PALINDROME

by Lawrence Kelter

  Outside, a toothless, gray-haired woman with a sallow complexion walked side by side with her husband. They looked like hillbillies from the Incest Foothills. They also looked like they had the same parents; okay, maybe they only shared one parent. Well anyway, the still must have been broken because they were headed for the liquor store and their daily ration of joy juice. They were carrying vinyl eco-friendly grocery bags (at least they both had an environmental conscience). Do I sound judgmental? Yes. Do I sound prejudice? Undoubtedly. The truth was that my heart ached for these people. As bad as things had been for Ax and me, these people had it worse. Ax and I still had hope, and these poor folks . . . God only knew what would become of them.

  As I watched this menagerie of misfortunates, I could not imagine having to copy any one of them. Ax and I both share a similar nightmare—we’ve dreamed that we copied one of these woebegone citizens and were not able to change back. Okay, it’s all right to hate us for a minute. I completely understand. I hope you’ll let it pass. Take all the time you need. Please don’t judge us. Despite our special abilities, Ax and I have fears and insecurities like anyone else. Perhaps we are a bit paranoid, but for us, it’s a legitimate fear.

  So Gabi eats when she feels angst, and angst she did after my abduction from the Suds Shack while on her watch. She was keeping up with the six plump gals and was wolfing down egg rolls and cheese-fried wontons as if they were M&M’s. So great was her guilt that the waiter asked if we were ready for the check three separate times.

  “Why would you feel guilty, Gabi? I was drunk. I put myself in harm’s way. The only thing you’re guilty of is coming down with a bad case of cramps at an inopportune time.”

  “This always happens to me: I overeat, I drink, and I get sick.” Chomp, chomp. “I’m going back for more Philadelphia roll. I love cream cheese.”

  I watched Gabi shimmy out of the booth and make her way over to the land of sneeze guards and high-sodium treats. The tray of king crab legs was empty. The pachyderm-sized babes had to keep themselves busy eating other delicacies while they waited for the kitchen to steam up the next batch. As such, there was a big line for the spare ribs. Gabi wouldn’t be back for quite a while.

  I checked the time. I—rather, Allie—was due at the Legal Aid attorney’s office later that afternoon, and there was no way that she could go dressed as I was now. I could change my appearance, but I had the same earthbound limitation as everyone else when it came to wardrobe. The laundry had been piling up for weeks, and I was down to the bottom of my drawer. I was wearing a threadbare white camisole and red terrycloth shorts. I’ve owned them both since I was an early teen. A pair of well-worn cowboy boots pulled the entire look together. It was my best white-trash, come-hither outfit. The two guys planning the convenience-store takedown were getting all worked up. I wanted to mess with them by sprouting some facial hair, but I wasn’t sure that it wouldn’t have turned them on. Anyway, Allie couldn’t show up at the Legal Aid office looking like a trollop. She had to be refined and demure, and she would be. All it would take was a wardrobe change and a little molecular rearrangement, no sweat.

  I checked on Gabi; she had given up on the spare ribs and made a move on the dessert. The six chubbies were hours away from their final course—it gave Gabi free reign over the warm apple pie and soft-serve ice cream. She came back with a mound of chocolate and vanilla swirl. “Are you finished already?” she asked. “You’ve hardly touched anything.”

  “Got to watch my weight; I barely squeezed this rear end of mine into these shorts. There’s butt showing everywhere.”

  “I noticed that you look a little sluttier than usual,” she smirked, “but those are old, aren’t they?”

  “Totally old. I only wear these when there’s absolutely nothing left in the closet, or I need to persuade a handyman to fix my plumbing . . . literally.”

  Gabi giggled. “I wish I had a toosh like yours. They haven’t invented a pair of jeans you don’t look good in.”

  Gabi was one of the few people who actually knew what my real butt looked like. I’ve refined the art of rear-end replication down to a fine art. Now you may be thinking that a butt is a butt and it didn’t need to be fiddled with, but if you really want to sell the makeover (to a guy, anyway), you’ve got to have the rear end down cold—some men can pick a butt out of a lineup quicker than if they were looking at your face.

  “Tell me again,” Gabi said, “How did you get away from that creep?”

  “I told you, he was sloshed. I got lucky and hip-checked him into the wall. He smacked his head, and I got the hell out of there.”

  “You are so totally bitchin’,” Gabi said as she scraped the last bit of ice cream out of her dish. She didn’t need to know that Ax followed me to Vincent’s place and laid the aikido whoop ass on him. Our secret was our secret, one we would take with us to the grave. The actual situation had been much more dangerous than the highly adulterated version I relayed to Gabi. I only told her what she needed to know—that I was completely wasted and had gotten into a car with Vincent, a guy I shouldn’t have gone with. It was a mistake I would never again repeat. I told Gabi that he had treated me without respect and that I laid him out. She didn’t need to know that Vincent was growing colder and colder with each passing second and that he would never again have the opportunity to drug another unsuspecting girl. Okay, I may not be the most innocent girl in the world, but I only mess with the creeps who are up to no good and need to be stopped. Yes, my methods are completely unconventional, and the brother-and-sister-switching-form tag team even creeps me out sometimes. God had given us these talents for a reason—so think of us as the yin and yang of a superhero team, a superhero team with a strong sense of irony.

  Okay, so the guy with the bloody bandana totally winked at me. I tapped Gabi on the hand and began sliding out of the booth. “Chow time’s over, friend of mine; this girl’s got laundry to do.” Gabi didn’t look happy about the abrupt exit, but as they say, “an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”

  “But I’m not—” Gabi said sadly.

  “Grab a fortune cookie; this meal is over.”

  ~~~

  Shawn Riley was able to access Vincent’s home with very little difficulty. The landscapers were performing the weekly lawn maintenance. There were at least twenty landscapers attending to the two hundred homes in the community. They all wore red tee shirts with the landscaper’s logo printed on the front in white letters. A quick trip over to TJ Maxx and Riley had a red PCH tee shirt with a logo so close to the landscaper’s tee that you had to look twice to tell them apart. Sporting the telltale red tee, Riley was able to roam the property freely. He was tall and wiry, an all-state soccer star who had gotten booted from Hofstra for steroid abuse. Had he found an open window, he could literally have jumped through it with a short running start. His athleticism was not needed. On a whim, he tried Vincent’s car, which was still sitting in the driveway. The door was unlocked. One tap on the HomeLink button, and the garage door was open.

  Startling cold produced goose bumps on his arms. Save for the sound of the air rushing through the vents, the condo was silent. The air was permeated with a stale odor that Riley had not encountered before. The unit wasn’t big, fifteen hundred square feet at most. There weren’t many places to look. The garage led into the kitchen; from there he could see Vincent lying on the floor in the main room. The television was still on. He recognized Dr. Phil immediately. The good Dr. Phil was on common ground, performing an intervention on a teenage boy as the boy’s bewildered parents looked on. He was talking some manner of God-awful gibberish scripted to hook weak-minded viewers.

  The odor grew stronger as Riley approached Vincent’s motionless body. There were pieces of cracked plaster on the floor around him, and the entertainment unit was smashed.

  Riley had a sense of what to expect: the gray skin, the blood, and the urine stain on the crotch. It took just a moment for it to sink in.

  Riley’s downw
ard spiral from soccer phenom to adolescent aberrant had come about quite quickly. The bust for substance abuse was followed by dismissal from school and the loss of his scholarship. It was a perfect storm of unfortunate events that crushed him and sent him searching for a new path that would suck him further and further into a dark hole. Heroin is a very common addiction in Suffolk County these days. It’s an expensive high with a price tag that can’t be measured in dollars.

  Riley thought for a moment of the places he would have to wipe down before leaving the deceased’s home. He knew enough not to leave fingerprints. He dialed Thomas Sparks on his cell phone and relayed the situation as he had found it. The conversation lasted less than a minute.

  Sparks ended it with just a few words, “Make it disappear.”

  Seven: Hoochie Coochie Man

  I had been Allie before. She was a go-to, a face and body I had long ago committed to memory. She was a person whose identity I could assume at will. She was not from New York, so I wasn’t worried about bumping into her anywhere on Long Island. She had that rich girl look I figured Keith would go for in a second.

  Oh dear Lord, there ought to be a law. I was Allie to a tee. I had the hair and the eyes down perfectly, most importantly the eyes. I often became lost in the color and configuration of her iris, in details so complex that it was like staring up and getting lost in the cosmos. Then, the size and roundness of her eye sockets—expanding from there, the bridge of her nose, the placement of her cheekbones, and finally the length and taper of her chin. Allie’s body was the easiest of all. Those dimensions were easy to approximate, and if I was off by a centimeter or so . . . well, who would know? If I was copying a female form like Allie’s, I would err on the slight side and no one would complain. For men, a little extra beefcake never hurt anyone.

  I had a huge wardrobe to choose from, a veritable actors costume chest from which Ax and I selected the proper accoutrements, the final touches that meant the difference between make or break. It was mostly used stuff from secondhand shops, which were in vogue on Long Island and in the city. The secondhand thing had become a bit of a scam; wealthy North Shore and prominent Manhattan women would peddle their one-season-old Gucci and Prada at the secondhand store, score the extra cash, and then use hubby’s credit card to buy a new wardrobe. They would use the extra cash to cover those indulgent items their husbands didn’t like them spending their hard-earned money for. To gild the lily, they would then take credit for being thrifty. It’s no way to maintain a healthy relationship, but I knew it was going on all over. “I’ve given up lunch with the girls at Nobu; it was too extravagant.” Pure BS: the charges were just not showing up on the credit-card statement anymore.

  Ax and I had planned the evening down to the smallest detail, and because Ax was such a neurotic, we had rehearsed each segment of the evening until there was no chance for error. For our date, I met Keith outside an office building where I told him I was doing some part-time work. As such I did not have to give him Allie’s actual home address. I told him that she lived in Muttontown. The high-rent address was enough to sell the rich-girl mystique Keith seemed to like so much. The address, like the rest of the backstory Ax and I had created, was pure fiction. So Allie was me, and I was Allie. Ax had posed as Dana, the clumsy but gorgeous waitress at Prime. Knocking over the glass of water was no accident, nor were the Jessica Rabbit boobs we knew Keith would be unable to resist.

  Back to the here and now, I was Allie once again and I—I mean, we—were wearing a freshly laundered, classic, pink blouse with ruffles and lots of fabric to belie the impact of her youthful body. Tailored black slacks and simple low wedge sandals rounded out the presentation. Our very appearance spoke to our innocence. Now, if I could just turn my old, rust-bucket car into the BMW I knew the real Allie drove . . . but that would mandate grand larceny auto, and I had no intention of ending up behind bars. So, I parked the old clunker a few blocks away and hoofed it over to the Legal Aid attorney’s office.

  Louis Gelfman came free of charge, and to be honest, that was the only form of counsel I could afford. The real Allie would have had her parent’s financial strength behind her and would have anted up plenty for a swanky Garden City attorney, but for me, guile had to go a long way.

  Ax and I are pretty hard up for money. We share a two-bedroom condo that we’ve inherited from our Aunt Sue. The place is very dated. Okay it’s a disaster area. It needs a ton of work, but it’s mortgage-free. What can I say? It’s better than living on the street, and I know what that feels like.

  Louis Gelfman may not have worked for a hotshot law firm, but he had a sincere face. Pictures of his family covered every inch of his credenza. I could see that he had a young daughter, so I knew without asking just what he thought about sex offenders and how he would treat an attempted rapist. BTW, Gelfman had a JD Diploma from Columbia Law School, so he was obviously not a dope.

  “Thanks so much for coming in,” Gelfman began. “I know this can’t be easy for you.”

  Allie smiled. “Where else would I be? I mean this guy—” Allie started to choke up. No tears, not yet, just enough emotion to sell the story. I took a pack of tissues out of my purse and held onto them for effect.

  Gelfman seized an empty water glass and filled it from a carafe. “We’ll take it slow,” he said. “Here, drink some water.”

  Allie took a moment to gain composure. The emotion she displayed on her face appeared sincere and accurate to Gelfman’s eye. “So, why am I here? You said something about an offer? Are we talking about one of those plea-bargain things? . . . because I’m not afraid to face this guy in court,” Allie shook her head woefully. “I can’t believe he was planning to drug me.”

  “Actually,” Gelfman said, “possession does not necessarily prove intent, but based on the circumstances and the specific nature of the illegal substance that the police found in his home . . .”

  Allie looked into his eyes and waited for him to continue. She pulled a tissue out of the pack and held it near her face. “So tell me, what’s going on? My parents are on vacation in Europe. I haven’t called to tell them anything yet, but I will need to bring them up-to-date, and if they need to fly home . . . damn, it’s their twenty-fifth anniversary. I’ll totally ruin their vacation.”

  Gelfman smiled a sad smile. “You’re twenty-one and legally an adult, so the decision whether to inform your parents or not is completely up to you, but speaking as a parent, if I may, I think you should have all the support you need, and I’m sure your parents would want to know. It’s a big burden for you to carry alone. I think the support of your family would help a great deal at a time like this.”

  Tears now, just a few. Perfect, Allie, that was just right, just enough. She dabbed at the corner of her eye. “Thanks, I’ll think about it. Please, give me the details. I want this to be over as soon as possible.”

  “Bottom line,” Gelfman began, “the defendant’s attorney will be here in a few minutes. His counsel insisted on meeting with you to present the offer, and since you were nice enough to agree—”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “A little. Opposing counsel usually communicates directly with me, and then I put forth the offer, but in a case like this, I’m happy to expedite the process as quickly as I can.”

  The door to Gelfman’s office swung open. Another attorney, who looked a lot like a stocky Woody Allen leaned in through the doorway. “Your appointment’s here, Louie. Where do you want them?”

  Gelfman checked his watch. “He’s very prompt.” He turned to his colleague. “Can you put them in the small conference room, please?”

  “Sure thing, Louie.” Woody Allen gave Gelfman a smile and a thumbs-up before he pulled the door closed behind him.

  “Is that a good sign?” I asked.

  Gelfman smiled in a most learned manner. “That’s a very good sign. Are you ready?”

  “I guess.” Gelfman slid the glass of water closer to me. “Drink. Now remember, I’ll do most of
the talking. If you want to say something, whisper it to me, and I’ll articulate it for you. If I want you to answer, I’ll say, ‘Allie, you can answer the question.’ If you need to take a break, we’ll take a break. Remember, they’re coming to us. They want to squash this thing fast, but that will be your decision, not theirs. If you’re feeling pressured, let me know, and I’ll just end it.”

  “Sounds like we’re in charge.”

  “Oh, we are definitely in charge. This guy could be looking at real jail time. There’s not a court in New York State that would let this slide and they damn well know it. Shall we go in?”

  “Okay.” Allie smiled boldly, her broad cheeks almost pulled her skin tight enough to hide her nervous, quivering chin.

  I could only see Keith’s attorney from the back as he was facing away from us when we entered the conference room. I got a better look at him as we walked around the conference table to take our seats. I tried not to look too interested, but Keith’s attorney . . . well, he was pretty. His overall appearance spoke confidence and his eyes, his eyes burned like the fire of the sun. They were a rich turquoise color and the juxtaposition of turquoise against the black of his pupil . . . well, you already know that I find the eyes intriguing. His eyes may have been the most unusual I had ever seen. It was difficult for me not to stare.

  He was on his feet instantly, extending a warm hand and a broad smile. “Thank you so much for agreeing to this meeting. My name is Emilio Bolan. I am here representing Keith Cooper.” Gelfman exchanged greetings with Bolan.

  “For the record,” Gelfman began, “this is an informal proceeding. Even so, please direct your questions to me and not to my client. Are we agreed?”

  “Of course,” Bolan said. He was beyond cordial, accommodating to the fullest extent.