The Double

Twelve

In the next few days, after the accident in the hotel room, it seemed to Lucas that he had accomplished little. Later he’d know that he had done significant work in this period, but it would not come to him just yet. He was mainly frustrated and confused.

His hand was part of the problem. It bothered him to be a gimp. A man didn’t like to walk down the street without the full ability to defend himself, and this was how it was for him now. He had sustained no significant injuries in Iraq outside of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and had experienced the usual maladies, like dehydration, diarrhea, ingrown toenails, and athlete’s foot, but he was not used to being hampered like this. He had once thought that Christ had been looking after him in the Middle East, but after witnessing many accidental deaths in the war, he knew he had been spared by virtue of dumb luck. Neither God nor luck had anything to do with this injury. Inattention had caused him to trip. Idiocy had put his hand out to break his fall on a floor of broken glass.

Underneath his bandage, his hand was heavily slathered in Neosporin. The crescent-shaped cut on the heel of his palm was stitched like a baseball. Still, he managed to maintain his exercise regimen. He could use the push-up stands if he didn’t grip the handle too tightly and could ride his bike the same way. That left work.

He found it difficult to concentrate, but that wasn’t because of his injury. It was Charlotte Rivers. His brother would say he was drunk on pussy, and that was part of it, but not all. He wanted her to be his girlfriend. He wanted to walk with her out in the world, as he would with any other woman. See her outside that suite, take her to a movie, hold her hand across the dinner table of a nice restaurant, Mourayo on Connecticut, or Petits Plats, the little French place he liked in Woodley Park. But Charlotte wasn’t answering her phone or returning his texts. Of course she wasn’t. She was married, and she owned a disposable cell for secretive purposes only. She turned on the burner only to contact him when she wanted to. Spero Lucas, her young lover. Her lover boy whom she summoned whenever she had the need.

“Fuck this,” said Lucas, to no one, seated alone at his table, reading the morning Post.

He turned his attention to the Metro section of the newspaper. Among the usual violent deaths of blacks and Hispanics buried inside the section, one story got extra column inches and ink. An elderly coin dealer, Ira Rubin, well known in the area because of his longtime retail operation in Wheaton, had been severely injured and robbed of his goods inside a McDonald’s bathroom in Beltsville. The man was listed in critical but stable condition, which typically meant he was going to recover. Rubin had been hit by a blunt object from behind, and the force of the blow had split his skull. Bad Day at Black Rock, thought Lucas. But at least he’s alive.

Lucas got into shorts and a T, rode his bike up to Silver Spring, and locked it to a pole outside Kefa Cafe on Bonifant Street, his favorite coffee shop in his old neighborhood. Sitting at a table among the laptoppers and City Paper readers was John Starr, a private investigator who had garnered a rep around town in the past twenty years. Starr had been a guitarist and vocalist in one of the premiere bands recording for Dischord in the early nineties and, like many in the original Positive Force movement, had put his ideals to work as he moved along into his middle age. He mainly took cases or incidents when he thought that the defendant was being railroaded or wronged. Lucas had met him down at the federal courthouse one day while both of them were waiting to testify in separate trials. They’d hit it off.

“What’d you do, drop your wallet on your hand?” said Starr.

“Just garden-variety stupidity,” said Lucas.

Starr was drinking coffee; Lucas, iced tea.

“So you want to draw this guy out?” said Starr.

“I think he’s in town,” said Lucas. “Him and another guy I’m looking at for something else. They’re together.”

“Together in what?”

“Criminal shit,” said Lucas. “Scamming and thievery. At least one of them’s a sociopath. There’s a third guy, too, someone I know nothing about.”

“But the one you’re looking for first is the guy who ran the Nigerian four-one-nine thing?”

“I think he’s going to be the easiest to find. The name on his e-mails was Grant Summers, but his real name is Serge Nikolai. If that’s his real name. I really don’t know.”

“After you called me, I contacted a Swiss friend who specializes in this type of fraud. He said that most of these guys are organized and operate out of Internet cafés overseas.”

“I don’t know how organized they are. The other one, Billy Hunter, he left my client a total wreck after he stole something out of her apartment. Used her till there was nothing left of her and then walked away with a valuable piece of art. They’re leaving behind a trail of hurt, man. That makes them sloppy.”

“What’s their motivation? Is it money?”

“In part, I would imagine.”

“So tempt them with more. The Internet scammer first.” Starr sipped from his coffee cup. “I assume the ad for the Mini Cooper has been taken down from Craigslist.”

“Yes.”

“But you still have the Grant Summers e-mail address. So reach out to him. Try to ferret him out. Tell him you want that particular car and will overpay to get it. Let him lick his chops while you dig out pieces of information that you can use to identify him. Basically, bait him. If he’s about money, he’ll surface.”

“You think?”

“He’s a lowlife,” said Starr. “Dangle some dollars in front of his face. He’ll rear his ugly head.”

Lucas pedaled back to his apartment and phoned Grace Kinkaid. He had been looking through the notes of their first meeting, and something had come to him.

“You said you had the painting assessed not long before you met Billy Hunter,” said Lucas.

“That’s right,” said Grace.

“Who appraised it?”

“Charles Lumley.”

“How did you get his name, originally?”

“I met him at a get-together here in the building. The Realtor sponsors these rooftop parties, open bar, ostensibly to let the residents mingle and get to know one another. But I think the real motive is to entice people who are thinking of buying and moving in here. There are always a few folks who show up who don’t live in the building. That’s where I met Charles.”

“He was considering buying a unit?”

“No, I don’t think so. He said he had a friend who owned a condo on one of the upper floors. Charles buys and sells art. He has a little place, a by-appointment thing, around Dupont Circle. We got to talking, and I told him about my painting, that I was curious about its value. He said he’d be happy to look at it. A couple of nights later he swung by and did the assessment. He was a nice man.”

“You have his contact information?”

“Hold on.” Lucas waited for her to find the phone number and address for Charles Lumley. He heard the rustle of a piece of paper as she got back on the line. “Ready?”

“That’s great,” said Lucas, after typing the data into his iPhone.

“Are you making any progress?”

“Yes,” said Lucas, though it didn’t feel that way to him. “I’ll get back up with you soon.”

After lunch, Lucas opened his laptop and set up a Hotmail account under an assumed name. Using this account, he then typed a message to the Grant Summers e-mail address.

Lucas hit Send. He checked his laptop several times over the course of the afternoon but there was no reply to his query. Then he got a call from Charlotte Rivers’s disposable. She was sorry she’d been out of touch, but she’d been very busy. She had a meeting in the dining room of the hotel on 16th Street, and then she had a few hours of free time, but only a few hours, because she had an obligation that night. Was he interested in stopping by the suite around four?

“Uh...,” said Lucas.

“Don’t you want to see me?”

Lucas hesitated, but only for a moment.

“I’ll be there,” he said.

They began to make love as soon as he entered the suite. She greeted him by the door wearing slacks with a silk blouse and camisole, and he undressed her there, in the entranceway, piece by piece. Soon she was nude, standing before him, curvy and full of breast, her hair about her face, and Lucas kissed her deeply and thought, This is what I fought for, to come back to someone like her. This is what every boy dreams of.

With the clumsiness of haste he removed his clothing as well, and they found themselves naked in the middle of the plush suite. Charlotte reached down and found his engorged pole and pulled him to her, rubbed his helmet on her lips. They broke apart suddenly and both of them laughed.

“What’s wrong with us?” said Charlotte. Lucas knew what she meant. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

“I missed you,” said Lucas.

“I missed you,” said Charlotte. “How’s your hand?”

“It won’t affect my performance, if that’s what you mean. I’ve got a backup.”

“Do what you do.”

They moved to the bed. She had downloaded more music, Soon Forward by Gregory Isaacs, the perfect lovers’ rock, and the insistent rhythm section of Sly Dunbar and Robbie Shakespeare gave Lucas a beat, and he became a machine. As she came he felt himself chuckle, and an image flashed of a smiling Billy Hunter on top of Grace Kinkaid, and Lucas shook that out of his mind and let himself go.

“What got into you?” said Charlotte, after they had separated and lay beside each other atop the sheets.

“Why?”

“I thought I lost you there for a while. You were, I don’t know... a little focused. Workmanlike.”

“You got there, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t pleased,” she said. “It was different for us, is all.”

Lucas got up, uncorked the Barolo that was on the dresser, then returned to the bed. “Next time, let me bring a good bottle of wine,” said Lucas.

“I thought you liked this.”

“I just want to contribute something,” said Lucas. “You never let me pay for anything.”

“I can afford it.”

“So can I.”

Charlotte brushed his short hair with her fingers. “Relax, honey. Enjoy this.”

“Because it might not last?”

“Because it’s good. Most people never get this, not even once in their lives.”

“I don’t want it to end.”

“Don’t be greedy.” She kissed him. “Don’t think past today.”

A little while later, she got up off the bed and dressed. She was going to a neighbor’s house with her husband for dinner, she said, and she had to get home.

“When will we see each other again?” said Lucas, watching her from the bed as she fixed a gold bracelet to her wrist.

“I’ll call you, Spero.”

Lucas thought, When?

He returned to his apartment. He should have been satiated, but instead he was lonely and a little bit empty. His mother had phoned him, and he returned the call. She asked him where he had been when she’d called, and he said, “Out,” and when she pressed him he said, “I went to a movie,” and when she asked him which one he thought of a title and said it. They talked some more and he told her he loved her, and when he hung up with her he winced, thinking, On top of everything else, I lied to Mom.

Lucas checked his laptop. Still no response from Grant Summers.

He ate some pasta and a salad and decided to watch a DVD. Lucas had intense interests in music, books, and film, and often homed in on a movie director and his work to the point of obsession. He had once watched a different film from the Robert Aldrich library every night for two straight weeks, and had done similar home film festivals for John Sturges, Peckinpah, and Don Siegel. Lately he had been checking out the work of John Flynn, an underrated director who had a spotty filmography that also included a couple of stone classics: Rolling Thunder and The Outfit. After many years out of circulation, The Outfit, based on a Parker novel by Donald Westlake writing as Richard Stark, had been rereleased. Lucas smoked down half a joint, got a Stella out of the refrigerator, and slid the disc into his player.

The movie had a plot that was familiar, but the execution was flawless and true to the no-nonsense spirit of the book. Robert Duvall was Macklin, a stand-in name for Parker, teamed up with Joe Don Baker as Cody and Karen Black as Bett, Macklin’s squeeze. In the penultimate scene, Macklin robs a mobbed-up card game in a hotel room, where at the table sits a vulgarian named Menner, played by the infamous character actor Timothy Carey. Menner explains the premise of the film to Macklin as he is being taken off: “You hit a bank. You and your brother and a guy called Cody before your stretch. Midwest National in Wichita. The Outfit owns it. So you know how it is: You hit us, we hit you.” Menner previously used a cigarette to burn a hole in Bett’s skin, in an attempt to get her to talk. Before he leaves, Macklin says to Menner, “You shouldn’t use a girl’s arm for an ashtray,” and puts a close-range round through Menner’s hand.

Lucas, high and transfixed, stared at the screen. You hit us, we hit you. He and his platoon had executed the same creed in the streets and houses of Fallujah.

The film ended. Lucas went to his laptop and checked his Hotmail account for messages, and found a response from Grant Summers:

The Marine Corps insignia appeared below the text.

Lucas responded with an offer of five thousand dollars. He also wrote, My father was a marine. I respect you guys and hope we can do business. He waited, got nothing, and took a shower to pass some time. When he returned, Summers had sent him another message: Ten thousand is the price. Lucas immediately countered with an offer of eight thousand dollars. Summers sent another message that simply said, Ten. Lucas replied, I will pay you ten thousand after I inspect the Mini. If I find it to be in top shape, I will give you the full payment. I do want the car. Summers’s response was, Deal. I will contact you tomorrow with payment instructions.

“Deal,” said Lucas, and smiled grimly.