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Order this writing in the collection book Revealing All Your Dirty Little Secrets available for only $1995 |
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This appears in a pre-2010 issue
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THE IMPOSTOR
Mel Waldman
The phone rang five times before he picked it up. “Hello.”
“Is this the doc?”
“This is Professor Charles Sampson. To whom am I speaking?”
“A friend, doc. With a V.I.P. message.”
“Yes?”
“We got yer buddy-Harry Winston.”
“Impossible!”
“Nothin’ ain’t impossible, doc.”
“Let me speak with Harry.”
“Harry’s indisposed.”
“I don’t believe you!”
“Too bad, doc. Cause in a little while, Harry’s gonna be dead.”
A long terror stretched across the professor’s face. “Please let me speak with Harry.”
“No.”
“Is he dead?”
“Not yet.”
“I don’t believe you!” shouted the professor, his dark eyes leaping across the 57th Street duplex apartment. And he slammed the receiver.
Soon, it rang again. When he lifted the receiver, he heard: “Get here by noon or else!”
He knew it was a setup and yet, he had to go. It was virtually impossible to find Winston’s Long Island home in the Hamptons. So how had they found him? He was walking into a deathtrap because of that book. The lethal book he and the others had written-“Espionage: Current theory, research, and application.” And of course, there were three chapters on the social psychology of brainwashing. The book wasn’t due for publication for another three months and already, the Angel of Death had arrived. Which side had sent him? What difference did it make?
He had turned down all offers of employment. He was an independent. And so were his co-authors who had adamantly refused to speak with the others. So it could be any side and the end result would be the same: a one way ticket to Hell!
Winston lived near Sagaponack, on the South Fork, in the heart of the Hamptons. It was his place to be alone. Yet they had found him.
Sampson drove past a stretch of rolling potato fields and lush farmlands. He knew where the turn was and he made it. Then he made three more turns along the way and passed a natural bird sanctuary.
Soon he came to the two-story house of weathered shingles. It was hidden behind privet hedges, scrub pine, and rows of hydrangea bushes. Hidden deep and still, they had found him.
Momentarily, he looked in the rearview mirror of the old Plymouth Fury. No one had followed him. Of course. No one had followed him today. But maybe... Perhaps, he had been careless.
He entered the rustic house through the back kitchen door. Nothing. No one seen, nothing heard. He removed his loafers and walked toward the living room. Stop. The door was ajar. He drifted into the two-story living room. Barefoot on the marine-blue floor, he walked along the edges of the room. At the far end was a large floor-to-ceiling window with divided panes. To his right was a spiraling steel staircase which led to a balconied second floor study. In the center was the sprawling owl-rug.
The eyes of the owl seemed to hypnotize him. The dark eyes pulled him in. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t.
Soon, it started. Something weird and scary. The dark eyes changed. A kind of metamorphosis occurred. The eyes became red. Flaming red and then... The owl also became red. And he sauntered to the center of the owl and stood motionless.
He saw the red dripping down-dripping onto the owl. Suddenly, he looked up. But it was too late. The bloody corpse, which had been suspended from the high ceiling, rushed downward and knocked him unconscious.
He woke up. He forced his eyes open and noticed he was entangled with a well-dressed corpse. Slowly, he severed the tie and struggled to his feet. His head swirling and his legs weak, he took a few shallow breaths. He looked down at the corpse but quickly averted his eyes.
“This is not Harry Winston!” shouted Sampson. “You killed the wrong man!”
He slithered to the phone at the far left and dialed 911. “There’s been a murder. Hurry.” He took a deep breath. His hands shook uncontrollably. He whispered into the phone and gave directions. He hung up the receiver. Seconds later, he blacked out.
When he opened his eyes, he saw the monolith looming over him. As he started lifting himself up, the blond giant said: “Ya betta not, Dr. Sampson. Ya might have a concussion.”
Sampson rose defiantly and asked: “Who are you?”
“Officer Jennings.”
“Show me your ID!”
“Gee, doc. Fer a little guy, ya got alota spunk. We oughta getya checked out at the hospital.”
“No!” The short, rotund Sampson glared at the gargantuan stranger and said: “I’m almost five foot two, Officer Jennings, if that’s who you are...”
“Officer Al Jennings at your service. And here’s my ID!”
Sampson studied it. “Okay. Now, how did you know my name?”
“Ya told me when ya called me. So here we are.”
“We?”
“My buddies are in the other rooms. Still lookin’ around for this here dead body we can’t find.”
“He’s dead!” Sampson announced as he handed the ID back to Jennings.
“Winston’s dead?”
“No. Some stranger’s dead. Winston’s missing.”
“Oh.”
“And how’d you know Winston’s name?”
“Ya told me, doc.”
“I don’t remember...”
“See. Ya oughta letus takeya ta the hospital.”
“It’s not necessary.”
Momentarily, Sampson’s eyes darted across the room. “Where’s the rug?”
“What rug, doc?”
“The bloody owl-rug.”
“There ain’t no rug, doc.”
“I see.”
There was a long silence. “Well, what do we have, Jennings? I’ll tell you. The facts are simple. A corpse has vanished, along with one bloody owl-rug and my friend Harry Winston.”
“If you say so, doc.”
“It’s the truth! Unless I’m a raving lunatic or a liar.”
“Yeah, doc,” Jennings grinned sardonically. “A helluva mystery. So who do we look for? The corpse or the killer or Winston?”
“Stanley Miles. He vanished a week ago from his Brooklyn Heights apartment.”
Later, when Sampson drove home, he kept looking in the rearview mirror. Maybe they were following him. Maybe. But he saw nothing. No one was tailing him tonight.
In the morning, Sampson went to Roosevelt Hospital and found out he had suffered a concussion. He’d live, the doctor told him. Sure he’d live-unless someone murdered him.
In the evening, he was still on edge. He scurried off to Hell’s Kitchen to his favorite bar-The Razor’s Edge.
Inside, he saw the gorgeous redhead sitting alone in a booth in the back. He sat down at the counter. If only he had the nerve. Then, she looked up and smiled at him. He blushed. He looked around to see if she was giving someone else the eye. But there was no one else at the counter.
He ordered Scotch on the rocks. Once. Twice. And by the third round he was ready to make his move. With his Scotch in his right hand, he went to her booth and said: “May I join you?”
“Yes. I’m in the mood for company tonight.”
“Terrific! My name’s Sampson. Charles Sampson. Haven’t seen you here before.”
“My name’s Dolores. Just plain Dolores. And I haven’t been here before.”
And it began. But there was nothing plain about Dolores.
They drank ceaselessly. Eventually, Sampson let the cat out of the bag. He got silly and with lusty eyes, he asked: “You know what kind of man I am?”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve got this incredible secret. No one knows but me.”
“Oh, Charles. I just love secrets.”
“Well, maybe if you’re sweet, real sweet, I’ll tell you.”
Dolores smiled seductively and Sampson confessed. Later, Sampson was bloated with booze and bolder than before. “How about coming to my place?”
“Sure,” she whispered.
When Dolores rose, Sampson noticed she was tall, very tall, and long-legged like one of those Playboy centerfold bunnies. God! He had scored tonight! But in the back of his mind, he remembered that nothing like this had ever happened to him before.
Dolores sashayed to the door and Sampson followed. Soon, they were in Sampson’s apartment.
Sampson didn’t trust what was happening. But Dolores was for real. They made love twice. And the second time almost killed him. She was an insatiable animal.
“One more drink, Charles. And then maybe...”
“Well, sure, Dolores. One more drink. But if we go one more time, I don’t know.”
“Come on, Charles. Don’t you love it?”
“Of course.”
Sampson made two drinks and started the toast: “Well, here’s to...”
“Oh, Charles,” interrupted Dolores. “I need some more ice in my drink. Would you get me some cubes?”
“Sure.”
Sampson slithered down to the kitchen. It was a large duplex and in Sampson’s present condition, the trip seemed to take forever. When he returned, he toasted: “Here’s to us-Charles and Dolores...”
Suddenly, he spilled part of the drink on his underwear. “Dolores, could you go to the bathroom and get me a towel? Don’t think I can make it.”
And Dolores, without a stitch of clothes on, shimmied to the bathroom, shaking her buns like a real pro. But for Charles, she was giving it away for free. After they toasted, Charles turned over and was asleep.
He thought he was dreaming. Maybe. But it didn’t seem like a dream. Dolores was talking to someone. Someone in the room? No! She had made a call. And she said her name was Mary Lou. Well, what difference did it make-Dolores or Mary Lou?
Now, she was laughing. Laughing real loud about his secret. Ha! Ha! Ha! And sure, she’d keep him there until so and so arrived. Yeah. She’d come down and unlock the front door and... Maybe it was a dream. Maybe.
The front door was unlocked, but she wasn’t there. “Dumb broad,” he muttered as he entered the first floor of the spacious duplex. “Musta got scared an’ skipped out on me.”
He waited until his eyes had adjusted to the darkness. Then he headed for the spiraling staircase. He passed the owl-rug on the way. “Yeah. Just like Harry Winston’s rug. Except it ain’t bloody and no corpse lying in it. Dumb burglar. In the wrong place at the wrong time.”
He had a .45 Magnum with a beautiful silencer attached to it. Gripping his steel baby, he climbed the staircase. He’d enjoy killin’ this joker-secrets an’ all. An’ up he went.
At the top of the stairs, he turned left. Third room over she had told him. He slipped through the long corridor and stopped at the third door. Triumphantly, he opened the door and blasted the sleeping target to kingdom come.
He strutted to the bed and took a close look. Christ! It was Mary Lou!
Suddenly, he turned around. But it was too late. Sampson killed Jennings with the first shot and kept filling him with lead until there were no more bullets.
Standing over the corpses, he announced: “The two of you were impostors. But not as good as I! Sure, I had to create my fictional colleagues-Harry Winston and Stanley Miles. My elaborate scheme kept me alive. They needed me to get to my co-authors. Until they knew for sure.”
Sampson stared blankly at Mary Lou and said: “Didn’t trust you. So I switched drinks. And you went out right after the phone call.”
His mind drifted off. It floated here and there. Into a faraway dimension. Phantasmagoria. Later, it returned.
Sampson glared at Mary Lou and announced: “You made me into a fugitive. Have to leave in the morning-before the others realize and... Change my identity and keep running. Well, I’m the great impostor! Right?”
Sampson staggered out of the bedroom and drifted down the hallway to the guest room. Inside, he sat down on an old rocking chair.
“Can’t be too paranoid these days. Nothing like a healthy paranoia. And tomorrow...” Rocking back and forth, he fell asleep.
Downstairs, the others arrived. A second force in case Jennings had failed. Passing through the darkness, like a hungry pack of wolves, they found the staircase and climbed it. Joyously, they smelled the odor of death down the hall. Soon, very soon, they would feast.
Surreptitiously, they moved toward the proud impostor, betrayed by his small, weary body, his ever growing ego, and his shrinking paranoia.
