Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [51]
Lucky let out a low whistle “It’s a whole salumeria of supernatural soldiers.”
“That sounds like an Exposé 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 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 Mass and Confession every week.”
“Among the Tibetans,” I added, “a double or apparition is almost always associated 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 embarrassing!”
I thought this seemed like a secondary concern compared to the issue that had my skin crawling. “I just thank God that thing in the crypt didn’t try to shake my hand.”
“It shook my 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 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?”
Nelli’s toenails clicked on the floorboards as she trotted around a bookcase and approached us. She held a book clamped between her massive 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 at that book.”
“Good God, this is like some warped episode of Lassie,” 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