Play Dead

  'I had my reasons!' Mary shouted back.

  'What were they? What were your reasons?'

  But the only answer Laura received was more sobbing, uncontrollable sobs that racked Mary's body. Her shoulders and chest heaved. Laura looked at the pitiful figure that was her mother and took hold of herself. What have I done, Laura asked herself? She had come here to forgive her mother, to release her from the undeserving torment she had suffered at Laura's hands over the last few months. Instead, Laura had attacked her with a vengeance that left them both trembling.

  'I'm sorry, Mom. I didn't mean it. I just hurt all over and sometimes I just attack . . .'

  She took her mother in her arms and together they both cried. Laura stroked her mother's hair. Some secrets defy death, Laura realized, and some truths are best kept buried deep in the past. Laura understood that. She knew the truth was not always a good thing. The truth could cause pain. Devastating pain. Pain that could destroy lives.

  But that did not mean Laura would allow herself to be protected from the truth, to live a life where ignorance was bliss. Not when it came to David. After all, Laura's heart had already been torn from her chest. What further harm could the past do to her now? No, Laura decided, I will seek the truth.

  And find it.

  All eyes were on Mark Seidman. 'I can shoot better than any man alive.'

  'Who the hell are you?' a reporter yelled out.

  'Mark Seidman from the Boston Eagle Weekly.'

  'The what?'

  'Don't pay any attention to him, fellas,' Clip interrupted. 'He's just some pain-in-the-ass heckler. Ignore him. To answer your question, Mike, the finest shooter in the game today is Timmy Daniels.'

  'Wanna bet?' shouted the blonde heckler.

  Clip looked over to the security guards. 'Okay, that's it. Throw the bum out.' The uniformed guards strolled over to the bleachers.

  Mark quickly stood. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of green bills. 'Ten thousand dollars,' he shouted. 'One hundred portraits of Ben Franklin on crisp, new bills says I can beat Timmy Daniels in a three-point shoot-out.'

  The gymnasium fell silent. Mark watched Clip's face turned red with fury. 'I said throw the bum out!'

  Reporters started snapping pictures. Mark waved the money. 'Ten thousand dollars for the charity of your choosing, Mr Arnstein. You put up zilch. Any charity you choose. No risk at all -- unless you're a little afraid your shooting star's ego will be bruised by a stranger off the street.'

  Timmy leaned toward Clip. 'Let me shut this punk up.'

  'Yeah, Clip,' one of the reporters added. 'Let Tim take this kid's dough.'

  Murmurs of agreement rippled through the gymnasium.

  Clip's face was still red. 'You mind if I count the money, big mouth?'

  'Not at all,' Mark replied. 'You can even hold it while we shoot.'

  Mark walked down the bleachers and handed the money to Clip. He looked at the older man's angry eyes. If looks could kill. Whispers from the others: 'What do you figure?' 'Some wealthy punk with money to burn.' 'He's no reporter.' 'Rich bastard.' 'Yeah.' 'Timmy will teach him a lesson.' 'Weirdo.'

  Clip counted the money and then sighed. 'Okay, let's get this over with.'

  A coin was tossed. Mark won and chose to shoot second. A ball boy quickly set up the balls in various positions over twenty feet away from the basket where only the finest shooters dare roam. Mike Logan watched with interest. He had covered last year's three-point contest before the All-Star Game in Dallas. David Baskin had won, shattering his own record by hitting twenty-two shots in the one-minute time period. Twenty-two. It had been truly incredible. Timmy Daniels had placed second with twenty; Reggie Cooper of the Chicago Bulls was third with nineteen.

  Timmy Daniels approached the first cart of basketballs on the left side of the basket, his eyes concentrating on nothing but the rim of the basket. He crouched and waited for the timer.

  'One minute of shooting. Ready, go!'

  Tim started shooting. He moved from the left side of the basket to the middle, his rainbow-like shots heading toward the cylinder.

  Swish, swish, swish. Timmy shot as well as he had ever shot before.

  'Thirty seconds!'

  'He already has twelve!' someone shouted. 'He's heading for a record!'

  Mark closed his eyes and hoped Tim would miss more often. But Timmy continued to shoot exceptionally well. His hands moved with precision, the same fast movement every time he shot.

  'Time!'

  The counter looked up. 'Holy shit! Twenty-three! A new record! He shattered White Lightning's record!'

  Applause and cheers filled the small gymnasium. Timmy's teammates, including Earl Roberts, went over and congratulated their shooting champion. Clip patted him on the back. Reporters took notes. Even Timmy seemed somewhat taken aback by what he had done.

  Clip reached into his pocket and took out a victory cigar. The small crowd went wild.

  'Not so fast, Mr Arnstein.'

  Clip looked past the front of his cigar at Mark. 'Son, you might as well just head on home now.'

  Murmurs of agreement.

  'Not yet,' Mark replied calmly. But he was worried. Timmy Daniels had indeed shot brilliantly. 'I still get my turn.'

  'Why waste our time, son?'

  'The name is Mark Seidman, Mr Arnstein, and this contest is not yet over.'

  Clip lit his cigar. Everyone laughed. 'Well, let's get a move on, Mr Mark Seidman. There's a team practice being held up because of you.'

  The ball boys quickly retrieved the balls and set them up for Mark's turn. He walked over to the left side of the basket and turned back toward Clip.

  'Extra wager?' Mark asked.

  'What? You crazy, son?'

  'Extra wager or not?'

  Clip smiled. 'Name it.'

  'If I win, you give me a try-out with the team. If I lose, your charity gets another ten grand.'

  Again the laughter echoed through the warm building. 'Done,' Clip shouted.

  Mark nodded and waited; his muscles tensed. Everyone was watching him with mocking eyes. He could hear his heart pounding.

  'Ready, go!'

  Mark grabbed a ball off the rack and quickly launched his first shot. Too quickly. The ball banged off the rim. The crowd laughed. The next shot found its mark. So did the next, and the next . . .

  'Not bad. He may even hit fifteen.'

  'No way.'

  . . . the next, the next . . .

  'The kid can shoot.'

  'He'll never even hit sixteen.'

  . . . a miss, a make, a make, a make . . .

  'Funny way of shooting, huh?'

  'Yeah. Quick release. Reminds me a little of Baskin.'

  'Hey, Clip, what do you think?'

  Clip Arnstein said nothing. He watched the awkward yet graceful shooting. Mark's hands were a blur.

  'Thirty seconds.'

  'Christ, the kid has ten!'

  Everyone watched now as Mark moved toward another rack of basketballs. He was still behind Timmy Daniels and no one gave any serious consideration to the blonde's chances of beating him, but only seven professional players have broken the eighteen basket mark and the heckler had a real chance of hitting that milestone. Mark continued to shoot, ignoring his score, lost in the bliss of basketball. His shooting motion was fluid; the ball had perfect backspin as it dropped through the net.

  'Time!'

  Stunned silence. The counter looked up. 'Twenty-four,' he said softly. 'The kid just broke the record.'

  Eyes swiveled as Clip Arnstein slowly strode toward the blonde stranger named Mark Seidman. No one spoke. Clip approached Mark and handed him back his money. Mark said nothing, his expression solemn.

  'Impressive shooting, son.'

  Mark did not respond.

  'But there's a hell of a lot more to this game than shooting.'

  The blonde head nodded his agreement.

  Clip eyed him. The kid had just beaten the NBA's best shooter and bro
ken an NBA record. He should be celebrating. Instead, the kid stood there like he was attending a funeral. Clip shrugged, turning away from the bleak, haunted look in Mark's blue eyes. 'A bet is a bet,' he said after some time. 'Get on your practice gear.'

  Mark jogged past the ugly, suspicious stares of his potential teammates, past the reporters. Mike Logan watched. The reporter could not believe what he had just seen. An amateur had just broken the three-point shooting record. And the weird style of his shot. Just like . . .

  Logan took out his pad and wrote down a nickname just in case the kid made it.

  White Lightning II.

  Chapter 13

  May 30, 1960

  Once again, it was time to kill. Victim Number Two.

  Tears filled the killer's eyes. I don't want to kill this one. I really don't want to. He was an innocent victim in all this.

  But maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was to blame. And maybe his death could finally lead to peace. Maybe his death would be a good thing in the long run. The innocent die all the time. Sacrifices must be made. Occasionally, the ends do justify the means. That was just the way of the world.

  That argument was not very convincing.

  The time had come. Without warning, the killer silently jammed the steel instrument of death into the helpless victim. Blood came pouring out in large doses, doses larger than the killer had expected. The dark red liquid seeped onto the floor, staining everything in its path.

  It all ends so quickly, the killer thought, watching as Death claimed yet another life before its time.

  The killer stood and turned toward the accomplice. The accomplice remained huddled in the shadows, watching with horrified eyes. 'Clean up the remains,' the killer said coolly. 'Make it fast.'

  'Do I have to?'

  'Yes. Now hurry.'

  The accomplice had taken less than two steps when the door behind them flew open.

  Both the killer and the accomplice gasped and spun around. A very young child peeked her head through the doorway. The little girl did not get a very good look at the room, but she saw blood. Lots of blood. Her scream pierced the silent room.

  'Mommy! Mommy!'

  'Get out of here, Gloria! Get out of here now!'

  Chapter 14

  'Serita shimmers "minerally gorgeous" in this silver formal gown with a wide gold belt around her waist. The belt comes off for a more funsy look. Notice the dipping back . . .'

  Serita spun to show the audience her stunning back. From behind the curtain, Laura watched her friend. A sign over the runway read: Be your own SVENGALI! Our new find: Mr Benito Spencer!

  The well-known SV logo of Svengali adorned both ends of the sign. The ballroom at the New York Nikko Hotel was packed with some of the biggest names in fashion. Laura had arranged front-row seating for the most important critics, and tonight, the Palladium would throw a party for Mr Benito Spencer. Svengali's marketing department had been hard at work, making sure that the company's first show in nearly five months had plenty of positive publicity surrounding it.

  Serita walked to the end of the runway, made a final turn, and headed back. No doubt about it, Laura thought, Serita was the best in the business. She thrived on the runway like an actress on the stage. With her back straight, her whole being giving off an aura of sophistication and elegance, Serita could make Hawaiian hula shirts look in vogue. And yet, Serita allowed the audience to peek under the unruffled facade and see that she was no mere mannequin, that she was real and having fun up there.

  With one last look of total composure Serita made her grand exit. Once off stage, her cool expression changed completely.

  'Out of my way,' Serita hissed as her casual runway stroll turned into a Carl Lewis-type sprint. On her way to the dressing room, her hands were busy working at unhooking the zippers. Four helpers raced after her. One managed to change Serita's earrings while she was still moving. Another touched on makeup. When Serita reached the dressing room (actually, part of the hotel's kitchen), the third helper slipped off the silver high-heeled shoes and replaced them with black shoes with a somewhat lower heel. Helper number four slid a white blouse over Serita's shoulders. Wild-eyed, Serita stood and dashed back toward the runway entrance with yet another helper trailing her with a pearl necklace. Serita stopped and rolled her eyes at Laura as the pearls were wrapped around her swanlike neck.

  'I hate this,' she whispered toward Laura.

  'Who are you kidding?' Laura asked. 'You love it.'

  'True.'

  Forty seconds after Serita had exited the runway wearing a silver formal gown with a gold belt, she stepped on again wearing a navy business suit complete with leather tie.

  'Doesn't Serita look smart in the latest . . .'

  'They love you!' exclaimed an assistant standing next to Benito Spencer. Spencer silenced his assistant with a sharp glare. He took a drag on his cigarette with enough intensity to inhale a tennis ball through a straw.

  Laura turned and smiled reassuringly at her latest designer, Benito Spencer (his real name was Larry Schwartz). He was a thin-faced, long-haired twenty-three-year-old who had to know that today would decide his fashion future. The critics out in the audience, ordinary folks who just happened to have accumulated an enormous amount of power in the fashion world, would make or break Benito Spencer. Tomorrow morning, Benito would be the 'newest fashion genius' or a 'washed-up no-talent.' Despite all the publicity, that decision would be made by these critics, many of whom had never been able to achieve their own dream of finding a sponsor and having their own show like Benito. For Svengali, today was merely a small financial gamble. For Benito, it was much more.

  The young designer stubbed out the cigarette and fidgeted with a dress, searching for some way to keep himself busy. Laura truly wished Benito the best. He was a sensitive man who she believed had tremendous talent. She was confident he would do well today.

  Laura so used to look forward to the thrill of introducing a new talent to the fashion world. For weeks she would work on promoting new lines with the passion of a sculptor in front of a fresh piece of marble. She would stay late at the office and go over every detail of the presentation until everything was absolutely perfect. And when it was completed, when she could finally step back and look at the fruits of her long hours of labor, joy and a sense of fulfillment would fill her. But work no longer gave her such feelings. Now, life held no emotions like happiness, affection, passion. Now, life meant merely survival. It was an alternative to death -- a welcome or unwelcome alternative, she could not say. Svengali was the life-preserver she clung to in her sea of despair. Work, like life, had become just a way of passing time, an occasional distraction from reality.

  But work had never been like that before. She remembered the joy of preparing her previous fashion presentation when David was still alive. The show had taken place a few days before she and David had taken off for Australia -- a lifetime ago. Every night during that long week, Laura had stayed in the Svengali office until nearly midnight. A few nights before the show at the Beverly Hills Hotel, she sat alone in her office going over the show's seating. The seating was a crucial element in a good fashion show. If you snubbed a major critic and forgot to put him or her in one of the front rows, the presentation would flop no matter how good the designs were.

  She had been working at her desk, her head lowered over the list of fashion magazines that would be attending. She knew the critic from Vogue was having a small tiff with the one from Mademoiselle so it would not pay to seat them next to one another. And the critic from . . .

  Laura stopped. Though she knew the office was deserted, she felt eyes on her. She slowly raised her head toward the door.

  'Hi,' David said softly.

  She looked at him. There were tears nestled into the corners of his eyes. 'How long have you been standing there?' she asked.

  'About five minutes.'

  'Are you okay?'

  He nodded. 'I'm fine. I just wanted to surprise you.' 'What's wrong, David?' r />
  He smiled now. 'Nothing, my love. Nothing at all.' 'You're crying.'

  'Just tearing, Laura.'

  'Why?'

  He shrugged, moved into the room, and embraced her. 'What can I tell you? I came in to surprise you. You've been working so hard lately and I thought a little break would be fun.'

  'You thought right,' Laura added.

  'Anyway, I came up to the door. You were sitting there at work and . . . I don't know. I just love watching you. I love watching the way your head tilts when you're reading. I love the way you smile when you're thinking of a new idea. I love the way you brush back your hair with your finger. I even love the way your leg shakes. So I was watching you, mesmerized, and I was thinking about how beautiful you are and about how much I love you and all . . .'

  Laura kissed him. 'You are the sweetest -- '

  'Don't you start, too,' David interrupted. 'Only so much corny stuff I can handle at one time.'

  'I love you, David. I will love you forever.'

  'This Svengali Special by Benito Spencer is perfect for the woman on the go. It can be worn with or without the jacket . . .'

  Why had it all been cruelly snatched away from her?

  The faces of the important critics in the front row blurred into one large mass of fleshy tones. More than two weeks had passed since Laura had confronted and made up with her mother, two weeks where Laura had done her best to bury herself in the preparation for this show. But still the conversation with her mother kept pricking at her mind with tiny needles. Her mother was hiding something, Laura was sure of it. Her mother was hiding something about David.

  But what could it be? Could there have been something in David's past that he had kept from her? And if he had, how would Laura's mother know about it? And why wouldn't her mother say what it was? What could have happened to David that would explain all the peculiar happenings . . . ?

  Murder.

  Laura's thoughts jerked wildly. She tried to push the thought away, but it remained anchored in her mind. T.C., Aunt Judy, her father -- they were all acting so strangely . . .

  Murder.

  . . . as if they suspected something . . .

  In the background the Svengali announcer: 'You're sure to be a hit in this red ensemble . . .'

  A half a million dollars was missing. $500,000. People would do crazy things for that kind of money. Cheat. Swindle. Deceive. Rob. Mug. Kidnap.

  Murder.

  Laura replayed her conversation with Richard Corsel at the bank.