by Peter Ponzo
The following day Tom's body washed up on the shore of the lake. The police immediately began a search for my boogie man. In fact, two detectives were given the assignment. The Case of the Boogie Man, they called it. I couldn't be happier. I went out and got a cute Yorkie pup and called him Cody. I had Tom cremated and threw his ashes in the garbage along with all this clothes.
On Wednesday Gilda and I had lunch. She was really shaken by Tom's death. She kept saying, "Terrível, muito triste." She was in tears. Then she showed me the note she had received. It was in her purse. She was shaking and I was smiling. I knew what it would say:
Gilda girl, you nasty bitch.
I will get you, immoral witch.
I am boogie man and now I'm yours.
They will find you in that ditch.
By the following week Gilda had quit and moved back to Brazil.
I could hardly contain my glee.
We are three little pigs and our house is solid brick.
Wolfy comes by with his "huff and puff" line and we laugh.
Wolfy lives in a straw house. What a nincompoop.
At night we go and blow his house down.
As it happens, we three have a friend: a huge Rottweiler called Fang.
One day we asked Fang to blow Wolfy's house down.
He did, then he ate Wolfy.
Then Fang came to our house for his pork chops.
Fang is a jerk. Our house is made of brick.
Then Fang came by with a plasma brick cutting torch.
My parents died in a freak skiing accident when I was three years old. I understand that they were skiing on a mountain near Whistler, the snow wasn't so very deep, yet there was an avalanche and they were buried alive. I was with the baby-sitter next door at the time. I was the only child and I inherited their estate: the house, two cars, furniture, bank accounts and some stocks. The authorities thought I needed support and guidance and appointed my baby-sitter as my legal guardian. I have no relatives, but it seemed a curious appointment. Nevertheless it turned out for the best.
We moved to my house, my baby-sitter and I, because it was bigger and nicer and had swings and kid's stuff in the yard. After a time my baby-sitter, whose name was Corinne Jones, insisted that I call her Granny. I think she was about forty years old at the time. She was a wonderful parent. We celebrated every one of my birthdays with a party where all my friends would come and Granny would make a huge chocolate cake. That was our private thing: the huge chocolate cake. It meant love and affection and warmth and togetherness and never forgetting our special relationship. Granny insisted that I remember that.
Granny bought a bike when I was nine and taught me to ride. We often went on picnics to the neighbourhood park. When I went to high school I discovered that Granny was very smart. She helped me with my geography, history and English lit classes, but her math was lousy. When I was eighteen she bought me a used car and taught me to drive.
I went to university at age nineteen. Granny insisted. I couldn't imagine what I'd study, but she suggested engineering, any kind of engineering. She said I should be aware, whatever that meant. I enrolled in the mechanical engineering program. I was a pretty average student, I guess, but I did graduate with honours–with Granny's help. I wasn't ready to actually get a job when I graduated, not a permanent job anyway, but I did manage to find part-time work here and there, mostly at recreation centres, the tennis club, a gardening firm and a construction outfit. Granny insisted that I keep my mind open, learn everything I could at whatever I was doing. Then she suggested I consider politics.
I ran for city council and actually won the seat for my ward. I found the discussions quite invigorating, so I decided to run for mayor. By this time Granny was about to celebrate her seventieth birthday. It was a quiet affair, just me and Granny. She was living in a smaller house that I had rented for her, but I had moved into a condo by the lake. I brought to her home a collection of Chinese dishes which she loved, from the local China Take-out. I also bought a huge chocolate cake as she had so often done for my birthdays. The cake was much larger than I had expected, but this was our private thing and a necessary component of every birthday. That's when she told me the story.
She was very young, about twenty. She had left home and was living with a boy. They had no money so they decided to rob a bank. The boy had a gun, so it would be armed robbery. She realized that it was a felony, but they were desperate. The robbery went all wrong. The bank teller started yelling and Granny's boy friend shot the teller. Granny was scared and ran out of the bank alone. The teller later died in the hospital. Her boy friend was caught and was given a life sentence. He is dead now, that fellow. He died yesterday at age seventy four. Perhaps that's what prompted Granny to tell me the story.
I asked Granny why she was telling me this story, at this time. She said that as a mayoral candidate they would be checking my background ... not the government authorities, but the press. Reporters had already contacted her. My relationship with Granny was by now well known. The fact that the fellow who died yesterday had an accomplice was also well known, but he had not told anyone who that accomplice was ... not until he was on his death bed. Granny was now being hounded by reporters. I asked Granny what she expected me to do. She said she would be going to jail and I should continue with my run for office and try to ignore the reporters.
In fact, I denied knowing anything about Granny's past as a young woman. Indeed, I even went so far as to say that we were not very close. Granny was just a sit-in for my parents who had died when I was three years old. I never got to know her very well. I couldn't very well disclose a close association with someone involved in an armed bank robbery–not while I was running for mayor, could I?
I did win the election and Granny did go to jail. I never went to see her. How would it look? The questions died away, reporters lost interest and I was relatively free of that unpleasant association. However, on Granny's seventy-fifth birthday, I sent a huge chocolate cake to the jail house. I did indicate that it was from the mayor's office. I received a letter back saying that Miss Jones had died two days after she was imprisoned. That would have been almost five years year ago. That would have been right after she was imprisoned. I was shocked. How had she died? She had hanged herself in her cell.
I am ashamed of how I acted. I visit Granny's grave every year on her birthday. I bring a chocolate cake, but I leave it by the tombstone. I can no longer eat chocolate of any sort.
Seventeen missiles were coming across the Bering Sea and our anti-missile defensive measures succeeded in intercepting just twelve. The remaining five would strike their targets within minutes. Completely unacceptable. In the Mediterranean Sea, just North of Tripoli, the Trident missiles were off course. Our adversary had succeeded in intercepting and reconfiguring our remote guidance.
"Hey! I see we're losing the war," Cliff said. Cliff was a jerk of the first order. When I was hired to head up the war simulation team, he was bypassed. It didn't sit well with him and he was eager to remind me of my failures at every opportunity.
"Look, Cliff, this is the most sophisticated system every devised. I've only been modifying the code for a little over two months and ..."
"But Billy boy, you have more degrees than a compass, and you told the boss that you could program the optimal system in under a month. Remember that there's a multi-million dollar government contract at risk."
"Well, it's actually coming along well," I said. "Global War is almost complete."
I was lying. I had no idea what the optimal strategy should be. I had tried every mathematical trick, every optimizing gimmick, every transformation, every known technique ... to no avail. I was just plain stuck, and I'm sure Cliff knew it. I worked on the software night and day. My wife was angry and I hardly ever had time for Jacob, my twelve-year-old. Jake would soon be a teenager and I hardly knew him.
In the evening I take the latest version of my program home and install it on my laptop. The laptop doesn't
have the computing power of the mainframe at work, of course, but it will allow me to devise more efficient algorithms. I can play the war game, as it were, and the software would rate my success. So far my highest score is 79%. That was a week ago. Since then I've only been able to achieve 70% or less in the Global War simulation. It was frustrating. I've always had success at challenges like this. My previous work was noted in all the most important physics and computing reviews. My improved algorithm for conjugate gradient methods is considered the best in the field– yet this Global War simulation escapes me.
It was Friday evening and I had worked late, as usual. I carried my laptop to the living room, set it on the coffee table and collapsed on the sofa. Liz asked if I had eaten, I said no, so she warmed up some pizza. That was it for me: pizza, a beer then sleep. I slept until almost noon on Saturday. Liz was in the kitchen making lunch for her and Jacob.
"Want a sandwich?" she asked. "Tuna salad."
I hate tuna salad, but I know that Jacob loves the stuff.
"Where's Jake?" I asked.
"Playing a new computer game in the living room."
"You bought him another computer game?" I said. "He already has a dozen!"
I was angry. That kid did nothing but play on his laptop computer.
"Me? I didn't buy him any game, you did."
"Liz, I've been so busy I don't have time to buy presents. Uh ... is it his birthday?"
"Yesterday was his thirteenth birthday."
"He's a teenager!" I said, happily. "I bet he's happy, right?"
"He didn't say," Liz said, with some sarcasm. "He did expect you to be here for his birthday party."
"Damn! I forgot, but I'll make it up to him."
"Well, at least you didn't forget his present. He's pretty pleased with it."
"But I didn't buy ... wait, did you say a computer game?'
"You brought him a computer game. He complained that there was no sound but he loves the graphics and the detail. I'm surprised you gave him such a complicated game. After all, he's only thirteen and ..."
I jumped up from the table and ran to the living room. Jake was playing on my laptop. He jumped up and giggled as the notice flashed on the screen:
"Global War: 100% success."
I really like the Missus. She feeds me, brush me, take me for walks, bathes me and even cleans my teeth. I ain't that fond of Mister. He don't do nothin. He just sit around most of the day, watching TV and nappin. We live in an apartment on the 17th floor and the Missus got a pee-pad on the balcony. That's where I do my thing, on that pee station. The Missus usually clean up after me, but when I know it be Mister doin the cleanin, I make some soft and gooey poop. You can tell I'm laughing when he pick up the mess 'cause my tail is wagging.
When I get excited, I barks. Mister hates it when I barks so I regularly find something exciting to bark about when Mister is napping. At night I sleep between Mister and Missus. Mister often gets up in the middle of the night to make the pee. That's when I pull his blankets apart and sit on his pillow. You can tell I'm laughing 'cause my tail is waggin.
I'm a boy dog, name of Sandy. I know I'm supposed to lift my leg when I do the pee, but I know Mister hates it, so that's why I squat like a girl dog. That really gets his goats! You can tell I'm laughing 'cause my tail is waggin.
When the mailman drops a mail through the slot in the door, I run to get it and carry it between my teeth until Mister give me a cookie. Then I chew the mail a bit, cover it with spit and stuff–especially if it's for him–then I drop it in my water bowl, then I grab the cookie. You can tell I'm laughing 'cause my tail is waggin.
When the Missus is feelin down and out, I sit on her lap and give her the big, sad eyes. I may whine just a bit. I feel sorry for her. She's such a nice lady. If the Mister is feeling down I find something to get excited about ... then I bark all afternoon. He don't like that, but my tail is waggin.
I'm a white dog and when Mister takes me walkin, which ain't so often, I be sure to lie down in the dirt and get some mud on. Then the Missus asks Mister to wash me and he don't like that one bits, but my muddy tail is waggin.
One day I found Mister paintin a picture. I don't know he could do that, but I watch and saw he is paintin a dog ... and the dog is me! He spend lots of time with that painting and he done it good, 'cause it really look like me. I is impress, very impress. I guess I didn't know Mister so good. When he finish he put the paintin in a nice frame and hang it in his den. I really like Mister.
Now I don't bark so much and I sometime sit on Mister's lap and give him the big sad eye and I never, ever sit on his pillow no more. I even learn to lift my leg and I see Mister is happy ... so I am happy, too.
Chapter One
I am rich. I have always been rich. I live in a rather large house on Mulberry Drive–some might call it a mansion. Four car garage filled with a Rolls Royce Phantom, Mercedes 300 SL, Ferrari Testarosa and a Cadillac Escalade SUV. I own or have controlling interest in four luxury hotels as well as many other business interests, I own a house on the Italian Riviera and a 200 acre estate on Kauai, North Shore. My parents, now both dead, left me a fortune and I doubled it within ten years. I am a well-known and well-respected member of the community with a hospital wing in my name and many charitable organizations depending upon my contributions. So it was with great surprise when the police came to my door and said I had been positively identified as the person who robbed the First Dominion Bank in Caledon City. Impossible!
I was taken into custody and spent the afternoon being interrogated. At the time of the robbery I was giving a speech to over a hundred business men at the Whitney Hotel. Besides, what would I do with money from a bank? I actually owned three banks. Yet the identifications had been positive. I was put into a lineup along with some scruffy looking individuals and the witnesses to the robbery were asked to pick me out. They did, every one. The police were at a loss to explain the positive identifications after they confirmed that I was, indeed, speaking in the Whitney Hotel theatre. They let me go with an apology.
Very early the following morning the door bell rang. It was the day off for my man-servant, Abbott, so I answered it myself. When I opened the door I saw myself, James Clerk Marcello, standing there before me.
"May I come in?" the guy said.
I was dumbfounded. A twin? Did I have a twin? Was this the guy who robbed the First Dominion? Is that why I was positively identified, because of this guy who looked like me? Why was he here, at my house? Should I ...?
"If you don't mind, I think I have something you'll be interested in hearing. If you let me in, I can tell you. If you continue to just stare at me with your mouth open, I'm afraid I'll have to leave. The police are looking for me, but I'm sure you know that. If..."
"Yes, yes, come in, come in." I said. "Who the hell are you?'
"I wouldn't mind a drink. Say whisky and ginger ale. And can we sit before we talk? I'm exhausted. I'm on the run, you know."
I pointed to the drawing room. This guy looked behind him at the driveway, furtively, then closed the door behind him and walked into the drawing room. I followed, confused. He fell onto the sofa and I stood.
"Why are you here?" I asked. "You robbed a bank and the police are looking for you so I'd rather you didn't..."
"No, I didn't rob the First Dominion," he said. "And my name? It's Clyde Samuelson and how about that whiskey? I live over in Burlington but I haven't been home in days. I understand, from friends, that the police have been to my house several times."
He waited, apparently for me to make him a whiskey.
"If you didn't rob the bank–and I certainly didn't–then why is it that you were positively identified my banking staff?"
"Whiskey?" he said.
I walked to the side bar and poured a whisky into a very small glass and squirted some soda.
"Whisky and ginger ale," he said.
"I don't have ginger ale. Now, can you prove that you were not the robber? I can. I was speak
ing to a hundred business men at the Whitney Hotel. And you?"
"I was at home at the time the robbery took place. Unfortunately, I can't prove it."
"Well, it seems you're in trouble and I haven't the slightest interest. It's curious that you look like me, but I ask you to leave and ..."
"Curious? You think it's just curious? Brother, it's more than that. We share the parents, you and I: Dorothy and Daniel Marcello. I was born in this mansion, just like you. My name was originally Clyde Marcello, but mother hated the idea of having children. She wanted an abortion, but Daniel said he wanted someone to take over when he retired, so he insisted on keeping one child and giving me up for adoption."
"Are you saying that we are twins, you and I?"
"Exactly," he said, sipping the whiskey then placing the glass on the coffee table. "Terrible stuff, whiskey and soda."
"That's eighteen year old Macallan."
"I hate whiskey, but I like the ginger ale." He laughed.
This guy was an idiot.
I sat on the chair opposite the sofa.
"So you were chosen to take over Daniel's businesses ... and you've apparently done well." This guy, Clyde, looked about. The drawing room was one of the finest features of the house: solid walnut shelves with hundreds of leather-bound books, a chandelier that must have cost my parents a pretty penny, stained glass windows that looked out onto the circular driveway and the acres of trimmed lawn.
