The prosecutor leaned toward Bradley. “Don’t plan on taking a vacation anytime soon,” he whispered.
“Yes, Your Honor,” Bradley stammered, his voice no longer boastful. He shoveled his papers into his briefcase and hurried from the courtroom.
Confused, terrified, with his career on its last legs, Bradley yet found himself grateful. He was alive and free of alien control. He ran into the parking garage, threw his belongings into the back seat, and jumped behind the wheel of his brand-new Mercedes CL-Class, paid for with monies illicitly begotten.
Inside his car, he felt safer. He let out a breath, ready to forget the day by any means possible, glad it was over. He’d return to his home, drink as much bourbon as it took to obliterate his fear, and pass out with his collie, Jenkins, resting over his feet. Tomorrow, he’d begin his slow crawl back to the top.
It’ll be okay , he told himself. Always the stellar lawyer, he was even able to convince himself it was the truth.
He turned the key in the ignition. His Mercedes sprang to life. After fastening his seatbelt, Bradley turned to back out of his parking space. As he did, his eyes caught a glimpse of something black and white sitting on the passenger seat. His heart lunged into his throat. Slowly, he turned his head for a better look.
It can’t be! How the fuck did that son of a bitch get it in here?
A familiar smiling replica of a man, decked out in a fancy suit and polished leather shoes, lay across the seat. The corner of a small piece of paper jutted from the miniature briefcase the doll held in its hand.
Bradley checked his anger. He swallowed his fear. You’ve won , he thought, the dams behind his eyes threatening to burst. What more do you want of me?
His hand trembled as he reached for the briefcase. Its detail was amazingly accurate. Bradley might have been impressed had it not been so terrifying. He clicked open two tiny gold clasps with the edge of his fingernail. The paper fell out of the briefcase and onto his lap. It was folded several times until it formed a neat square. He opened it and read.
My friend belongs to you now.
Keep him safe .
Bradley picked up the doll. Its stitched-on mouth had changed, now curled into a big smile. Its green-button eyes shined as if they had been buffed, round and open, no trace of the black Xs that had marked them earlier.
“It doesn’t even look like me,” Bradley scoffed. He wanted to rip it apart, to make sure he’d never see the damnable thing again, but the thought caused his pulse to quicken. He placed the doll delicately back on the seat. Then he backed out and drove toward the parking garage’s exit. He swiped his pass, and the gate opened. He pulled forward into the bright afternoon sun.
Blamm! Shots thundered through the air. His back passenger-side window disintegrated into crystallized fragments. They speckled his back seat and his sleeve. Several loud thuds followed in rapid succession.
“Billings!” Bradley said. It wasn’t the man himself, of course, but his enforcers had wasted no time avenging their boss. They weren’t just trying to scare him; they meant to kill him. He pressed his foot to the floor.
A moment later, he heard a loud crash behind him. In his rearview mirror, Bradley saw that a police car had T-boned a Chevelle Supersport with windows tinted so dark they were black. More blasts filled the air. The officers scurried out of their cruiser, one behind the other out of the driver’s-side door, and returned fire at three or four gunmen blazing from the Chevelle. Bradley’s foot eased off the gas only slightly. He kept on driving.
He didn’t get far. His Mercedes began to sputter. “Come on!” he yelled, striking his palms against the steering wheel. “Not now!”
He glanced at his fuel gauge. “What do you mean, empty? How can you be empty? I filled you this morning!”
When he raised his eyes, Bradley saw a man standing in the middle of the road not more than twenty feet in front of him. His car would surely run the man down unless he acted fast. He swerved and veered into the breakdown lane. With a grinding sound, his hubcap skidded along the curb before his wheel rode up on the sidewalk. He hit the brakes. Finally, he stopped.
That was Pepe LeFevre . Had the realization came sooner, Bradley would have floored it.
“What the fuck?” he screamed. His head felt as though someone had jabbed a bicycle pump into it and kept on pumping. Soon, it would burst. Now was the time to confront LeFevre, the moment when rage expelled all caution. Bradley had had enough. LeFevre was going down.
Bradley had no doubts that he would have coldcocked LeFevre if only he could have found him. He looked left. He looked right. He even checked under the car. LeFevre was nowhere to be seen. Yet his presence lingered, fouling the air. The odor was familiar, one Bradley detested. What was it?
Gas!
Bradley ran to the back of his Mercedes. A trail of cola-colored fluid led from up the street to beneath his car, where it trickled from a couple of deep holes.
Bradley slapped his palm against his forehead. “Can this day get any fucking worse?”
The sensation that shot through him at that moment told him it could. The hair on his neck stood erect. His stomach went sour. Someone was behind him. Someone now stood where no one had been standing just a second before.
In the reflection of what remained of his window, Pepe LeFevre’s dead white eyes seemed to stare right through him. The man puckered his lips as if he were whistling.
An icy breeze ran up the back of Bradley’s neck. He coughed. Smoke engulfed his head. Heat swelled beneath his reddening cheeks. His temples throbbed. His jaw clenched. He swung around without thought, acting in tune with his most animalistic instinct. His arm swung with him, a powerful backhand meant to rend LeFevre’s head from his shoulders.
But Bradley hit only air. The cloud of smoke dispersed. In it, he saw a single lit cigarette, suspended at chest level, held up by nothing but sorcery or imagination. The power, whatever it was, released its grip. The cigarette fell, spiraling downward, onto the—
Oh, fuck me! Bradley thought, as he turned to run. Sure enough, the gasoline that had been at his feet ignited.
Dodging traffic, Bradley sprinted across the street. A car horn honked, but he made it to the other side intact. He panted like a fat dog after a run as he checked himself for flames. He was fire free. He was safe.
From the opposite sidewalk, Bradley watched the blaze grow. Soon, it swallowed his Mercedes whole. The fire burned bright and clean, a beautiful sight on an otherwise dreadful day.
Then Bradley remembered the doll, still sitting where he had left it on the seat. He ran to his car. The gas tank imploded. Flames lashed their hot tongues into the car’s interior. Bradley began to sweat. The skin on his arm sizzled, then ignited. The pain drove Bradley to his knees.
The car combusted. So did Bradley.
DORIAN’S MIRROR
* * *
Dorian Clarke wiped his palm across his bathroom mirror. Between streaks of condensation, his reflection stared morosely back at him. He stroked his salt-and-pepper stubble. When did I get all these gray hairs? Perhaps the water droplets on the mirror misled him. He assumed his facial hair was as dark as it had always been and paid it no more attention, returning to his post-shower routine. With a towel wrapped around his waist, Dorian brushed his teeth.
At twenty-eight, Dorian stood tall and confident. A full-time model and sometime actor, he had a Greek god’s body and the swagger to match it. His eyes were emerald green and fearfully enticing. With fashionably unkempt dark hair, olive skin and an easy smile, Dorian charmed most of the women he met in New York City. His ego wouldn’t rest until he’d seduced every beauty among them.
Above all, Dorian valued his youthful splendor and exploited it as much as he could. “Your looks will fade,” his pal Henry had told him. “Use them while you can. It’s better to be stuck with memories of what once was than those of what could have been.” Henry had lived life to the fullest. Dying from an overdose a year ago, Henry was gone, but his infl
uence remained.
As he finished brushing his teeth, Dorian was haunted by Henry’s words. The mirror had mostly defogged. In it, he saw a tired face, looking much older than it had even the day before. Had time, always racing against him, finally caught up? His beard was thicker, sprouting faster than usual overnight.
He frowned. More gray hairs.
Maybe I’m still half-asleep. I’m sure I look fine. Last night’s tequila binge lingered in his system. His shower failed to rouse him. Dorian turned on the faucet and splashed his face with cold water. After drying himself, he patted the mirror with his towel.
What? Dorian gaped at his hair. He’d never seen it so long … and gray. Even worse, the hairline had receded. He tried to recall his last haircut, but couldn’t remember. He ran his fingers through his hair. It felt short and full.
How long was I out? Dorian checked his cellphone, which he’d placed atop the hamper. The display read, “9:42 a.m., Saturday, May 25.” Yep. It’s the day after yesterday . He chuckled. Just as it should be.
Dorian chided his own foolishness. His eyes were playing tricks on him, as simple as that. Someone must have slipped me the good stuff. Of course I’ve only aged a day . He owed his sub-par appearance to hallucinations spawned by a long night of drinking, drugging, and sex with a girl whose name he’d never care to remember. A few more hours of sleep would clear his head and restore his comeliness to its former grandeur. He exited the bathroom and sank into his couch.
* * *
Screw that face in the mirror. Let him age instead of me. Dorian smirked. I’d give everything to always look this good . He closed his eyes, repeating the wish he’d made every time he looked into a mirror.
Three hours later, Dorian snapped awake, escaping a nightmare he’d already forgotten. He sat up. Goosebumps ran the length of his naked torso. His towel lay discarded upon the floor.
Still hazy, he threw on some work clothes. In between modeling gigs, he supplemented his income bartending at Michelangelo’s, an upscale restaurant a few blocks over from Times Square. Dorian worked solely for tips, not officially an employee. He welcomed the tax-free dollars. Modeling paid him big bucks, but his posh flat and party lifestyle required constant funding.
Charlene, the manager at Michelangelo’s, let Dorian come and go as he pleased, his presence a boon to business. Whenever Dorian was behind the bar, wealthy cougars prowling for young studs lined it with fat purses. Rarely did he leave without one or more of them, the phone numbers of several others jammed into his pockets or down the front of his pants.
He entered Michelangelo’s at 1:55 p.m. Dressed in a stylish black button-down, dark designer jeans and freshly polished dress shoes, Dorian turned heads as soon as he walked through the door. A wry smile crossed his face; he flashed it at everyone he passed. He nodded politely to a waitress, greeted the regulars, and made his way behind the bar, a U-shaped mahogany monstrosity with short sides, a flat front, four tap stations, and a foot rail.
The wall behind the bar consisted of a giant mirror lined with shelves. Top-shelf liquor filled every open spot. Dorian scanned the rows of alcohol, looking for his favorite. Grinning, he grabbed the Glenlivet, poured himself more fingers than he had on one hand, knocked it back, and tossed the empty glass into a bus bin. Then, he went to work.
Greg, the scheduled bartender, gave Dorian a smile. An average-looking thirty-something with a burgeoning beer belly, Greg seemed happy for the company. He’d make more tips sharing the bar with Dorian than he’d make alone.
Within an hour, the bar was hopping. Drinks were draining almost as fast as Dorian could serve them. He was on his third glass of Glenlivet, and he’d also done a shot of Stoli with a voluptuous blonde in the sixth seat.
He was pulling in tips and numbers in an endless stream. His confidence was high, his ego swollen. His customers’ attention made him feel invincible.
Dorian glanced at his adoring fans. They love me . And I’ve earned it. Looks like mine don’t come easy. Sure, genetics played a part, but I maintain this body, this hair, these clothes, this smile. I turned something good into something perfect.
Feeding off their shameless stares, Dorian put on a show. He began to juggle a bottle of rum and a couple of glasses. Behind the back, under the leg, the bottle and glasses twirled until his big finale, catching one glass inside the other and then the bottle inside both. Dorian heard the crowd cheering and reveled in it. They whistled and applauded as he took a bow. Then, they opened their wallets and purses.
A slight buzz hit Dorian, followed by resentment. The customers showed their appreciation with their hard-earned cash, but management offered him nothing. Charlene should pay me under the table. Can’t she see I’m the reason everyone’s here?
He glared at his coworker as he plodded around fetching drinks without style or glamour. No one cares about Greg. No one cares about Charlene or anyone else here. It’s me they come to see .
He glanced at the Glenlivet. It seemed to call to him from the shelf. At the least, what I do for this place entitles me to another drink.
As Dorian removed the bottle from the shelf, he glimpsed himself in the mirror behind it. He gasped. The bottle slipped from his hands, bounced on the rubber floor mat, and rolled beneath the bar.
Instinctively, his hand went to his face, examining its contours. The reflection mimicked Dorian’s movements, but the ghastly image staring back couldn’t be his. Its face was wrinkled, the skin loose and dry. Crow’s feet extended from the corners of its eyes. A mop of gray hair shot like cotton candy from the back half of the head. The image’s mouth hung open, revealing yellow-stained teeth behind cracked lips. As Dorian touched his mouth, he realized it was open, too.
He shook his head. Closing his eyes, Dorian prayed that when he re-opened them, his true face would be there to greet him. His prayers went unanswered. If anything, his reflection seemed older still, as though it were aging upon the glass.
It’s not me , he tried to convince himself. But the eyes told a different tale—emerald green and unmistakably his. His head began to swirl and he braced himself against the shelving. He keeled over, the liquor in his stomach threatening to come out. The memory of his strange reflection after his shower came back. His fans’ admiration, along with the alcohol, had erased it from his mind. But not from the mirror.
This can’t be happening. I’m only twenty-eight. I’m not old. I’m young. I’m young!
“Are you all right?” Greg asked.
Dorian glared at his coworker. “Of course I’m not all right!”
Greg stared back at him with the dopey-sad eyes of a scolded puppy.
Oblivious, as usual. Dorian scowled. He let out a breath, then straightened, careful to avert his eyes from the mirror. Greg watched him. The confusion written across his face remained.
“It’s a joke, right?” Dorian asked, laughing in a kind of panic. “Some kind of magic mirror?” The idea made no sense, but he was desperate. He wanted to believe it. “It’s a damn good prank. Was it your idea?”
“What are you talking about?” Greg asked. “Are you feeling okay? Maybe you should take a break.”
Dorian turned back to the mirror. An old man’s face stared back at him, a face so foul he had to look away. He’d wished his reflection would age instead of him, but even if such a wish could come true, it would take fifty years or more to look this bad. It had to be a trick. “Okay, Greg. Good one. Can we move on, now? Seriously, how are you doing it?”
“Dorian—”
Dorian cut the lesser bartender off with an exasperated grunt. He wanted immediate answers, and Greg wasn’t cooperating. He dismissed his coworker and approached the closest customer, a young woman with straight brown hair tied back into a ponytail. She wore a dull black suit that screamed “lawyer.” A matching black purse sat next to her on the bar.
“Miss,” Dorian began. “May I ask you a question?” The woman seemed surprised by the attention. When she didn’t respond quickly enough, Do
rian continued. “How old do you think I am?”
The woman smiled. Dorian could tell she was interested. His confidence slowly returned. No woman her age would be interested in that geezer in the mirror.
“Do I get a free drink if I get it right?” she asked.
“Sure.”
“Twenty-six.”
“Close enough.”
“I’ll trade the free drink for more time with you. I’m Becky, by the way. How close was I?”
“Nice to meet you, Becky. I’m Dorian. You were two years off.”
“Oh yeah? Which way?”
Reassured, Dorian smiled. Still, he hesitated to look into the mirror, convinced the old man would still be standing where his young, vital reflection belonged. Slowly, he willed his head to turn.
Dorian stopped smiling, and so did the man in the mirror. The image now resembled his father, just before he … Dorian shuddered. A long, white beard hung from his reflection’s chin. Dorian stroked his chin, but all he felt was stubble. Am I going crazy?
“Enough!” he shrieked, slamming his fist against the bar. Becky jumped. Dorian’s face reddened. Fear had gotten the better of him. He masked it with a shaky grin.
“Do you have a mirror?”
Becky stared at him as though his words were foreign. Dorian fidgeted and his heart raced, but he waited patiently for her response. At last, Becky nodded.
“May I see it?”
Becky opened her purse and sifted through its contents. After a moment, she withdrew a compact mirror and handed it to Dorian.
Hands trembling, he fumbled it open. A lump caught in his throat. He wanted to scream, barely holding it back. In the mirror, he saw the self he might have expected to see if he were eighty years old.
Quivering, he threw the mirror onto the floor and stomped on it, grunting like an animal, breaking glass and plastic beneath his heel.
“Hey,” Becky protested weakly. Greg stepped away and attended to a customer at the far end of the bar. Charlene hustled over.
Wrathbone and Other Stories Page 8