The Legend of the Ditto Twins (62 page)

I guess
we eventually fell asleep on the floor between the yellow recliners, because we
were still there the next morning when the phone rang. Bare-ass naked, we
bolted up, and I answered it on the first ring.

After a
long pause, there was that frightened, youthful voice again: "Rev. Flamm
is talking to the police."

"Don't
hang up!" Quickly, I switched to speaker phone.

"What
was that click? Are you recording this?"

"No,
I just put you on speaker phone, so my brother could hear, too."

"Your
brother? Are you... The Ditto Twins? In person?"

"In
person. Who are you?"

A long
pause. "Our
folks'd
kill us if they knew we were
talking to you."

"'We'?"

"My
brother... he's on the extension."

"Hi,"
came a second voice. "You're really the Dittos?"

"Absolutely..."

“...swear
to God."

The voice
quivered with amazement. "You believe in God?"

I looked
at Clark. He answered for us.

"We
haven't made up our minds yet. Have you?"

"Uh...
Rev. Flamm says..."

“...you're
gonna rot in hell."

Clark
spoke before I could. "Do you believe that?"

"Maybe."
In unison.

"What
about you two?" I asked. "Do you believe you're gonna rot in hell,
too?"

"Maybe."
In unison.

Clark
gasped. "Oh, my God. You're twins."

"Maybe."
In unison.

"How
old are you?"

"Fourteen.
Almost fifteen. But..."

“...we've
got to go now."

I jumped
in. "I'll bet you have a lot of questions you'd like to ask us, don't
you?"

"Maybe."
In unison.

"Would
you like to get together sometime?"

"You'd
talk to us?" In unison.

"Of course.
Are you in town?"

"We
go home tomorrow." In unison.

"Kansas?"
Clark asked.

"Maybe."
In unison.

"We
could have lunch today," I persisted.

"No!
Someone might see us."

"Oh,
yeah. Right. Well, we could just hang out."

"Maybe."
In unison.

"How
about a park? Could you find Roosevelt Park?"

"Where
the zoo is?"

"Right.
We could meet in front of the monkey house."

A long,
long pause, and then in unison: "When?"

"An
hour."

"Maybe."
And they hung up.

We were
early; they were late. But there was no mistaking their bond, even if they had
not been dressed alike. They were stocky, curly haired, and could hardly keep
their hands off each other. Also, scared to death.

"Hi,
I'm Ryan..."

“...and
I'm Bryan."

They
nodded warily. "We'd better not tell you..."

“...our
names, if that's okay?"

"Sure.
Have you seen our movie?"

They
shook their heads.

"Here."
We handed them our DVD. "A little present."

Blanching,
one of them took it, stuffed it behind his belt, and pulled his sweater over the
bulge. Little by little, they relaxed and told us the story of their life. It
was like listening to a re-run of our own, right down to a jar of Vaseline that
turned up in the wrong place at the wrong time. We shared a few stories of our
own to convince them they were not doomed, but they had been well
indoctrinated.

"Okay,
Ryan, but can you promise us..."

“...we're
not gonna burn in hell? Bryan, can you?"

We shook
our heads. "Not a hundred per cent, but then we can't promise you..."

“...that
Madonna will ever have another hit, either."

For the
first time, they laughed.

Finally,
I was able to ask the question I'd been wanting to ask all along. "How do
you know Rev. Flamm?"

"We
go to his church. Our folks..."

“...think
he's God on earth."

"Do
you?"

They shook
their heads, afraid to say so out loud.

"Why?"

"Because.
We..."

“...hear
things."

"What?"

They
shrugged. "He's going to hurt you." In unison.

"How?"
In unison.

"On
New Year's Eve. In New York. We saw the ads..."

“...for
your show. On the internet. Be careful."

"What's
he gonna do?" we demanded.

"Do
you shoot up?"

"No.
Never."

They
looked at us skeptically, so we pushed up our sleeves and showed our arms. That
seemed to satisfy them.

"Then
why was he talking about cocaine?" one of them asked. "We heard..."

“...something
about cocaine. Maybe he's gonna make you
o.d
. or
something. We..."

“...couldn't
hear it all. But he's..."

“...Oh,
Jesus God in heaven! There's Mom and Dad."

Instantly,
they distanced themselves from us and hurried to greet their parents as if they
hadn't a care in the world. We smiled; they were learning to be good liars,
too.

Somehow,
we never got around to mentioning The Kansas Twins to Clay. No point in
worrying him. We flew to New York alone. After all, The Ditto Twins had proved
more than once they could take care of themselves.

Coliseum,
the club presenting The Millennium
Gayla
, covered the
better part of a city block and was a Gothic monstrosity that had begun life as
a nunnery back in the Nineteenth Century. In the years since then, it had
undergone many renovations, most recently by a South Beach designer who must
have been on acid the entire time he revamped it.

On New
Year's Eve afternoon, Clark and I got to the club about two o'clock. Snow
warnings were up, but the blue police barricades were already in place across
the street, clearly reserved for Rev. Flamm and his hardy horde. He'd gotten to
New York a week before us and had been busily attacking The Ditto Twins
non-stop, urging "right-minded Christians" to join his Millennium
Crusade against The Millennium
Gayla
.

Upon
arrival, we went directly to the manager's office to check in, and a techie
showed us to our dressing room.

"You're
early," said our guide, an overweight blonde wearing a black latex body
suit. "Here's your key. If you sniff, snort, smoke, or shoot up, lock the
door first."

"We
don't do drugs." In unison.

"If
you say so." She took a moment to study us. "Hey, you really do look
like twins." She ran her thumbs over our cheekbones. "Which one of
you had the plastic surgery?"

We both
pointed to each other; she groaned and left.

The
minute she was gone, we began to examine the bleak little room. An alcove
serving as a closet was bare except for a lead pipe from which dangled half a
dozen hangers. In one corner, a jerry-rigged shower dripped behind a mildewed
plastic curtain. The make-up table was nothing more than a shelf; its mirror
was cracked but did have a frame of bulbs around it. Three folding chairs, a
stained strip of carpeting, and a pathetic futon completed the rooms
appointments. Methodically, we tapped every inch of the walls, checked under
the make-up table, peered down the drain, flushed the toilet, and pulled back
the carpet.

Finally,
Clark got tired of playing detective. "If
Flamm’s
idea is to plant a stash of drugs in here, there's no place to hide em."

"Maybe
we're just being paranoid."

Clark
shook his head.

Suddenly,
the door was shoved open, and the techie had returned, half hidden behind
several bouquets of flowers.

"Your
fans, guys. They love you." We moved to unload her. "There's more up
front. I'll bring em back if I get a chance." And she was gone again.

We set
the opening night gifts on the so-called make-up table, and I poked into one
for the card.

"Get
this. 'Love, Your Biggest Fan.' And a phone number."

Clark
giggled and found the second one. "Same thing. Only an e-mail address. Who
sent the plant?"

I found
the card and started laughing. "Quote. 'Break your leg. Best regards,
Libor, Pavol, and Ed.' Unquote."

"Nice.
Who sent the roses?"

I
checked. "Another 'Biggest Fan.' No phone number."

"Shy
type." I laughed, and Clark snuggled close to me. "Warm me up. It's
colder 'n hell in here."

"They
probably haven't turned the heat on yet."

"Isn't
there anything coming out of that vent?"

I pulled
a chair to the wall and stepped up on it.

"No.
Nothing. Oh, shit! Clark. A videocam!"

"Is
it on?"

I peered
through the grating. "Doesn't seem to be."

"Of
course not!" fumed Clark. "We're early. They haven't turned it on yet
either. Bastards!"

"Hand
me a T-shirt. I'll cover..."

"No!
Absolutely not!" he ordered. "Don't you get it? This isn't about drugs.
It's about catching us making love. Shit, shit, shit!"

I jumped
down off the chair and tried to pull him to me. "Hey. Calm down!"

"No!
Mark, no touching!"

He shoved
me away, and I fell back against the make-up shelf. The vase of roses went
tumbling to the floor, the long-stemmed flowers spilling all over the
carpeting.

"Relax.
The vase didn't break. Here, I'll just..." I squatted down. "That's
weird. There's no water in it."

The vase
was bone-dry, but there was something stuffed in its base. I tipped it upside
down, and out fell a plastic sandwich bag. In it were half a dozen small
glassine bags filled with white powder. I started to reach down.

"No!
Don't touch anything," hissed Clark. "No fingerprints. Don't you see?
Maybe Rev. Flamm can't get us for making the movie in Europe. But he
can
get us arrested if
the cops come in here looking for drugs..."

“...and
find us fucking instead. Oh, my God, like that case down in Georgia."