by Jeff Povey
DEAD RINGER
THE SAME NIGHT that I went out to take the photographs of Tony and Burt, it appears that an illegal immigrant was brutally stabbed to death and had a KFC family-size carton dumped on his head. The Kentucky Killer is in town, and the papers and the television are going crazy. It is hard to tell the difference between them being overfearful or overexcited. It’s like a movie star has flown in, and this king of killers is getting more coverage than anyone I ever remember. Proof of God wouldn’t generate this much publicity. If it wasn’t for the fact that the Kentucky Killer slaughtered countless innocents, I would fully expect him to be there to open the new cinema complex we have just had built. Instead they settle for a movie star whose last three films have flopped and no one bothers to show.
I breathe deeply, trying to take stock of the situation as Agent Wade turns on the news and we settle down to watch the TV reporter trying to interview a Mexican-looking spokesman from the League of Human Rights.
REPORTER: If José knew he was going to die this way, d’you think he would have chosen the Kentucky Killer to do it?
SPOKESMAN: I would rather concentrate on the fact that José was in truth a victim of congressional dehumanization.
REPORTER: Yeah, but think of the positives a second. José’s going to get his photo in a best-selling book.
I wonder why the television psychiatrist hasn’t made an appearance. So far, he has always refused to be drawn in on the subject of the Kentucky Killer, and I for one would like to hear what’s he got to say.
Agent Wade hangs on every word of the news report, then channel hops to another news program and devours every morsel from that one as well. He leans forward, a glint of excitement in his eyes, and I note that sometimes he nods to himself and says, “Uh-huh . . . uh-huh,” as the reporters give their on-scene accounts.
Finally the reports end and he looks my way. “He’s here. . . .”
I take out and unwrap a candy bar, crunching into it.
Agent Wade is in raptures. “We’re so close now, Dougie.”
I allow myself to savor the sweet candy, letting it melt in my mouth rather than chewing it. Agent Wade pauses to scratch himself and then speaks without looking up. “He’s the one . . . the only one.”
Agent Wade then gives me a real sinister smile. He scratches himself again, and to tell the truth, I can’t remember him taking a shower since he moved in with me.
That sinister smile stays fixed on his face until eventually he speaks.
“I can smell him.”
Later, as Agent Wade dozes in front of a late night horror movie—one that gives me the creeps so bad that I keep imagining there is someone waiting for me in my bedroom—I sneak a look in Agent Wade’s jacket, which is hanging on the kitchen door. I gently remove his wallet and his badge and also find some unused napkins from KFC. He has a regulation FBI pen and pad and an unopened pack of gum. I check to make sure he is definitely asleep and then go into the kitchen and lay the stuff out in the not-so-pristine sink.
In the wallet is at least $800, and I can’t believe Agent Wade keeps making me pay for everything. I take three twenties for myself just to even things out a little. I then find about sixty receipts for motel lodgings and gas. They are from all over and date back eight months. He is obviously keeping these for his expenses claim. Agent Wade seems to have been all over the Midwest in that time, and I remember the clock on his car reading well over eighty thousand miles. The man has put in a lot of time and distance in his attempts to find me.
I then check his FBI badge, and there is no doubting its authenticity. The napkins seem innocent enough until I note that he has written a number on the back of each one. They are in sequence and read from 286 to 295. Each number is written in red ink.
I can’t figure this out at first, but as I unwrap his packet of gum and stuff a stick in my mouth, I start to get this growing shudder running down my spine. Like someone walking on my grave.
I look at the numbers again. I remember the lemon-scented hand wipes, the incessant desire for KFC produce, and realize I need some air. I haven’t felt this scared since the night I joined the Club.
A bloodcurdling scream erupts from the living room. I jerk so violently that I spill the wallet. I turn and then realize that the horror film is still playing. I catch my breath, wait to see if Agent Wade has woken, and feel a huge relief when I can’t hear him stirring from the sofa. I quickly scoop up the wallet.
“Dougie . . . ?” Agent Wade calls out from the living room. I grab everything and stuff it quickly into my back pocket. I even spit the chewing gum across the kitchen just in case he recognizes that it’s his.
Agent Wade appears in the doorway; he looks tired and yawns. “Where’s the boot polish?”
“The what?”
“The polish. . . .”
Agent Wade walks toward me, and my heart quickens—and then he reaches past me for the tap. He runs the cold faucet and dips his head under, refreshing himself. When he finishes he looks back at me with a very condemning look.
“This sink is disgusting, Dougie.”
I nod, deciding to stay silent in case he hears the tremor in my voice.
“I want to be able to see my face in it.”
I nod again.
Agent Wade yawns, stretches, and then does this maneuver that makes his shoulders crack. It is a truly horrible sound and sets my teeth on edge.
“Let’s go.”
“Where?”
“We’ve got to keep the pressure on, Dougie.”
“Another murder already?”
“Yeah, I’m chomping at the bit here. Ole KK’s got me fired up.”
“It’s late.”
“Perfect time to strike. Come on, find me some boot polish. ’Bout time I joined in the fun.”
With that, Agent Wade walks out of the kitchen, giving his shoulders another of those hideous cracks.
As soon as he is gone, I turn on the cold faucet and start glugging down as much water as I can. I keep drinking and drinking and drinking. I feel so parched, I don’t think the whole of Lake Michigan could quench my thirst. Four words keep doing the can-can in my head. It’s a rhythmic beat with trumpets and gongs: Lemon-scented hand wipes. Lemon-scented hand wipes. Lemon-scented hand wipes.
Half an hour later, and we are both wearing black. Agent Wade applies black boot polish to my cheeks, nose, and forehead with a handkerchief. I feel like a marine about to do a midnight raid. Agent Wade finishes, then hands me the boot polish.
“Watch the eyes. I don’t want it in my eyes.”
I pause, hadn’t realized I was meant to do this.
“C’mon, Dougie . . . just watch the eyes, huh?”
I feel uneasy as I dab the handkerchief in the boot polish and start blacking out Agent Wade’s face. I finish, and as I step back to admire my handiwork, I see that Agent Wade’s blue eyes seem all the more piercing and hypnotic thanks to the black background they stare out from.
“How do I look?”
“Like me.”
I pause, and Agent Wade sees that I look concerned.
“What is it?”
“Why are you coming along?”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
“What I mean is, you don’t need to black up as well, do you?”
“Sure I do.”
“Why?”
“It’s procedure, Dougie. Procedure.” Agent Wade’s white teeth grin out at me. “We can’t have you grabbing all the glory, can we?”
I don’t know how to answer that. I truly don’t.
Outside, a car horn beeps. Agent Wade glances at his watch. “That’ll be our taxi.”
The taxi driver turns out to be a woman who twenty years ago probably possessed the looks and body of a supermodel. The years haven’t been kind to her, and I try to make our journey a pleasant reminder of her golden days.
“You know, you could pass for a supermodel’s mother.” I note that the taxi driver is too shy to respond. “Honestly
. You could. And I’m not just saying that.”
The taxi driver looks in her rearview at us but still refuses to say anything. I lean forward, give her a warm look, or at least as warm as I can underneath all the boot polish. “Listen, I read about this new science. Everyone’s raving about it. Nanotechnology. It’s meant to repair all the bad things about yourself. You know, all those duff little molecules inside you. . . . They say it’ll be in the high street stores within the next five or six years.” I give a big, friendly smile. “So, you know, if you can hold out that long . . . well, who knows, eh? I’ll certainly be giving you a call.”
The taxi driver doesn’t look round, preferring instead to treat my conversation with a silent reverence, which I acknowledge with a knowing smile as I sit back in my seat. Agent Wade glances across at me.
“You can’t help it, can you? You’re a real stud with the girls.”
“Well . . .” I shrug but fail to hide a slight touch of arrogance in my look.
“It’s a lesson being with you.”
Throughout the journey, the taxi driver keeps glancing back in her rearview, and even though I know she wants to know why we are wearing boot polish, I also know she probably wants my phone number but is too timid to ask. I take the liberty of writing it on the dollar bill I tip her with. And just to make sure she doesn’t miss it, I tear the bill in half and give her only the section with the number on it.
“Nano, nano.” I grin and wink at her before turning to catch up with Agent Wade as he walks toward Cher’s place.
Cher’s childhood was basically split into two categories. Category A was before Cher’s beloved uncle Ernst was released from prison. Category B was after dear old uncle Ernst rejoined society and was then rounded up and hung by an angry mob for a crime he may or may not have committed. Cher, at the ripe old age of eight—I don’t know what that is in Native American years—witnessed the whole thing. Ever since then, she has been on a mission to eradicate the perpetrators. All twenty-six of them and a few of their relatives for good measure. I actually argued that this didn’t make her a serial killer, just a rather vengeful person, but the television psychiatrist had sealed the argument with his pronouncement that the “Hanover Hangman” could turn out to be one of the most vicious and unrelenting skillers in modern history.
Agent Wade stops at the foot of her drive and lets out a long, low sigh. I can see that he looks a little troubled.
“What is it?”
“She won an Oscar.”
“Who?”
“Cher.”
“So?”
“Well . . . she’s a star. Can you kill stars?”
I’ll admit that I heartily applauded along with the rest of the nation when Cher won an Oscar for her performance in that movie where she plays maybe twenty years younger than her actual age. “But this isn’t the real Cher.”
I look at Agent Wade’s blacked-out face and get the hopeful feeling that he is experiencing some doubts about this. That he’ll just turn on his heel and leave. “I didn’t know you were such a fan.”
Agent Wade takes a moment, pulls himself together, stands upright, takes a big breath. “Just give me a minute. I’ll, uh . . . I’ll be all right.”
Cher cautiously opens the door wearing a see-through nightgown. It is black, sequined, and flimsy. It’s now two in the morning, and she looks great. Under the nightgown she wears a lace teddy, also black. I am in awe of her ability to remain in character whatever the time of day.
As soon as she makes me out, her face contorts into a deep snarl. “You stinking little midget!”
She tries to slam the door on us, but Agent Wade is too fast for her. His arm snakes out and he grips her tight around the throat, pulling her close up to him. She gags, such is the power of his grip.
“Look, uh . . . before Dougie does what he’s got to do . . . could I have your autograph? Make it out to Kennet. That’s Kenneth without the ‘h.’”
By way of an answer, Cher knees Agent Wade hard in the groin. He immediately lets her go and crumples to the ground. I am about to give chase as she races away, but Agent Wade stops me.
“Take this. . . .”
Agent Wade hands me his standard-issue snub-nosed FBI revolver. I take it in my hands and, having never held a gun before, feel slightly in awe of it. It’s a lot heavier than I expected.
“Get after her, Doug!”
I feel myself break out in an immediate sweat, lick my top lip, and nearly gag on the taste of the boot polish. I wipe my tongue on the back of my hand and spit black saliva onto Cher’s porch.
“I’ll go round the back. . . .” Agent Wade climbs unsteadily to his feet and hobbles away.
I try to gather myself, taking deep, calming breaths. The gun makes me feel good, and I grit my teeth and dive into Cher’s darkened home. I roll into the large hall, both hands gripping the gun, and come to a kneeling stop, aiming in jerky movements all around me. The place is eerie and silent. I look around and count six closed doors, all leading into downstairs rooms. Why couldn’t she have lived in an open-plan? I check the imposing stairway and don’t for a minute think Cher could have gotten up it so quickly. I almost lick my lip again but manage to remember not to. I decide the best plan is to test each door as I come to it. The first one is a broom cupboard, but I check it all the same. The second door leads into a kitchen. I take my time edging inside, and I don’t take a step until I have checked every angle of possible ambush. There aren’t many places to hide, though, and I decide to take a chance and try the door next to the kitchen. This door needs oil as it creaks open. I peer round the door. Here there are many places to hide, and for a moment I toy with the idea of just blasting away in the room, hoping I’ll get lucky. I decide this is a ridiculous idea and the sort of thing that only a blindly panicking Chuck Norris would attempt.
Something moves, and I immediately start shooting. I also scream at the top of my voice in accompaniment to the roar of the gun. Bullets fly and crash everywhere. My scream turns into a yell and eventually converts into a single continuous high-pitched Apache war cry as I race around the room, firing indiscriminately.
“Geronimo!”
I hit everything but Cher.
The click of an empty chamber should bring me to a shuddering halt, but I hurl the gun into a glass cabinet and continue to race around, yelling at the top of my voice. I charge out into the hall and kick open the next door. In that room, I pick up anything I can find and hurl it at any place where I think Cher could be hiding.
I have virtually wrecked her entire living room when I suddenly see Cher’s face at the window. She’s outside!
I look around wildly, grab a small portable television, and attack the window with it. I heave the portable at Cher, and it smashes through the window; amazingly enough, she doesn’t even try to get out of the way. Instead, the television clunks into her face and then crashes down beside her. Somehow she remains standing there, upright and unflinching, and I can’t believe she never told the Club she was from the planet Krypton. I grab a large speaker that is attached to an expensive-looking sound system, rip it from its moorings, and then turn and hurl it at Cher, who hasn’t moved an inch throughout. Her head is angled to one side, and she has what I can only describe as a sultry come-hither look. Which surprises me, considering what I’m trying to do to her. The speaker misses her completely, and as my initial adrenaline rush gives way, I realize that I am weakening by the second. I am exhausted, and my limbs feel like lead weights. But I will not give in. I stagger over to the speaker’s twin and prepare to tear it from its bracket when I hear Agent Wade call out.
“Fooled ya.”
I turn, and at first I can’t see him. Not anywhere. Cher remains standing, staring in at me, and then I hear Agent Wade speak again.
“Over here.”
My God! His voice is coming from Cher! I start to back away when Agent Wade’s head appears from behind Cher’s right shoulder and he grins at me. “Guess who?”
&nb
sp; I realize that he must have been holding her dead body upright all the time I was hurling household goods at her, and although he thinks it is a hoot, I am not so convinced. Agent Wade steps away and lets Cher drop to the ground, then starts climbing in through the shattered window. “I bumped into her trying to escape out the back way. She tripped when she saw me—and, uh . . . I think she may have broken her neck as she fell.”
I can’t seem to close my mouth. I stare wild-eyed at Agent Wade as he looks around at the chaos and mess I have caused.
“That’s the boy, Dougie. You just keep that level head of yours.”
I still can’t close my mouth.
Agent Wade takes a moment to light a cigarette. He looks at me, blows smoke toward the small chandelier swaying back and forth. “Should’ve heard her neck crack—beautiful, just beautiful. Star quality all the way to the bone.”
I don’t help Agent Wade drag Cher into the living room because I’m too busy looking for a memento.
“I got you, babe . . .” Agent Wade has a fine voice, but it is nothing compared to Cher’s.
I can’t seem to decide between taking Cher’s entire CD collection or perhaps taking her state-of-the-art automatic bottle opener instead. I give up on these ideas, though, and find myself turning round and reaching for Cher’s dark black wig. It seems to be stuck, and I give it a couple of hard tugs until I realize that it isn’t a wig but is in fact Cher’s real hair. I let her head drop and step away as if I have just received a high-voltage electric shock.
No . . .
Surely not . . .
I look at Agent Wade, who is now taking photos of Cher’s prostrate body. He glances over at me and grins. “The boys at the Bureau aren’t gonna believe this.”
Agent Wade grins and clicks away with his camera, the flash popping on and off, on and off.
KENTUCKY-FRIED CHICAGO
I HAVE TO STAY FOCUSED. I have to stick to my original plan, even though it keeps changing practically every minute. I take a bus to the west side, clutching an eight-by-ten envelope. I’ve just been to KlippyKlap Snaps and picked up a photograph of Burt Lancaster’s final moments on earth, courtesy of Tony Curtis and his rusting saw. The guy who did the developing figured I did special effects work for some film company, and I told him he was absolutely right and that just now I was working on a sequel to Mary Poppins where she comes back as a murderess.
