass, and told him, “Get outta here and don’t come back.”

  Ron was long gone by the time Portillo eased the hammer down and holstered his gun.

  And now what? he thought, suddenly bone-tired beyond what he should have been.

  He tried to shake off the fatigue, but it wasn’t working. Because the broken door meant only one thing to Henry Portillo.

  The killer had R.J.

  CHAPTER 33

  R.J. looked into the mad eyes and beyond them, to Casey and Hookshot. “As a matter of fact,” R.J. said, “your death would wrap things up a lot better for me.”

  The smile was almost warm, but with the terror of those eyes it was mad, completely crazy. “Of course. You have to think so. That completes your character arc; it’s your motivation. And you will get your chance, don’t fret. But theater is a tension of opposites. There must be conflict.”

  Without taking his eyes off him, Dexter stepped back, picked up a Polaroid camera, and took two quick shots of R J. before dropping it on the bed again. He grabbed at a large gym bag lying beside the bed.

  “All great theatrical moments contain a balanced tension of sex”—he whipped his blade backward and caressed Casey’s bare stomach with the sword’s tip as he unzipped the bag, his eyes never blinking—“and death.”

  R.J. looked up from the thin line of red the sword left on Casey’s stomach. Her eyes were shouting at him, Kill him, R.J. He tried to tell her with his eyes, I will.

  Slowly, Dexter pulled something from the bag and held it up for R.J. to see. R.J. snapped his focus back, away from Casey. His breath puffed out in surprise when he saw what the maniac held out.

  It was a plastic sword, a kid’s toy. A foot and a half long, with a broad, lime-green blade.

  Dexter flipped it to R.J., who caught it reflexively by its cheap gold handle. “Defend yourself,” Dexter told him.

  * * *

  Think, Henry. Think.

  But he couldn’t think. Since this whole business had begun he’d felt numb, brain-fogged, one foot in the grave.

  Come on, viejo. You have the killer’s profile. You have the smarts in that old head somewhere. Where has he taken R.J.?

  He closed his eyes, so weary, and let his mind roam. Nothing came to him. Nothing but images of his life stretching back so many years to the dust of the high desert. His work.

  Belle.

  I’m sorry, Belle. I just don’t have it anymore.

  So damned tired. But he had to try to find them, even if he was only going through the motions. He was trapped by his sense of duty and honor, by his feelings for R.J.—and by thirty years of loving Belle, though she had never given him the slightest sign that she loved him too. He had never kissed her, except on the cheek. Never touched more than her hand. Never even seen the inside of her bedroom—

  Henry Portillo’s eyes snapped open.

  * * *

  R.J. looked down at the plastic sword in his hand. It was a foot and a half long and felt sturdy—for a kid’s toy. But as his only hope, against a crazy man?

  He had a rugged toy and half a dozen small holes in him. He faced a powerful, incredibly fast maniac with a sword.

  R.J. looked up at Dexter. He expected to see a sneer, a mocking grin, a sardonic smile. But Dexter looked completely serious. “Is this your idea of conflict?”

  “You’re supposed to lose,” the maniac said. “You have to lose. Audiences want to see Me overcome adversity and gain just revenge for the wrongs inflicted on Me. But you gain sympathy, even glory, by your hop
eless struggle.”

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Yes. It’s a marvelous theatrical moment, isn’t it? All the great tragedies have this sort of thing.”

  Dexter swished the sword, casually flicking a rip in R.J.’s shirt. “Shakespeare is wonderful at this sort of thing. Macbeth, Brutus, even Iago—all gain a nobility in their deaths they can never attain in life. Just as you will.”

  R.J. stared at Dexter’s face. It seemed to shift as he spoke, flowing from one set to another to fit his words.

  He’s completely whacked out, R.J. thought. He doesn’t even know who he is.

  R.J. shook his head slowly. It didn’t matter. He could be facing all ten of Dexter’s multiple personalities, all at the same time, and it wouldn’t matter.

  Because R.J. felt a tide rising inside him. It was part despair and part rage, and it centered on one thought. If this was the only chance he was going to get, then so be it. It was a long shot—so long it was off the board—but it was better than no shot at all.

  He was going to go for it, beat this psycho with his teeth and nails if he had to. Dexter had been tormenting him, deliberately doing all he could to drive him slowly crazy. But one thing he maybe hadn’t counted on.

  It had worked.

  R.J. was more than a little nuts himself right now. And he would crawl naked through burning broken glass to get his hands around Dexter’s throat.

  Dexter had shoved him into a corner where he had only one option. R.J. was going to take it.

  He waved the little toy sword. It had a thick, hollow plastic blade, about two inches wide. It would help to block some of the sword thrusts. And then, if he could get close…

  A foil is only dangerous at the tip. It kills by stabbing. It has no edge at all. The blade is maybe three feet long from handle to tip.

  The swordsman needs at least three feet of distance from his target, plus a little maneuvering room. So if R.J. could get inside that three-foot arc, the foil would be useless.

  That was the theory, anyway.

  Dexter made a smooth lunge at R.J., so fast it was almost invisible. Before R.J. could react Dexter was away again, and a small red flower blossomed on R.J.’s left hand.

  “Have at you,” Dexter said.

  R.J. flexed his hand. It still worked, but it stung like hell. He stared at the other man, now looking like a coiled snake in his ready position: left hand on his hip, knees bent, deadly sharp tip pointed right at R.J.

  “Ha!” Dexter said. He stamped his foot and extended the tip with terrible speed. R.J. blundered away to the side, almost tripping over his own feet. He caught himself and stood erect again, but not before he felt a searing pain in his calf muscle. Dexter had pricked him again.

  “First blood,” said Dexter. His face was a grinning mask, looking like Cyrano and the Three Musketeers and all the noble heroes with swords.

  R.J. shook his head; the man’s face kept shifting, flowing from one role to another. It was as unnerving as the stab wounds.

  “First doesn’t matter,” said R.J. “Only last counts.”

  “Well said,” said Dexter, and then his face shifted again and he lunged.

  R.J.’s arms were already stiff where he had been stabbed. He felt blood running into his eyes from the scratch on his forehead, and his legs were leaden. With every bit of energy and speed he could muster, he just barely beat aside the point of Dexter’s sword. Before he could do any more than stagger to the side, Dexter had danced away.

  “Bravo,” Dexter said. He was not even breathing hard.

  R.J. recovered into a crouch, the pathetic toy sword held out. He drew his left arm across his forehead. It came away wet with sweat and blood. He could feel his lips pulling back into a snarl.

  Dexter came again. A graceful swish, faster than a snake striking. The lunge was aimed right for his eye. R.J. clumsily batted the point away again, just managing not to stumble to his knees as he tried to move sideways.

  It was closer this time, and the tip ran through his shirt and raised a welt along his shoulder.

  And even closer with the next lunge. Dexter came right at him again without pausing, and R.J., whirling to the side, felt a red-hot pain along his cheek.

  R.J. grunted involuntarily with the sting of Dexter’s blade. He jumped back, raising a hand to his cheek. It had missed his eye by about an inch and a half.

  He was not going to make it. Dexter was too fast, too revved up, and he was getting stronger and faster while R.J. got slower and weaker.

  The odds were just too long. He was going to die here.

  R.J. had moved in a full circle in his clumsy attempts to stay away from the point of Dexter’s foil. He was now once again facing Casey on the bed. And as his gaze fell on her, she made frantic signals with her eyes.

  R.J. stared, and as he did Dexter came again.

  Because he had been distracted he was half a second slow and barely managed to get his arm up in an instinctive cover-up move. The point was aimed at his throat. It found his arm instead.

  “Aahh!” R.J. cried involuntarily as the point plowed into his left bicep. He could feel the tissue of his muscle clinging to the steel blade as Dexter pulled it out and quickly stepped back again.

  In spite of the pain, in spite of the fact that his first look had nearly allowed Dexter to skewer him, R.J. looked at Casey again.

  She was waggling her eyebrows frantically. In other circumstances it would have looked comical.

  He shook his head slightly; it didn’t make any sense.

  She rolled her eyes downward, toward her feet. And as he watched, Casey lifted her feet slightly, showing him that they were tied together but not tied down.

  And then Dexter was at him again. R.J. beat aside the point and stepped to the side, trying to keep an eye on Casey for another clue. What could she be trying to say that was so important? He was fighting for his life and hers—and losing. What could she possibly have to tell him that—

  Her feet. They were not tied down. She could move her feet.

  Move them in a kick, for instance.

  R.J. swore, wiping the blood and sweat from his eyes. If he could maneuver Dexter just right, with Casey’s help he’d have him off-balance. And then…

  Dexter lunged again. R.J. batted at the point furiously and stepped to the side. The sword still plowed a furrow along his forearm.

  This was no good. If he waited to react to Dexter, he’d be shish-kabobed in two more minutes. He had to be proactive about this, move Dexter into a position where Casey could help. But as he gathered himself for his own lunge, Dexter made a rapid series of passes with the foil.

  R.J. ducked the first, batted away the second, and felt the third slip into his thigh with shocking pain. As Dexter ripped out the point, R.J. knew he could not stand too many more wounds like that one.

  If he was going to survive, and have any chance at all to take Dexter out, it had to be now.

  R.J. circled to his right, away from the point of Dexter’s sword. He was limping heavily, and everything hurt like hell.

  “You have fought well, my friend,” Dexter said, and his face became heroic. “But your cause is hopeless. And so I must—”

  R.J. had heard enough. He knew enough about theater to know that there was never any action during the hero’s monologue. The hero—and Dexter thought of himself as the hero—had to have his say, for as long as he felt like saying it.

  This was his chance.

  R.J. jumped. With all his strength he swung the plastic sword at the foil, knocking it to one side. But before he could bring his hands back again Dexter had stepped smoothly to the side.

  He stopped two feet from the edge of the bed, two feet from Casey’s reach.

  “Well done,” Dexter said. “You have—”

  R.J. jumped again. This time Dexter saw it coming and stepped to his left. Into position.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. “But you—”

  And Casey swung her feet. Every muscle in h
er body stood out with the effort as she planted the point of her two big toes squarely in the back of Dexter’s legs.

  Dexter buckled.

  R.J. jumped at him.

  Dexter’s reactions were faster than anything R.J. had ever seen before. As his knees gave way from Casey’s kick and he went backward, he still managed to bring the point up and hold it out toward R.J. as he fell back onto the bed.

  R.J. could not stop his leap. If he could have, he wouldn’t have. He knew this was the only chance he was going to get. Holding the stupid little plastic sword in front of him he continued his dive onto the falling killer.

  R.J. saw the point of the foil come up and managed to twist aside slightly. But it still took him through the shoulder, and he felt it pierce him and poke out through the back of his shirt. The pain was worse than anything else he could remember. It was a live, red-hot thing chewing at him, and time slowed down as the whole world refocused around that pain.

  But then there was the hard, slow-motion impact as he crashed into Dexter. The plastic sword smacked into Dexter’s sword arm with the full weight of R.J.’s body behind it. Dexter’s hand fell away from the grip, and for a moment he lay stunned and unmoving.

  In that moment R.J. closed his fingers around Dexter’s throat.

  It felt better than sex, drugs, or booze. It was the purest, cleanest, wildest, most satisfying thrill R.J. had ever felt. He forgot about the sword sticking out from his shoulder. He forgot about Casey, still flailing her gorgeous naked legs at Dexter’s head. He forgot about his mother, his son, his whole life, as the feeling of his fingers squeezing on Dexter’s throat became everything there was and he wanted it to go on forever.

  R.J. squeezed. He didn’t feel Dexter’s increasingly ineffective blows hitting him. He didn’t notice when the blows slowed, then stopped.

  He didn’t even see Dexter’s face turn red, then blue, and finally almost black, his tongue hanging out. All he saw were those pale, unblinking, emotionless, bottomless gray eyes, and the eyes made R.J. squeeze on, harder and harder.