Doppelgangster - Laura Resnick [52]
“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 assistant. “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 profile, Esther.”
“I was a little overwrought at the time,” I pointed out tersely.
“Oh, my God. What am I even saying? Of course you were!” He sounded contrite and horrified. “Esther. Are you all right?”
I liked Thack because, like me, he was originally from Wisconsin, so he was hardworking and polite. This is a rarity in theatrical agents. Despite his conventional middle-class Milwaukee origins, he was gay and flamboyant in an uptown yuppie way, so he fit in well in his profession here.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I said. “Listen—”
“This mobster was killed right in front of you?” Thack said.
“Yeah, I saw him get whacked,” I said absently. “Look, I called you yesterday because—”
“My God!” he said again. “Are you okay? Are you traumatized? Are you going into the Witness Protection Program?”
“What? No, I’m not going anywhere. And I’m fine. Really.”
“I can’t imagine what you must be going through! Are you able to sleep? Are you able to eat? Have you left your apartment at all? Can you even get out of bed? Do you want me to have Geraldo bring you anything?”
As Thack continued fretting about my well-being, I started to wonder if I was less empathetic and humane than I should be. Although I had indeed been scared and distraught when I saw Chubby Charlie die, I wasn’t as traumatized as Lopez supposed, with his theory that I just couldn’t remember what I’d really seen; and I certainly wasn’t as shattered as my agent assumed I was.
“Look, Thack,” I interrupted as he continued wondering just how devastated I must be. “Chubby Charlie and I weren’t close, it was three days ago, and I’m over it. Let’s move on.”
“What? Oh! Oh. You don’t want to talk about it, do you? I’m sorry. I’m making it even worse, aren’t I? Bringing it all up again. I’ll stop now.”
“Okay, so what I wanted to talk about is—”
“I just want to know one thing. Are you getting counseling? Taking any medication?”
“What? No, of course not. I don’t need counseling or medication.”
“That’s denial talking, Esther,” Thack said.
No, no, I’m just focused on more pressing matters, such as the two deadly doppelgangsters that I’ve met lately.
“I’m fine,” I said firmly, wondering if, in fact, I needed a whole boatload of counseling and medication.
“You can’t get through this alone,” Thack insisted. “You’re an actress. You’re sensitive!”
“Let’s be frank,” I said wearily. “I’m not nearly as sensitive as the men in my life think I should be.”
“You need to talk with someone about this. A professional.”
“Well, I . . .” I shrugged and said, “I talked to a priest about it yesterday.” Sort of. For twenty seconds.
I would actually rather tell my mother that I was described as a “chorus girl with Mafia connections” in the tabloids than tell her how much time I had spent in a church in recent days. But Thack, being neither Jewish nor my mother, was wonderfully oblivious. He simply said, “A priest? Oh, good! Good. Yes, that was a wise instinct on your part. Someone who can offer you spiritual comfort, not just pills and analysis.”
Recalling the way a bevy of overdressed female parishioners had been gazing at the hunky priest yesterday, I wasn’t sure how many people went to see Father Gabriel for spiritual reasons. But he had been warm, gracious, and tactful both times