Jeff Lindsay - Dexter's Final Cut

Since I was new to showbiz, I wasn’t sure what was expected of me here, so I just said, “Congratulations,” and that seemed to go down all right. Renny nodded at me, frowned, and then looked back at Robert.

“Oh,” Renny said. “Almost forgot. Wardrobe wants to see you. They’re at the hotel, suite twenty-four seventeen.”

“Wardrobe,” Robert said, sounding slightly alarmed again for some reason of his own.

Renny looked at him with pity on his face. “Yeah, you know, wardrobe. There’s that mean woman and her two gay friends, and they dress you up for this shit,” he said. “You remember wardrobe, don’t you, Robert?”

Robert looked at him for half a second and then gave his peculiar artificial laugh again. “Ha! Ha! Yeah, okay, well, then, I’m outta here.” He turned and aired out a few bright teeth in my direction. “See ya later, Dexter,” he said. He made a clicking sound, accompanied by that annoying my-finger-is-a-pistol-and-you-are-dead gesture again, and he sauntered away.

Renny watched him go and then shook his head and said, “Can’t decide if that man is dumb as shit or just really weird.” And then he turned and frowned at me. “You’re easy. You just weird.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“But that’s okay; I can use weird,” he said. And then he smiled again, and the kind of smile it seemed to be sent a tiny shiver of alarm through the coiled tentacles of the dozing Passenger. “You like to come see my show, Dexter?”

I admit he had taken me by surprise; I had no ready response other than a blink and a very feeble-sounding, “Oh. Well, I mean, it’s this Saturday?”

“Good, you been listening. I knew you weren’t a dummy,” he said.

In truth, I did not want to see his show, not this Saturday nor any other. But, of course, if Jackie was going to be there, I would have to go along, too. So I nodded and said, “Well, um, sure, that would be very nice.”

“Oh, it won’t be nice ,” he said. “But I just might get you to laugh some. And your wife. You got a wife, right, Dexter? ’Cuz I know you want everybody to think you’re normal and shit.”

Once again I felt an uncomfortable shifting of coils deep inside; Renny’s dig at me was much too close to home to be entirely innocent, but it was still nothing definite enough for me to be sure. My only real choice was to keep playing Weird Normal-for now.

“Ah, yes, I do,” I said. “I do have a wife.”

“Uh-huh, good,” Renny said. “Mr. Eissen wants the technical advisers there, on camera.” He winked at me. “That’s you. And that really tough lady.”

“Deborah,” I said. “Sergeant Morgan.”

“Uh-huh. Mr. Eissen says it’s like support our troops, show the cops out there laughing. And it gives the show Cop Cred, and it even shows everybody I can get along with cops when I want to. Which, to be honest …” He raised an eyebrow at me, as if I was supposed to say something about that, but I had no idea what, so I just nodded.

Renny shrugged. “Your boss gonna be there, too,” he said. “He wants to make sure you show up, with your wife.”

“Well, then,” I said. “I guess we’ll be there.”

“I’ll put you on the list for two.”

“Thank you,” I said. And because that seemed like a slightly inadequate response for being railroaded into accepting two free tickets to a show, I added, “Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, I would,” Renny said. He straightened up and pushed off the bench. “And that is why I am going to go find a Starbucks and not drink that poison shit you all make here.” He turned and headed for the door. “See you later, man.”

And suddenly, there I was, all alone again.

I stood for a moment in my abruptly uncluttered work space and looked around fondly. It seemed like a long time since I’d been here without Robert leaning over my shoulder and solemnly mocking all my unconscious gestures, and to see the place without him and Renny in it was almost like coming home from a long and exhausting trip. I spent a few minutes tidying up, putting things where they belonged instead of where Robert had moved them because they looked better there. And then I just stood for a moment, looking around with quiet satisfaction, and wondering what to do with the rest of my morning. I had been assigned two important jobs: instructing Robert and guarding Jackie. But at the moment I couldn’t do either one; Robert and Renny were gone, and Jackie was off somewhere with Deborah.

For a moment I was at a loss; what should I do when there was nothing to do? I cast my brain back and forth, and came up with nothing more than a reminder that I was supposed to go to a meeting with Cody’s teacher at three o’clock. It was ten twenty-two right now, which left a rather large gap in the day’s activities, and in the meantime, I felt like I should do something positive, powerful, dynamic, and smart, and there was nothing of the kind immediately obvious. But Dexter is renowned for his resourcefulness, and it took no more than a few moments of deep thought for me to hit on exactly the right course of action. I strode manfully into my own little office space, and with a vibrant and masculine vitality, I sat in my chair, leaned back, and took a deep breath: in through the nose-

And very quickly out through the mouth, and with some irritation. Because in front of me on my desk, where there should have been nothing but a neat blotter, Robert had left his newspaper. I don’t like clutter, especially someone else’s, dumped into my space. I leaned forward to pick it up-and saw that, under it, lying on the blotter when it should have been standing neatly at the back of my desk, was a picture of Dexter and Family.

Last Christmas, Rita had insisted that we all visit a real photographer and pose for a real Family Portrait. It had been quite an ordeal getting everybody to dress up, comb their hair, scrub their faces, and-hardest of all-make a convincingly pleasant face for the camera. But we had done it, and here was the result: Rita and Astor on the left with Cody sitting in front of them, Dexter holding Lily Anne-and if Cody was not actually smiling, at least you couldn’t tell that he was thinking about sticking a knife into the photographer.

I had framed the picture and put it on my desk, because that’s what Humans did. And Robert had been staring at it furtively-and felt guilty enough that he’d hidden it under a newspaper. Of all the truly annoying things he’d done, this one rankled even more, and I could not say why. But I refused to let it ruin my opportunity for unspecified pondering; I polished the picture’s silver frame, rubbed imaginary thumbprints off the glass, and set it back where it belonged, at the back of my desk. And then I leaned back, took a deep breath, pushed Robert out of my mind, and pondered.

Naturally enough, my first thought was about Robert, and it was a somewhat grumpy thought. I had always assumed that actors, writers, artists, and other borderline psychotics were an odd lot-but Robert was in a league of his own, and he annoyed me far more than he should have. People don’t usually bother me very much, since they are, after all, only flesh and blood, and I know very well just how fragile and transitory that is. But there was something about Robert that cut through my customary indifference to the human species, and it went beyond his apish imitation of my unconscious behavior. Did I really pinch my nose like that when I was reading departmental memos?

And in any case, why should it bother me if I did, and Robert copied me? If all my tics and twitches made it to the little silver screen, wasn’t that a form of immortality-even better for me, anonymous immortality? But even that thought did not make me warm to him, and I wondered whether my dislike for the man was rooted in aesthetics. I had been taught to value originality in art, and when you came right down to it, Robert was trying to make an art out of mere imitation. Art History 102, spring semester at University of Miami, had taught me that this could not be done. Art was creating something new, not mimicking something already in existence. What Robert was trying to do so intently was, in fact, no more than craft. He did no more than copy my tics and twitches-even to the point of staring at my family portrait, a very personal part of my disguise, for his character research-