Murder in the North Tower

by Greg Smith

  Despite bogging down toward the end, Step seemed pleased with his attempted play on words. Aleks was a bit puzzled by his brother’s usual unusual, and imperfect, wit.

  Connie snorted into her drink.

  “Step, honey, that’s not quite–”

  For the second time that evening, Aleks cut the beautiful blond off.

  “Well then. Let’s heft our glasses to the rafters once again,” he said. “To you and Connie. May your love for each other only increase with time. May your household multiply. And may your hearts never be divided.”

  They touched glasses, drank.

  “That’s sweet, Aleks, dear. And clever,” Connie crooned. “But our house will never multiply. Step and I aren’t having any children. We’ve discussed it.”

  She looked Step’s way for corroboration.

  “It’s up to you to carry on the Bagdasarian name, big bro,” Step consented.

  Aleks set his drink down. Thought he could use the moment to voice his concern about the future of their business ambitions.

  “No plans for fatherhood in my near future,” he remarked. “That would require a suitable female companion. I’m, uh, not in the market at the moment. I’d rather focus on following our dream. You know, Step. That thing we’ve been planning on doing ever since we were very, very young.”

  “Which is?” a curious Connie asked, glancing from one brother to the other.

  “Oh, Step hasn’t mentioned it?” Aleks mocked surprise. “Owning our own financial planning firm. Working together. Nothing important, really. Just something we’ve talked about since we were old enough to understand that we’d have to work for a living someday.”

  “C’mon, Aleks, Connie doesn’t want to be bored with all that,” Step asserted.

  “Bore me,” Connie interjected.

  Step grimaced, dropped his napkin in his plate.

  “Here we go,” he groused.

  Connie’s interest took Aleks by surprise.

  “We, uh, we always believed we’d be working together some day. When we were kids, we talked about being accountants. Having our own business. BBBC. Remember that, Step? Bagdasarian Brothers, colon, Bean Counters.”

  Step grunted his acknowledgement, a smile momentarily creasing his lips.

  “We didn’t even really know what a bean counter was,” Aleks went on. “It was just something we overheard Baba say. We thought you could actually get a job counting beans! That someone would literally pay you to count their beans.”

  Aleks chuckled at the memory.

  “Anyway, the dream continued to evolve as we got older and learned more about banking, accounting, investing. Stock brokering. Somewhere along the line, we settled on financial planning.”

  Connie realized the truth of Aleks’s situation. He’d said he was “between jobs.” The truth was, he was ready to make a move. Pursue their dream. Step, however, had a secure future. Working for her father. His soon-to-be father-in-law. Step was about to get married. Not the best time to venture out into the world of high finance on their own.

  “I think it’s a great idea!” she exclaimed. “You should do it, Step!”

  Step gave her a look of complete shock and surprise.

  “But…the wedding…Wins…”

  “It’s adorable. Two brothers. Twin brothers. Following their dream. Risking it all. The devil be damned.”

  Connie tipped her drink at the boys, gulped down the remaining contents. Aleks was as surprised as Step. Was this beautiful, independently-wealthy woman suggesting she’d support Step should he decide to bail on her father? Risk his future – their future – on a pipe dream? Or was she mocking them?

  Step cleared his throat.

  “Connie. Look, honey. It’s… Aleks is... The timing is just all wrong. I couldn’t concentrate on you, the wedding, and a start-up venture, all at the same time. It’s just too much.”

  Aleks spoke up.

  “I understand if–”

  “Zip it. Both of you,” Connie commanded. “Hear me out. Step. If this is what you and Aleks have always wanted, I think you should go for it. You should do it. It’s your lifelong dream, honey. I don’t want to come between you and that. Or between you and your brother.”

  She turned to Aleks.

  “Aleks. You’ve waited this long. I’m sure you’ve got a lot of details to work out. Do you have a business plan?”

  Aleks pointed to his head.

  “It’s all up here.”

  “It needs to be on paper,” Connie instructed. “No bank is going to loan you the money for a start-up without a solid business plan.”

  Step broke out his best Tony Montana impersonation.

  “We don’t need no stinkin’ bank. We haff the money.”

  Connie looked at her fiancé oddly, unaware he was impersonating the main character of Scar Face. If she was surprised to hear the Bagdasarian brothers had somehow managed to save enough money to fund a start-up, she didn’t show it. Nor did Aleks express his surprise at Step’s ridiculous Cuban accent. Or that his normally reticent brother had attempted humor.

  “You still need a business plan,” Connie continued. “For yourselves. You need to put it all down on paper. Take your time. Do it right.”

  She paused long enough to grab Step’s gin and tonic, drink from his glass.

  “Once the wedding is over and we’re back from our honeymoon, I think you two should go for it.”

  “What about Wins? I–”

  “Step, honey, you leave Daddy to me,” Connie answered confidently.

  Aleks had listened with disbelief. Maybe he’d underestimated the spoiled rich girl. Or maybe she was playing them. Getting back at Daddy by encouraging his best employee to leave the coop. He wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt. But he had a nagging suspicion the gorgeous blond had some agenda of her own at play.

  “I like this girl!” he told Step. “I like her a lot, Binyak! Thank you, Connie. You stole my brother’s heart, but you gave us back our dream. I’m not sure how you pulled that off, but… Thank you.”

  Of course, Aleks was right to question Connie Stanton’s trustworthiness.

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 44

  <“B” IS FOR BAGDASARIAN>

  Wednesday October 17: Day 36 post-9/11

  The stranger stared straight ahead at the metallic surface, heard a chime as the metal separated. He exited the elevator, turned left. He walked only a few feet before coming to a glass wall. Through the glass, he saw a blurry, black image painted on a red wall above a reception counter. There was no apparent reason for the black image to be fuzzy. The glass was clear. Everything else was in focus. The blur slowly cleared, like fog swept away on a whisper of wind. The image materialized. Three large, capital letters, huddled together, but separated by slashes, were arched above the black, two-headed Albanian eagle from his tattoo. “A/S/B.” The word “Financial,” also in large, black letters, curved upward beneath the eagle.

  A/S/B Financial, he read, feeling proud. Feeling he was home.

  He was at the office. The A/S/B Financial office. He knew he wasn’t just an employee. A bean counter. That didn’t feel like the right fit. The two-headed eagle indicated a stronger connection. Something higher up the corporate ladder. The pride he felt indicated…

  Ownership.

  A/S/B Financial. A for Alex. S for…Binyak’s real name must start with “S”. B for…Brothers? Alex/S-something/Brothers…Financial? No. That wasn’t it. B was for… Their last name! Their last name started with “B”!

  The black image and the red wall disappeared. He was suddenly staring directly into a mirror. The reflection smiling back was eight or nine years old. The reflection spoke to him.

  “We’re good with numbers, Binyak. We’re both good with numbers.”

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  “We’re both good with numbers,” Alex muttered aloud as he came out of the dream-memory.

  But we’re not just bean counters. We’re…finan
cial planners? Financial consultants? Financial analysts? All of the above?

  He surveyed the now familiar room he’d woken up in, remembered where he was, remembered he’d been injured, was suffering from memory loss. He also remembered much of the previous day, bits and pieces from the days prior.

  He grabbed the revised index cards from the nightstand, looked them over. He’d removed the index cards from the bathroom mirror after returning from the library two days earlier, amended their birth date and age. Despite the meeting with Isni Pernaska and learning that “binjak” was the Albanian word for “twin,” he’d left his brother’s name as it was. Binyak. He’d also left his parents’ names unchanged.

  While he knew Binyak’s name was inaccurate, oddly, the name on his card didn’t seem quite right either. He wished he could work out why that was. Closing his eyes, he tried picturing a driver’s license. A credit card. A business card. Something that would have his name on it. When nothing came, he added the new information about A/S/B Financial, reviewed his newly-edited card.

  His name was Alex. He was thirty-four years old. He had a twin brother, Binyak. They’d worked together at A/S/B Financial. Possibly their own company. They were possibly financial advisors. Possibly investors. He may have killed his brother and a blond woman named Connie. She may have been his wife. She and Binyak had possibly had an affair.

  It seemed the more he’d remembered, the more possibilities he’d exposed.

  He had bags of possibilities.

  Bags…

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  He heard a voice. Deep, slow. Like a record played at the wrong speed.

  “Bagsaquarium,” the voice said, with a slow, deep, distorted sound.

  It was his own voice. It sounded far away. As though it was coming through a wall.

  He was in a room full of shadow figures, their mumbled conversation providing a background cacophony. It took a moment for him to realize he was in a bar. A large shadow figure was standing next to him, holding a pitcher of beer. The shadow figure was a man. A very large man. His face was blurry, indistinguishable. The large shadowman extended a hand. When he spoke, his voice was distorted. Deep. Slow. Unintelligible. Just as his own voice had been.

  “Ohkuhughwahzerrrskee…,” the large shadowman garbled.

  The shadowman’s huge mitt swallowed Alex’s hand like an outfielder’s glove shagging a fly ball. Alex introduced himself again. His voice was still deep, slow, garbled. Even though he’d said them, he couldn’t understand his own words.

  “Bagsaquarium?” the shadowman asked, his voice still distorted. “Kinda name is that?”

  The background murmur had stopped. All but two shadow figures had disappeared. The large shadowman remained. The second shadow figure was tall, but thinner than the large shadowman. Though he was indistinct, Alex knew the thinner shadow figure was Binyak. As they spoke, all their voices remained deep, slow. Their words, however, became more easily recognizable.

  “It’s Albanian,” Binyak answered.

  The shadowman grunted.

  “Like Yossarian,” he said.

  Alex didn’t know anyone named Yossarian. But the name sounded as though it could be Albanian.

  “Yossarian?” he asked, in his distorted voice.

  “Catch-22,” Binyak replied, his voice also slow, deep, indistinct. “By Joseph Heller.”

  Alex was vaguely familiar with the term “catch-22.” Something about contradictions, illogical rules.

  The shadowman chuckled.

  “Bagsaquarium and Yossarian,” he droned. “Albanian brothers.”

  Alex repeated his last name, correcting the shadowman’s pronunciation.

  “Swhat I said,” the shadowman chuckled, his voice growing even slower, deeper. “Bagsaquarium.”

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  Bagsaquarium?

  Alex puzzled over the name. Obviously, it wasn’t his actual last name, but something that sounded similar.

  Bagsterrarium?

  Bagslibrarian?

  Bagscontrarian?

  Bagsdelirium, he thought wryly.

  He tried speeding the sound of his voice up, but that didn’t help.

  Bagsaquarum.

  Bagsaquerm.

  Bags of…worms?

  “Alex?”

  It was Nadia, come to ask if he wanted breakfast.

  “Griggor is here. Will you join us downstairs for breakfast?”

  First we eat, then we do everything else.

  The woman looked different. Younger. More attractive. Not that she had ever been unsightly. Alex just hadn’t viewed her as a woman before. She was just the person who fed him every day. Nursed him. Washed his clothes.

  “Of course, Nadia.”

  He followed her downstairs.

  During breakfast, he mentioned that he intended to return to the Jefferson Market Library to conduct more research. On his own this time.

  “No offense, Griggor.”

  “Nu offense is taken, hey? But you need card. To use computer.”

  The old man opened his wallet, slipped his library card out for Alex to borrow.

  At the library, Alex transferred the information from his index cards onto an Excel spreadsheet. He felt very comfortable working in Excel. Formatting columns and text. His fingers danced over the keys. He typed his name. Centered at the top of a column.

  Alex Bagsaquarium

  The name looked completely alien. He knew the last name couldn’t possibly be correct, but even “Alex” didn’t look right. He deleted the ‘x’, typed ‘cs’ in its place.

  Alecs Bagsaquarium

  It still didn’t look quite right. He changed the ‘c’ to ‘k.’

  Roosa spelling, hey? he thought, in deference to Griggor.

  Aleks Bagsaquarium

  Hmm.

  Aleks looked right. Felt right. But he was still on square one with his last name.

  Bags of possibilities.

  Bags…

  On impulse, Aleks separated the last name.

  Aleks Bags – aquarium

  He tabbed to a new cell, typed “Albanian.”

  Like Yossarian, he remembered the large shadowman from his dream–memory saying.

  Unlike Bagsaquarium, an obvious misrepresentation of his own last name, the name Yossarian provoked a sense of familiarity. Just as Bags did. He melded the two names together in his mind.

  Bags–Yossarian.

  No help.

  Bags–Ossarian.

  Sounded Irish.

  Bags…uh…sarian.

  That sounded familiar.

  Bag…uh…sarian.

  Hmm.

  And it came to him.

  Bag…duh…sarian.

  Aleks Bagdasarian.

  He grabbed hold, held on for dear life.

  He deleted “Bags – aquarium,” typed the name he’d snagged from the river called Amnesia in its place.

  Aleks Bagdasarian

  Bagdasarian. The “B” in A/S/B Financial. It was a mouthful. No wonder he’d had such a hard time remembering it.

  He stared at the name that had eluded him for nearly five weeks. He’d finally found himself. He was Aleks Bagdasarian. A.k.a. Bags.

  Again, that word elicited an instant of reminiscence.

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  They were in the high school auditorium. At a formal dance. Their senior prom. Nikki was their date. They were Nikki’s double dates. It was the last dance. A slow dance. They were huddled together. Their arms draped around one another’s shoulders.

  Nikki hugged them close, basked in the moment of intimacy.

  “Hmm. I love you guys. My Bagsman. My Badgerguy. I’ll always love you both.”

  ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜ ˜

  He suddenly wasn’t so sure who he was. Was he Aleks? Was he Bags? The Bagsman. Or was he Binyak? Badger. The Badgerguy. Or…

  Am I both Aleks and Binyak? Could I have a split personality? How does that work? One comes forward when a person is traumatized? The stronger one? Ale
ks? And if Binyak is just a figment of my imagination, who’s the other me in my visions? Who do I struggle with? My ego? My super ego? My alter ego? My subconscious? Or id? Whatever that is. Fuck! Where’s a shrink when you really need one! Dr. Sigmund Freud to the Help Desk please!

  “Tell me, Dr. Freud, if I’ve invented Binyak…if he doesn’t exist…how could I have killed him? Is that symbolic? Me killing off some part of my psyche I don’t like?”

  He visualized himself lying on a couch. The psychoanalyst sitting nearby, pen and notepad in hand.

  “Ain’t no denyin’ ’at ’ere dead blond, though, is ’ere, Aleks, old boy. Connie’s ’er name. See-duck-shun’s ’er game, mate.”

  He thought is strange that Dr. Sigmund Freud would answer with an exaggerated Cockney accent.

  Not for the first time since he’d begun remembering, the stranger considered the possibility that his head injury was causing him to create false memories. That he may have fabricated his twin brother for some mysterious psychological purpose. And that he may be partially, or completely, mad.

  • • • • •

  CHAPTER 45

 

  “Ef we uz zoo an-knee-mulls, we’d be em-poor-or pen-gwins, we would,” Aleks whispered into his brother’s ear.

  He’d joined Step on a balcony overlooking a dazzling scene. Shimmering chandeliers and candelabras. Elegant tables of silver-plattered cuisine. Tuxedoed waiters serving appetizers and champagne.

  The Stanton-Bagdasarian wedding.

  Though the Stantons had strongly objected to their daughter’s choice of a groom, and didn’t agree with the haste with which she was taking nuptial vows for a second time, Connie’s wedding celebration was, to say the least, an extravaganza of excess.

  Winsy and Gwensy Stanton deserved nothing less.

  Step had capitulated completely to the overbearing Stantons – and Dolf – on all wedding plans and expenses. He was uneasy in the presence of so much wealth and opulence. Aleks, on the other hand, appeared very much at home rubbing shoulders with New York City’s upper echelon.

  “I must say, you done good, you ‘ave, old chap.”

  He sipped a glass of Scotch, surveyed the array of lavish luxury. He just couldn’t resist the British accent. Given all the pomp and circumstance.