Джеймс Суэйн - The Man Who Cheated Death

“Maybe we should do a dry run,” Hardare suggested.

“I’d like that, if you don’t mind,” the actress said.

The makeup artist stopped what he was doing, and unpinned the smock. Hardare escorted her to the other side of the table, and had her sit beneath the portrait of Houdini.

“This is your spot,” he said. “Don’t move.”

Sophie Nichols turned into a statue. Hardare lit a candle on the table, and dimmed the room’s lights. Shadows danced across the actress’s face. In the darkness, the resemblance to Elaine Osbourne was even stronger.

“Perfect,” Hardare said.

“And you just want me to sit here during the performance, and silently move my mouth up and down,” the actress said.

“That’s right. There’s going to be a hologram over your head, so you shouldn’t move.”

“A hologram? Can I see?”

“Of course.”

The Houdini Séance room was filled with special effects. Hardare flipped a switch on the wall. A few feet above the table appeared a ghostly hand clutching a butcher knife.

“That’s clever. What else does it do?” the actress asked.

“Just watch,” Hardare said.

The ghostly hand came sharply down, plunging the knife into the actress’s chest, the momentary shock causing her to jump. The knife pulled back, dripping blood.

“You really know how to scare a gal, don’t you?” she said.

“That was the idea,” Hardare said.

It was getting harder to find a payphone in L.A.

There were still a few around, but most of them were out of service. Everyone having a cell phone these days, Death supposed payphones would soon become a thing of the past, like record players and horse drawn carriages.

He pulled into a Sunset Oil gas station on West Sunset Boulevard at a few minutes past ten. Kenny Kitchen’s show had started, and was playing on his radio. The phone lines were open, and Kenny was inviting his listeners to call in.

Death got out of his car, had a look around. No police cruisers were lurking around, nor did he see any surveillance cameras hanging off the side of the building. The coast was clear, as they said in the movies.

He dropped a quarter into the payphone and called the station. The number was easy to remember. 888-KOLL.

“KOLL, this is the Kenny Kitchen show,” an operator answered.

“I want to speak to Kenny,” Death said.

“Sure. I need to ask you a few questions. First of all, what’s your name?”

“Death.”

“That’s a new one. What do you want to talk to him about?”

“He’ll know.”

“He doesn’t take crank calls, sir.”

“Tell him I’ll cut off Jan Hardare’s head and send it to him if he doesn’t pick up the phone.”

“Gotcha.”

The operator put him on hold. Kitchen picked up the line a few seconds later. The DJ’s voice was shaking.

“Hello, Kenny,” Death said pleasantly.

“I have a message for you,” Kitchen said.

“Really? From who?”

“Hardare. He wants you to watch Action 10 News at Noon.”

“That’s nice. Now, let’s talk about our deal, shall we?”

“I’ve got to go,” Kitchen said.

“Wait a minute! Didn’t you hear what I just said? I want to do a deal with Hardare. Do you understand?”

“Watch Action 10 News at Noon.”

“Is that all you have to say to me?”

“Yes.”

“Fuck you, asshole!”

Seeing red, Death slammed down the receiver, and got into his car. At times like this, it was impossible for him to function, and he sat frozen behind the wheel, hearing a pounding bass line in his ears. It was loud enough to make his head hurt, and he buried his face in his hands.

His heart, beating out of control.

By late morning the wind had picked up, and it whistled in and out of the gaping holes in the walls of the abandoned apartment house where Jan sat prisoner. Hearing footsteps on the stairs, she steeled herself as a key entered the door.

The door flew open with wham! Death entered carrying a portable TV under his arm and a bag of groceries. Dressed in Nikes, faded jeans, a UCLA sweatshirt and a Dodgers baseball cap, he looked like the average Joe Blow out for a walk.

“Glad to see you’re still with us.” Shutting the door, he went into the adjoining room, and returned dragging a wooden packing box. Positioning the box before her chair, he propped the portable TV on top of it, switching it on. It was a color Sony with snowy lines running across the screen. He extended the antenna and fiddled with it for a minute.

“Can you see the picture?”

Jan said nothing.

The muscles in his back tensed, and he glanced over his shoulder. “Was that a yes, or a no?”

“Burn in hell,” she said.

He leapt across the room, his hands slapping her face with such dazzling speed that she nearly passed out. Stopping, he removed his cap and brought his face close to hers.

“Look at me, bitch.”

Jan looked. Death was hideous in a way she had not expected. A hairless face with misshapen ears, the nose and mouth contorted by hidden demons, the eyes ice blue and soulless.

“Get this straight,” he said. “I can play this nice, or I can play this ugly. Makes no difference to me.”

Kneeling, Death painstakingly unbolted her chair from the floor. Then he spun her around one hundred and eighty degrees. Jan caught the gasp rising in her throat.

The shriveled skeleton of a girl hung from the plaster ceiling behind her, her red leather mini-skirt pulled down to her knees, her straw blond hair flapping in the wind. What remained of her face was twisted in agony; a sure sign of a slow death. Death gently placed his fingertips on Jan’s shoulders and she felt the remaining fight ebb out of her tired, aching body. He spun her chair back around.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” she said.

“That’s more like it.” He resumed fine tuning the portable TV. “Can you see the picture, now?”

“Yes, I can see it.”

“Good,” he replied.

Along with the TV, he had brought a picnic: imported cheeses, hard-boiled eggs, dark pumpernickel bread, sliced baloney, roast beef, alpine Swiss, even little tubs of mayonnaise and mustard. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, he proceeded to gorge himself.

“Your stupid husband refuses to deal with me,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Instead of listening to what I had to say, he wants me to watch Action 10 News at Noon. I thought you might want to watch as well.”

“Who is she?” Jan asked.

Death shook his head, not understanding.

“The dead woman hanging behind me.”

“Some tramp.”

“You don’t even know her name?”

“I might have once, but it escapes me.”

Death continued to shove food into his mouth. He was clearly on edge, and looked capable of just about anything. Jan said a silent prayer, hoping that if she died, it went quickly.

“Why, look at the time,” he said. “It’s almost noon. Let’s see what Mr. Magico has up his sleeve, shall we?”

“Sure.”

He turned around and faced the portable TV.

“Now, I remember,” he said. “Her name was Jane. No, that’s not right. It was Jan. I’m sure of it.”

Jan stiffened. “That’s my name.”

“It is?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. My mistake.”

Jan silently cursed him while staring at the TV.

“We’re live in thirty seconds,” the cameraman announced. “Everybody take your places.”

The actors scurried around the Houdini Séance room and took their seats. As a make-up artist dabbed pancake on his upper lip, Hardare took a deep breath. He had only one hand to play, and this was it. On the other side of the room stood Action 10 news reporter Jayne Hunter, clutching a mike. She shot him a smile.