Fifty Cents For Your Soul

by Denise Dietz

  “Bonnie swore she saw you going into this room,” I said, strolling through the doorway. “I told her that was impossible, that you’d already left for L.A. So we made this stupid bet.”

  “What did you bet?”

  “The usual. Dinner. I don’t think I ever thanked you properly for treating me and Cat to that incredible lunch. Maybe I’ll take Bonnie there. I mean, once we get back to New York. We don’t know yet about the movie, if or when they’ll continue shooting, because of Madison. You’ve heard about Madison, right?”

  I’d started out fine, the bet idea brilliant, but now I babbled.

  Staring at my face, Samson said, “What gave it away?”

  I glanced around the room, similar to mine. Samson had packed up everything except his laptop, open on the desk where tourists usually wrote postcards. Maybe tourists didn’t write postcards anymore. Maybe they sent e-mails, along with a webpage address for Texas or Florida or Acapulco. Wish you were here, check out www.fabvacation/wishyouwerehere.com.

  Did Samson’s luggage contain bloody clothes and a knife?

  “Frannie, answer me.” He shut the door and locked it.

  Oops. Not a good sign. I said, “What gave what away?”

  “Has anyone ever told you that you have a lousy poker face?”

  “Yes. Cat Sands.” My temper simmered, then boiled over. “What I really want to know is why?”

  “First, tell me what gave me away.”

  “Ah, so now it’s me, not it.”

  “Frannie, what gave me away?”

  “You called Madison Victor. In the lounge, when you talked to Sol and me. No one calls Madison Victor, Samson, unless they’ve had, or they’re having, a personal relationship with him.”

  “And?”

  “And you’ve been stalking him for a bogus bio.”

  “Wrong!” Samson pointed to the laptop. “The bio’s real. It’s my publisher who’s bogus.”

  “But you said you were going back to L.A. because your publisher…Holy shit! Stevie Eisenberg.”

  “Frannie, get out of here. Now!”

  “Okay.”

  I made it halfway to the door before Samson caught me by the scruff of my neck. Correction: the scruff of my shirt. Which made it marginally easy to slip out of my shirt and head for the door again. But this time he encircled my waist and said, “I can’t let you leave.”

  “Sure, you can. What’s the point of keeping me here? I’ve already told three people about you.”

  Releasing me, he said, “Damn it, you’re lyin’ again!”

  “No, I’m not. All right, I told one person. But I told him to tell a couple of others. And the cops.”

  “What exactly did you tell your one person?”

  “That you killed Victor Madison.”

  “Did you tell him how you came to that conclusion?”

  No. I hadn’t. It was all in my head. “Of course I did.”

  “Jesus, Frannie, you can’t bluff worth shit.”

  “And you can’t do anything to me, Samson. It’ll just prove I was right about you.”

  “True enough, darlin’. I’ll have to use Plan B.”

  “Which is?”

  “Another suicide.”

  “Another suicide?”

  “You’re much too sharp, Frannie. I really should watch what I say around you.”

  “Oh my God, it really was you at the school. Why, Samson, why? What did that poor kid ever do to you?”

  He opened a suitcase and pulled out a manuscript. Its title page, neatly formatted, read: LOVE THEM AND LEAVE THEM AND LET THEM BE LONELY by M. Roebuck. “It’s all in here,” he said. “It’ll never be published, at least not while I’m alive, but it was fun to write.”

  “May I read it?”

  “Not on your life. Wait. There’s an idea. I’ll let you read the manuscript, darlin’, but only if you write your own suicide note.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Well, then, I’ll write it on my laptop. That way it doesn’t require a signature. Meanwhile, you can read my manuscript. Deal?”

  “When choosing between two evils, I always like to take the one I’ve never tried before. Quote, unquote.”

  “Who is Mae West? Sit on the bed, Frannie, so I can stay between you and the door.”

  “Why am I going to commit suicide, Samson?”

  “Andre.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your break-up with The Incredible Hunk.”

  “But…” I almost told him that his motivation sucked, that Andre had not only visited me, not only asked for a reconciliation, but had dangled a major role in a high-powered TV production as bait. “Just for grins, Samson, how am I supposed to kill myself?”

  “My room has a balcony, like that balcony in Pretty Woman.” He made a diving gesture with his hand. “Wasn’t that a fun movie, Frannie? Except for its sappy ending.”

  I glanced toward the balcony. “Very clever, Samson.”

  “Yes, I have my moments.”

  His turquoise eyes sparkled and he looked adorable, in an I’ll-show-you-mine-if-you’ll-show-me-yours kind of way. Frankly, I had to remind myself that he probably looked the same when he pulled the wings off flies. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll read while you write.”

  “I’m not stupid, darlin’. I know you’re tryin’ to stall. But it won’t take me very long to write your suicide note, so you’d better skim.”

  With that, he handed me the manuscript.

  I sat on the bed and propped a couple of pillows behind my back…

  And skimmed.

  Chapter Fifty-six

  The manuscript needed editing.

  Samson had written it stream-of-consciousness, a la Alice Walker. But while Alice Walker is a genius, her Color Purple one of my favorite books, M. Roebuck didn’t come close to excellence. In fact, had his publisher not been bogus, I doubted his book would have flown.

  Flipping pages, I found the Stevie Eisenberg chapter. Somewhere after Victor Madison’s early childhood as Chaim Mostel, Samson had switched to first person, written from his personal viewpoint, the pages dotted with “I” did this or “I” did that.

  “I” (Samson) had called Madison’s cottage. Stevie had answered with “This is Stevie Eisenberg, Victor Madison’s fiancée.” Several paragraphs followed, dripping with self-pity. “I” (Samson) had given Madison the best years of his life. Cat Sands had been bad enough, but Mickey (as if he were another person) had taken care of that little episode by beating Victor to a bloody pulp. When “Mickey” heard Stevie on the phone, he saw red…

  Jesus, I thought, what a cliché!

  …and had taken care of Stevie.

  I (Frannie) glanced over at Samson, a hunt-and-peck typist ‑‑ thank you, God. How much time did I (Frannie) have, and why wasn’t I (Frannie) figuring out an escape route?

  Just the same, I (Frannie) flipped back to the Davy Crockett Brakowski segment. Samson was Mickey again. I read a few pages, couldn’t believe my eyes, and couldn’t help saying, “Wrong!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Samson, you suggest…hell, you state that Davy had an affair with Madison.”

  “He did. How do you think the little snot got cast in the movie?”

  “A casting agency. Madison had nothing to do with it. Shit, Samson, Davy was only seventeen.”

  “I was barely seventeen when I first met Victor.”

  “But the kid couldn’t act worth a damn. Do you honestly believe Madison would sacrifice his movie by casting an amateur?”

  Samson shrugged. “Okay, so I goofed. You’ve only got a few more minutes, Frannie. But it’s pretty good, huh? My book, I mean.”

  “I can’t read anymore. I feel sick.”

  “Don’t pull that crap with me, darlin’. That’s what she did.”

  “Who?”

  “That bitch who was fucking Victor when I killed him.”

  “I can’t help it, Samson. Do I have your permission to puke?”<
br />
  “If you must. But do it here, not the bathroom, where you’d lock the door. Mickey kickin’ the bathroom door in wouldn’t exactly lead the police to believe your fall was suicidal.”

  Samson handed me a wastepaper basket, but all I could think of was Oh, dear, oh, shit, he’s Mickey now.

  Chapter Fifty-seven

  By the time I finished throwing up, Samson had finished the suicide note.

  “How should we do it, Frannie?” He opened the French doors to the balcony and placed the wastepaper basket outside. “Do you want to jump, or do you want Mickey to push you?”

  “That’s a stupid question, Samson.”

  “Push you, huh? Mickey won’t mind, but I think Samson was hopin’ you’d jump.”

  “Knock it off. If you’re planning to toss me from the balcony, do it as Samson!”

  He looked wounded. “Samson would never hurt you, darlin’.”

  “And don’t call me darlin’!”

  “Are you ready? Another stupid question, huh?”

  Where the fuck was John? Bonnie? Sol? The cops?

  “Samson, this whole game plan is stupid. Once they discover you killed Victor ‑‑”

  “Mickey killed Victor. Samson left false evidence.”

  “What kind of evidence?”

  “Sol Aarons’ diamond earring. I know all about him and Peggy. Victor told me. Aarons hated Victor. Motive and opportunity, Frannie. Aarons has no alibi. I saw him go into his room before Mickey killed Victor. And in case you’re wonderin’ why your cops aren’t here, I made a phone call. Said I was a hotel guest who’d seen a man slip into Victor Madison’s room around midnight. I gave a description, includin’ the mustache, and said I’d seen the same man in the lobby and someone called him Sol. I would guess the cops are grilling Aarons even as we speak.”

  “How did you get…oh my God. The gym. That was my earring. You found my earring when you killed Davy. It looks like Sol’s.”

  “Don’t shit me, Frannie.”

  “I swear. My father gave me diamond earrings for my birthday. There goes your evidence, Samson. And your motive. Why would I kill Madison?”

  “You were jealous?”

  “Of whom? Dawn? I don’t think so. In any case, your suicide note won’t ring true. If I was jealous enough to kill Madison, why would I care about breaking up with Andre?”

  “I’ll think of something else and revise the note.”

  “It’ll never fly, Samson. You told the police you saw a man slip into the room around midnight, and they know Madison was killed between 11:30 and midnight because he called room service at 11:30.”

  As relief washed over Samson’s face, I wondered what the fuck I’d said wrong.

  “No problem, Frannie. You killed Victor at 11:45, before Sol hit the room. That’ll fly. It couldn’t have taken Mickey more than ten minutes to stab Victor and his bitch. And while that’s cuttin’ it close, I did say around midnight.”

  “Okay, rewrite the damn note while I puke again!”

  He shook his head. “It’s time you jumped. I’ll change the note after Mickey takes care of you.”

  Oh, shit, oh, dear. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, and overpowering Samson was out of the question. How could a five-foot-two (and a half) New Yorker thrash a six-foot-four Texan?

  Despite my fear and angst, I heard click-click-click. It sounded like my cat, Snow, when he wants to go out onto the balcony.

  Or come in!

  Reflexively, I looked around. No beetles appeared. Why would they? Click-beetles usually heralded the appearance of the demon/doppelganger, at least they had when he wanted to frighten me rather than love me. Anyway, the clicks sounded like fingernails tap --

  “Let’s get this over with, Frannie.”

  Samson’s voice sounded so sad, I dismissed beetles from my mind. All I wanted to do was soothe his pain, by word or gesture, and I had to remind myself that he planned to kill me.

  As he grabbed my arms, a luminescent form materialized. Gliding on air, it emerged from the balcony.

  Victor’s doppelganger?

  Impossible. A doppelganger was the ghostly counterpart of a living person.

  I blinked several times, but the phosphorescent shape didn’t go away. Maybe I was dreaming or imagining ‑‑ no! Because Samson saw it, too. He dropped my arms and backed up against the dresser.

  There could be only one conceivable, or maybe not so conceivable, answer…

  It was my doppelganger!

  Mesmerized, I watched the shape became distinctly female. And although she didn’t have much substance, she had strength.

  Picking Samson up in her arms, ignoring his screams of terror, she carried him through the open balcony door and tossed him over the railing, and I knew the echo of his last horrorstricken howl would haunt my dreams forever.

  As the shape began to dissipate, I heard clicks again. This time, it was the laptop’s keyboard. Somehow, I made my legs move and walked over to the desk.

  On the laptop’s screen, in big letters, it said HI FRANNIE, I’M YOUR SISTER GRACIE.

  Even though I was safe, undamaged, no longer threatened, my life flashed before my eyes ‑‑ at least a small portion did.

  A gazillion weeks ago, back in New York, I had finished rehearsing for the Asmodeus screen test and Bonnie had phoned me. As my mind played tape recorder and/or sponge, I distinctly heard her words: But then I saw a glow around you, an aura, so I called to tell you that everything’s okay. Your good angel is protecting you.

  Gracie wasn’t my doppelganger. Gracie was my good angel.

  More clicks sounded, and I focused on the computer’s screen.

  Almost as if my mother had spoken, Gracie wrote: PUT YOUR TOP ON, FRANNIE, YOU’RE ALL GOOSEFLESH. Then: I LOVE YOU.

  As Gracie’s message deleted itself, new letters appeared.

  I KILLED VICTOR MADISON AND PLANTED FRANNIE’S EARRING, the screen screamed. FRANNIE FIGURED IT OUT SO I’M GOING TO JOIN VICTOR IN HELL. MICKEY ROEBUCK.

  Stupidly, I waited, staring at the laptop, until I realized that my sister, like Elvis, had left the building.

  “Wait,” I cried. “Please, Gracie, don’t go.”

  But I couldn’t hear anything, and tears rolled down my face as I listened to the sounds of silence.

  EPILOGUE

  A major New York publisher published the late M. Roebuck’s book and it became an instant bestseller.

  Jem married Mary-Magdalene. Tenia was her bridesmaid.

  No studio attempted to finish Forever Asmodeus. Maybe it really was cursed. Maybe they didn’t dare. Maybe they didn’t care.

  I couldn’t have cared less. Having captured the “Marilyn Monroe role” in the TV adaptation of Bus Stop, I was nominated for an Emmy ‑‑ along with Andre, whom I date every now and then.

  Bonnie was crushed when they chose to close down Forever Asmodeus. Her angst, however, was somewhat mitigated by John the bartender. Still based in New York, Bonnie often flies to Houston. John is studying to become a lawyer and he’s very persuasive. He even talked me into forgiving him, after I learned the reason for his…shall we say tardiness? Bonnie hit the lounge on that dreadful day nine months ago, still upset over Madison’s murder, still blaming herself. John comforted her, fell in love, and time lost all meaning.

  Actually, he’d tried to contact Sol, who was being grilled by Homicide Detective Armadillo, and when John heard that, he felt I was in no immediate danger.

  Little did he know, little did anyone know, and little will anybody ever find out. Mom kept my good angel, Gracie, a secret for twenty-four years. I can keep a secret at least that long.

  Speaking of time, Lynn Beth did hate her real mom. For about fifteen seconds. They’re together now, in California. Madison left half his fortune to Catherine Lee Sands, the other half to Peggy Mostel. Lynn Beth has quit acting. Cat’s last letter said that her daughter was into clothes, causes, and boys.

  Tonight I’ll see Cat and Lynn Beth for the
first time since Houston. They’re flying into Manhattan for my Awards show, sitting next to me as I wait for my category to be called ‑‑ Best Performance by an Actress in a Dramatic Role.