Part 18 (1/2)

”A type type of operation? How many types do they got?” Lucky demanded. of operation? How many types do they got?” Lucky demanded.

I consulted the book again, one from a large pile that Max had suggested I peruse when I arrived at his bookstore this morning. He was currently down in the laboratory in search of a rare scroll or something.

After the initial shock of hearing that they had just been talking to a dead man, Max and Lucky both came to the obvious conclusion as we stood on the sidewalk outside of St. Monica's yesterday evening: The body pulled from the East River had been incorrectly identified.

They were right, I realized when I calmed down, it couldn't be Johnny Gambello. It must be some other Elvis impersonator. An understandable mistake. Lopez would discover the error once he arrived at the scene. And apart from the fact that the discovery of the corpse had ruined my plans for the evening, it had nothing to do with us or our strange problem.

Naturally, we called Johnny's cell phone, just to a.s.sure ourselves that he was alive and kicking. He didn't answer. This made us uneasy, but Lucky insisted it didn't mean anything. After all, Johnny was a mook who lost one cell phone after another. Or maybe he had turned it off because he'd gone straight from the church to a poker game. In any case, we had just seen seen Johnny, so we knew the day-old body in the river was someone else. Johnny, so we knew the day-old body in the river was someone else.

Soothed by this st.u.r.dy logic, I went home to eat Chinese food alone in my pajamas and fantasize about what might have been. Lopez spent the night working, as I later learned from a text message he sent me (not wanting to wake me). Max went home to commune with his familiar. And Lucky, who never seemed to sleep, woke me bright and early the following morning to break the news that the corpse from the East River was indeed Johnny Be Good Gambello.

Johnny's wife, who hadn't seen him in several days (which wasn't unusual, I gathered), had identified the body. The Gambellos were going into mourning. And the Shy Don was pressuring Lucky to find out who'd killed the mook.

”So how many types of operations do we need to be worrying about?” Lucky prodded now, as I continued peering at the text in my hands with tired eyes.

I said, ”An apparition can be a doppelganger, an alter ego, a ghost or spirit, a poltergeist, a remnant or revenant, the result of an out-of-body experience, an astral projection, an etheric body, or a . . .” I took a wild guess at the p.r.o.nunciation. ”A fylgia fylgia-but this last one seems to have more to do with shapes.h.i.+fting than with what we're seeing.”

Lucky let out a low whistle ”It's a whole salumeria salumeria of supernatural soldiers.” of supernatural soldiers.”

”That sounds like an Expose Expose headline.” I added, ”The Tibetans believe a double can separate from the original physical body either voluntarily or involuntarily. But considering who's been replicated so far, I think we can rule out their theories in this case.” headline.” I added, ”The Tibetans believe a double can separate from the original physical body either voluntarily or involuntarily. But considering who's been replicated so far, I think we can rule out their theories in this case.”

”Why? Max ain't ruling out German German theories, after all.” theories, after all.”

”Because in Tibetan tradition,” I said, glancing at the text again, ”such separation normally occurs as a result of prolonged prayer and meditation.”

”Well, Johnny only went to church when he bet big on a longshot,” Lucky admitted. ”But Charlie went to Ma.s.s and Confession every week.”

”Among the Tibetans,” I added, ”a double or apparition is almost always a.s.sociated with saints, hermits, and holy persons.”

”Oh. In that case, yeah,” Lucky agreed. ”We can rule that out.”

Lucky, alas, was not amenable to wading through a stack of books. He mostly paced around the shop and made phone calls while Max and I tried to figure out what was going on.

”It's not like Johnny will be missed,” the hit man said, taking a seat at the old wooden table with me. ”It's just that it looks so bad. The don's nephew whacked, and we ain't got no idea who done it? It's embarra.s.sing!”

I thought this seemed like a secondary concern compared to the issue that had my skin crawling. ”I just thank G.o.d that thing thing in the crypt didn't try to shake my hand.” in the crypt didn't try to shake my hand.”

”It shook my my hand,” Lucky said, looking a little queasy. hand,” Lucky said, looking a little queasy.

I thought about this. ”So we know the doppelgangsters can touch people. Was its hand cold or somehow lifeless?”

”No.” Lucky gave a brief shake of his head. ”Normal temperature. And felt just like Johnny's hand always did-damp palm, weak grip.”

”Hmm.” After a moment, I said, ”Still no reply from Danny Dapezzo?”

”Not yet,” he grumbled. ”I've left three messages.”

We weren't sure what to think now of the story that Johnny's doppelgangster had told us about Danny the Doctor. True, Mickey Rosenblum had confirmed the story. He had also answered Lucky's phone call this morning (which woke him before dawn in Nevada) and talked some more, but we realized we couldn't be sure Lucky wasn't talking to Mickey's Mickey's doppelgangster in Vegas. Did we indeed need to warn Danny Dapezzo that he was marked for death? Or had Johnny's doppelgangster simply distracted us with misleading bait? Or, in seeking out Danny, were we entering a trap? doppelgangster in Vegas. Did we indeed need to warn Danny Dapezzo that he was marked for death? Or had Johnny's doppelgangster simply distracted us with misleading bait? Or, in seeking out Danny, were we entering a trap?

After an hour of head banging this morning, we had agreed that we were theorizing in a vacuum and needed to speak to Danny Dapezzo-or to whatever was masquerading as Danny now. One or the other anyhow.

”And you're sure it was Johnny yesterday?” I asked Lucky. ”Er, I mean, you're sure that you were sure at the time?”

”I known that mook since he was in diapers,” Lucky said. ”It was Johnny all right. Or, I mean, something exactly like Johnny.”

I shuddered again, creeped out. ”What is going on on?”

Nelli's toenails clicked on the floorboards as she trotted around a bookcase and approached us. She held a book clamped between her ma.s.sive jaws. As I stared at her, she came over and dropped it at my feet, her immense floppy ears swinging as her head moved. Then she looked at me expectantly.

”We can't play fetch with Max's books,” I said to her. ”Bad dog.”

She whined at me.

Since Max was still down in the laboratory, I gingerly picked up the book, which had some drool on it, and rose from my seat to reshelve it. Nelli blocked my path and barked at me.

Lucky said, ”Hey, I think she wants you to look look at that book.” at that book.”

”Good G.o.d, this is like some warped episode of La.s.sie La.s.sie,” I muttered.

”Come on, be a sport,” Lucky urged. ”Open it.”

”I need this advice from a man who hasn't deigned to open a book since we got here this morning?” I said irritably.

”Fine, give it here.” Lucky reached over and took the book from my hands.

It was old and ragged, with a plain black cover. Its edges were frayed, and scarcely anything was left of the gold lettering that had once adorned its cover. Lucky opened the book and frowned as he read the t.i.tle page.

”What's . . . 'bilocate?' ” he asked me.

”I don't know.”

Nelli nudged Lucky.

”Knock it off,” he said. ”Your nose is cold.”

My cell phone rang. I checked the readout. ”Oh, good. It's my agent.” I flipped open the phone. ”Thack?”

” 'Singing Server Sees Slaying'?” quoted Thackeray Shackleton-not his real name, I suspected.

”Huh?”

”It's certainly not how I want to see you packaged,” said my agent, ”but that's some lovely alliteration, don't you think?”

”Oh!” Surprised, I asked, ”You read tabloids?”

”Geraldo does. He left it on my desk this morning, after he recognized your name.” Geraldo was Thack's a.s.sistant. ”He wasn't sure it was you, though, because of the picture. Not a flattering likeness, is it? I keep telling you, your left side is better. When you see a camera, give them the left left profile, Esther.” profile, Esther.”

”I was a little overwrought at the time,” I pointed out tersely.

”Oh, my G.o.d. What am I even saying? Of course you were!” He sounded contrite and horrified. ”Esther. Are you all right?”