Dick by Law (26 page)

Everyone applauded, but Simon didn't answer.
His mind was spinning, trying to process what was happening.

Judge Bartlebaugh walked over to a
big
easel
in the middle of the ballroom
with a white sheet draped over it.
"Welcome, everyone!"
Cracking his gum, he
took hold of
a corner of
the sheet
. "Welcome to the
Simon Bellerophon Center for Dick
Rehab.
"

The crowd cheered and clapped as Judge Bartlebaugh
dramatically
tugged the sheet from the easel, revealing a huge
foam-core sign
printed
with the name
he'd just announced.

Simon stared at the sign in stunned amazement.
Simon Bellerophon Center for Dick Rehab.
The words had been printed in black block letters
, italicized. There they were, plain as day, right in front of him.

But he still couldn't believe them.

"If we can't
legislate
'em, we'll
cure
'em," said Judge Bartlebaugh. "You've inspired me to turn my home into a
world class
rehab facility for
the treatment of
chronic dicks.
When people think
dick reversal
, they'll think
the Simon Bellerophon Center.

"That is, if you'll give us your blessing." Judge Bartlebaugh walked over and laid a hand on Simon's shoulder. "So what do you say, my friend? Will you lend your name to this noble venture?"

With all eyes
trained
expectantly upon him,
Simon
looked from Josie to Chip to Ankha. From Buck to his brother and best friend
,
Quinn.

Then
to
Ishi
. She met his gaze warmly, without looking away...conveying, without saying a word, that she
loved him still. That she
hadn't given up on him. He'd
been distant, he'd even
pushed her away, but she
was still in his corner
.

And now here was a chance to make up for
letting her down
and for everything. For letting himself get carried away by revenge.
For becoming the very thing he'd hated most.
For what had happened
because of him
in Bermuda.

Ma
ybe, if there had been a dick rehab before the whole mess had started, Horne Shaw would still be alive today...and not a dick.
Maybe Mobai and Poppa Free wouldn't be dicks, either.

So the
decision he faced
wasn't really much of a
decision
at all
.
He
took a deep breath, and then he
let it out. The words he said felt right without a doubt before he said them.
"
Okay
."
He
smil
ed and
shrugg
ed. "
Let's give it a
whirl
."

Judge Bartlebaugh nodded approvingly and cracked his gum.
"And would you be willing to work with us to develop this center
and a Dicks Anonymous twelve-step program
?
Your friends are already on staff."

Simon shot a
look at Ishi, who smiled and nodded. "
I can get on board with that
," said
Simon.

"
Dicks of the world
!
We can help!
" Judge Bartlebaugh hoisted Simon's arm high
in the air
like the arm of a champion prizefighter. "
The Simon Bellerophon Center for Dick Rehab is
now
officially accepting cli
ent applications!"

It didn't take long for Simon to get into the spirit of things.
"
Quit dicking around!
"
he said
as the crowd went wild and cameras flashed and Ishi rushed toward him
with open arms
.
"
Isn't it about time you got a new lease on life? A
dick-free
lease on life?"

*****

Special Preview:
Heaven Bent

By Robert T. Jeschonek

Now
On Sale

 

From
Heaven Bent
Part 1

If I'd known then what I know now, I never would have gone toward the light. Seriously. This Heaven, I could've done without.

My actual life before death was much better. I was a
movie star
, for cryin' out loud. I had it all.

As recently as twelve hours ago, I had it all.

"So tell me, Stag, how does it feel to be nominated for your third Academy Award?" That's what the perky blonde morning show host asked during the live interview.

"Unbelievable." I said it with my patented humble-yet-confident grin, letting the bright lights cast a glare on my teeth. Down-to-Earth, salt-of-the-Earth, salt-and-pepper hair parted on the right. "It never gets old."

"What a track record." She, Susan F., was in a New York City studio. For reasons that weren't clear to me, I was in a separate studio across town, watching her on a monitor. Doin' the ol' split-screen tango. "And with two Best Actor wins under your belt, how do you feel about chances for a third?"

"Crossing my fingers, Sue." I flashed my bright whites and showed my crossed fingers to the camera. "It would be an indescribable honor."

"We wish you the best," said Susan with her most endearing smile, as if I were family.

"Thank you, Sue." Nod and a wink. "I hope to see you at the after-party."

Aaaand cut!

"On a cold day in Hell," I added after the red light on the camera went dark.

"Screw you, too, Stag." That's what Susan F.'s voice said in my earpiece. Looks like my mic was still hot.

Not that I cared. "Love and kisses, S.F.," I told her as I unclipped the mic. Reaching under my gray sweater, I pulled the mic down and out by the cord.

As I popped out my earpiece (to the sound of her angry cursing), I saw someone open the studio door and stroll in. It was a guy--six-three, six-four--with broad shoulders, dark business suit, and red tie. High roller maybe?

"Hello?" I was irritated, because the only one walking in on me at that point should have been my manager, Shisha M. "You know I have to be at a film shoot in fifteen minutes, right?"

The guy cleared his throat. He was standing with his hands folded over his lower abdomen. "Hello." I couldn't make out his face in the shadows beyond the studio lights. "Hello, S.L."

I hopped off the stool, squinting for a look at him. "Very funny." More than a little pissed off because he was riffing on my call-people-by-their-initials routine. "What do you want?"

At that instant, somebody switched off the lights, and I saw the guy's face. For a moment, the pissed-off-ness poured right out of me.

My breath caught in my you-know-what. A cold chill rushed up my you-know-where.

That guy...

"About the film shoot." He shook his head. The hair wasn't salt-and-pepper, it was solid silver. But otherwise...identical.

To me. He could've been my twin.

"What about it?" I said, but my head was tingling. I had a feeling like very strong vertigo, like being stoned.

"Don't go back," said my twin. "Not today. Not ever."

As the initial shock wore off, I started thinking this through. I had no twin, so... "Who sent you, pal?" I straightened my back, squared my shoulders, copped a sneer. "Was it Brad? Was it Morgan? I've gotta say, you're the best Stag Lincoln impersonator I've ever seen."

My twin walked toward me, looking intense. As he got closer, I swear I could smell the ocean. "I'm begging you. Don't go back to the shoot, Willy."

My sneer turned into a frown. How could he possibly know that ancient nickname? The one I paid
millions
(conservatively speaking) to bury forever? "Whatever was remotely funny about this just stopped being funny." I yanked the phone out of my pocket and started punching 9-1-1.

At which point, my twin charged up and smacked the phone from my hand. "Listen to me!" Next, he hauled off and slapped me across the face. "If you go to that shoot, it's all over! Can you get that through your thick
head
, you arrogant
ass
?" He slapped me again, harder.

Where the hell was Shisha while this was happening? Where the hell was
anyone
? "Get your hands
off
me!" I pushed away from him, planning to plow my fist into the middle of his copycat kisser.

But that was when he started glowing with bright golden light. I thought I could hear a bell chiming somewhere far away.

"Last warning!" His voice was beyond urgent, beyond serious. "I'm telling you...
you're
telling
yourself
...stay away from the shoot!" He glowed brighter with each passing second. "And whatever you do, Jerry..."

He flared so bright, it was blinding, and then he was gone.

I stood there, blinking at the spots in my eyes. Wondering what the hell he'd been trying to tell me before he disappeared.

Just as I thought that, he popped back into existence in front of me, still roiling with golden glow. His voice crackled, and the bells I'd heard earlier were louder than before. "Whatever you do...don't...toward..."

I thought I heard screams between the chiming of the bells. The screams of not a few, but a multitude of people.

"Jerry!" Suddenly, his voice grew clear and strong. "Don't go toward the light!"

This time, when his glow flared and his body vanished, he didn't come back. I was left there with the echo of his words, the lingering smell of the ocean, and the tingling in my head, asking the one question that kept circling in my mind again and again.

"Was it Cameron?" I stared into space, my mouth wide open with amazement. "That was some serious 3-D, man. That
had
to be Cameron."

*****

An hour later, I got out of my limo at--you guessed it--South Street Seaport, the shoot location.

For a moment, I stood and took it all in. A four-masted tall ship, the
Peking
, bobbed gently in the water. A vast brick building spanned the pier, filled with shops and restaurants. Bright sunlight flared off the bold orange and red awnings and umbrellas fanned out around it like plumage. The air smelled like the East River, like gasoline (from the water taxi docked at the pier?)--and like the ocean, too.

I wondered briefly if that was important.

Shisha, that redheaded fiftysomething fireplug of a manager, never stopped texting as she slid out of the limo behind me.

Did I feel a little apprehensive after the warning from my twin? Not enough to breach my contract.

Looking back, well
duh
, how dumb could I
get
? But I'd mostly convinced myself the visitation had been nothing more than an elaborate special effect arranged by a prankster. I
was
in a TV studio, after all. Ever hear of motion capture? No way
no how
was I going to call off work and give whoever was pranking me the satisfaction.

If I had a hundred bucks for every time some self-proclaimed future me showed up to complicate my life, well...I'd be rollin' in it, these days, actually. But back then, there was just that once, so the odds seemed better that it was B.S.

"Seemed" being the operative word, in retrospect.

"This Distefano character, what a peach pit!" Shisha's upper lip curled as she texted. Unattractive? I didn't hire her for her looks; I needed a bulldog, and she brought plenty of bark
and
bite to the dogfight. "He won't budge on the backend points."

"Sounds like a deal-breaker, Mom." She's not my mom, but I call her that anyway. I even take her out for Mother's Day because it's good to keep a bulldog happy at all times.

"Only if I minded tearing him a new one." Shisha pulled on her giant sunglasses with the leopard-print frames. "Unzip the body-bag, Larry." (That's what she calls me, though it isn't my name.) "I'm goin' in with the spear gun." She dialed the phone like she was squashing bugs on it.

I almost said something to her about my twin, but it sounded too crazy in my head to sail it out there. Anyway, why bother?

How important could it be?

"Hey, anal probe!" That's what she said to the studio boss on the phone as she waddled away from me. "You better be wearing an adult diaper right now at this moment!"

Her voice quickly faded in the ruckus of the shoot. Members of the film crew shouted from every direction as they scurried around, prepping the camera, lights, talent, and set. Extras milled around one corner of the pier, blabbing to each other and on phones while they waited. A mob of onlookers crowded the street, yelling for attention, yelling at...me. (As usual.) And let's not forget the director, D.X. (That's his full name, FYI, I didn't abbreviate.)

"Yo, Stag!" He waved me over to where he was standing, in an open section of the pier near the tall ship. "There's been a change."

"What kind of change?" I frowned. "Another rewrite?"

D.X. pushed up his black ballcap with the movie's title on the front in white letters--
Lie-Jacker
--and scratched his forehead. I couldn't see his eyes behind his mirrored sunglasses, just the reflection of my own face. "More like an opportunity."

That exact moment was when I first heard the sound of the helicopter coming in from the direction of the Brooklyn Bridge.