The List (21 page)

Bert closed his eyes, thinking about the past week and the events leading up to it. He felt... alive. This went beyond finding out he was a clone of Einstein. This was an actual adventure. He was a part of something, something big and scary and exciting. Bert had no idea how this was all going to end up, but he wouldn’t have missed it for anything.

They drove in companionable silence. Roy managed to find Route 2, and a few minutes later they were pulled up to a weather beaten billboard stamped with
“Abe’s Pre-Driven Vehicles”.

The Emporium wasn’t anything more than a gravel parking lot with a small brick building in the center. Multi-colored plastic flags, cracked and faded, were strung between two poles, and a sign proclaimed
“Huge Sale This Week Only!”
in peeling paint.

Bert scratched his chin. “I think I expected more. How many cars do you count?”

“Ten, if you include that rusty Buick up on blocks.”

Before they could get out of the car, a tall man rushed out of the little building to greet them.

“Welcome to Honest Abe’s!” His voice was booming, grandiose, and he spread his arms out dramatically. One look at his face and there was no doubt at all. This was Abraham Lincoln. The craggy features, the square beard, the big ears. He even had the black, stovepipe hat.

Bert opened the car door and Abe shook his hand enthusiastically.

There was a cigarette burning in the corner of his mouth, which seemed strangely anachronistic. The car dealer also wore jeans and a dirty T-shirt, neither of which matched that famous face.

“I see you’re looking to trade up on this foreign hunk of crap. I have just the car for you. A 1989 Chrysler LeBaron. Made in the USA, built to last. Leather interior. Air. I might be persuaded to trade it for this Eurotrash vehicle, because I like how you carry yourself.”

“This is a rental.”

“Of course it is. Perhaps I should be speaking to the driver.” Abe looked at Roy, then back at Bert. “Does this Negro belong to you? Just kidding, of course. Welcome to Honest Abe’s Car Emporium, where all men are free... to drive home in a great deal!”

He pumped Roy’s hand. The look on Roy’s face found him just as entranced by Abe’s appearance as Bert was. He must have been; anyone else talked like that to Roy would have been nursing a broken nose. But when Abe said it, it was humorous and good-natured.

Bert likened it to meeting a celebrity. When he’d first met Tom, he knew his face from old portraits, but there was no spark of instant recognition. Lincoln was arguably one of the most recognizable individuals to ever walk the planet. This was real American history come to life. Being next to him made Bert’s heart race. Even though it was irrational, he wanted to get the man’s autograph and take some pictures.

“I have just the thing for you.” Lincoln lead Roy into the lot. “A 1977 Cadillac Seville. Auto everything. Think of how the brothers in the hood will bug when they see you chillin’ in this ride, homey.”

Bert shook himself out of the momentary daze and went after them.

“Mr. Linc—er—Wilkens, we’re not here about a car. We need to talk to you.”

Abe stopped in his tracks, removing his arm from Roy.

“Mr. Wilkens? Oh, you must mean my boss. He’s out of town for the moment. I’d be happy to take a message.”

“You aren’t Abe Wilkens, owner of this lot?”

“Sorry, no. Good day, gentlemen.”

Abe walked briskly back to the little building. Bert and Roy exchanged a look of amazement.

“Are you as weirded out as I am?”

“It’s freaky. He is Wilkens, right?”

“Has to be. The resemblance was amazing.”

“He tried to sell me a Caddy. Abraham Lincoln tried to sell me a Caddy.” Roy was beaming. It pleased Bert that he wasn’t the only one acting like a star struck idiot.

“Why’d he take off?”

“Let’s find out.”

They walked up to the building and Roy knocked on the door.

“Mr. Wilkens?”

“What? Oh, he’s not here, I told you. Just leave your name and whatever company you’re from, and he’ll get back to you.”

“Company? I’m a cop.”

There was a pause, and then the door opened and Abe’s head poked out, sans top hat.

“You’re not from any bank?”

“No.”

“Credit card company? Loan officer?”

“Nope.”

“Local organized crime?”

“Chicago Police Department.”

“Well then, let’s talk.” Abe waltzed out of the office and put an arm around Roy again. “I’m a big fan of law enforcement, and would be honored to give you my special police officer discount.”

Roy had a little smile on his face and Bert could sense his head wasn’t in the game. He reached over and tugged Abe’s arm.

“We’re not here to buy anything. We’re here about the tattoo.”

Abe turned his attention to Bert. “You know about that?”

“A blue number 1 on your heel. You were adopted, right?”

Abe nodded, his pale eyes widening. “I was. Are you here to tell me it’s true? I’ve been waiting years for this. You found my real parents, and I’m actually a relative of Abraham Lincoln. Right?” He grinned and clapped his hands. “I’ve had a feeling, since I was a kid.

Always hoped it wasn’t just a dumb coincidence. Is there an inheritance? Tell me there’s an inheritance.”

“It’s actually, ah, more complicated than that. You aren’t a relative of Lincoln.”

“Are you kidding? Look at me! I’m the spitting image! I look just like the dead bastard!”

“Abe...”

“Why do you think I moved to Nebraska? I grew the beard, I got the dumb hat—”

“Abe, you aren’t one of Lincoln’s relatives. But you do have Lincoln’s genes in you.”

“What the hell are you trying to say?”

“You’re actually Abraham Lincoln.”

Watching Lincoln do a double take ranked among the greatest moments in Bert’s life.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re a clone of Abraham Lincoln.”

“Are you trying to bullshit a bullshitter?”

“No.”

“You can actually prove this?”

“Yes.”

Abe began to laugh. He grabbed Bert and hugged him. “This is great! I’ll be rich! Come on, you have to buy me lunch and tell me all about it. We’ll take my car.”

Roy and Bert followed Abe to his vehicle. It was, naturally, a Lincoln Continental. Older model, when they still made them big. Bert smiled. Lincoln, driving a Lincoln, in Lincoln. Rarely does reality offer up treats like that. He called shotgun and sat in front.

“Don’t you need to lock up?”

“Hell no. The place is insured.”

Roy had to move a large plastic garbage bag before he could get in the back.

“Don’t you have garbage pick-up out here?”

“Those are aluminum cans. Top dollar at the recycling center.”

“They’re leaking.”

“It’s only water. I fill them all up a little bit before I take them in.

Bumps their weight up.”

Abe turned onto the street and hung another cigarette in his mouth. As he lit it, he gave Bert a once over.

“You know, you look sort of familiar. Harry’s Pool Hall? Did we ever play poker together?”

“I’m a clone of Einstein.”

Abe hooted and blew his horn. “I knew it! I knew it would finally happen for me. We’ll go on tour. You play an instrument, right? I play bass. The Lincoln/Einstein World Tour! I’ll sing
The Politics of
Dancing.
You can sing
He Blinded Me With Science.
What do you play?”

“I played viola in high school.”

“We’d have to work on that. Are there any more famous clones running around? Mozart? John Lennon?” Abe turned to Roy. “Tell me you’re Jimi Hendrix.”

“I’m Jimi Hendrix.” Roy deadpanned. “Let me stand next to your fire.”

Abe narrowed his eyes. “The voice is wrong. Plus you’re too goddamn big. But, maybe... lose some weight, grow a beach ball afro.

Do you play guitar? Here we are, Dinah’s. Only place in five miles worth eating at.”

Abe pulled into the lot. It had all the trappings of a roadside diner; the big sign that said Family Restaurant, the glass carousel of rotating pies and puddings, the permanent round stools at the counter. Bert wondered if the waitress was named Flo.

Abe parked himself on a stool and beckoned Roy and Bert to join him on either side. Bert could sense Roy’s wariness about the seating choice, especially without his donut.

“Can’t we sit in a booth?”

“I hate booths.” Abe winked. “Especially John Wilkes.”

There was laughter and much rib elbowing from the car dealer.

“Actually, my legs are too long. I get gum on my knees. Sit, stay a while.”

Bert sat next to Abe and picked up a menu. There was a small stack next to a pyramid of mini cereal boxes.

“Everything is good, except the turkey. It’s a loaf. Good evening, Meg.”

The waitress was older, tired, and her pink lipstick matched her uniform. “Hi, Abe. Usual?”

“With extra bacon. And some coffee too, hon. This guy here is Einstein, and this large black man is Roy. Do you think he looks like Jimi Hendrix?”

“They’re like twins.” Meg hadn’t lifted her eyes to look. “You guys know what you want?”

Roy didn’t bother with a menu. “Burger and fries.”

“How about you?”

Bert wasn’t sure what he was in the mood for. They’d had chicken on the plane, or at least something purporting to be chicken. He decided to be adventurous. “Give me what Abe is having.”

“Coffee too?”

Roy and Bert agreed to coffee. She brought over three stained cups and filled them. Lincoln added five packets of sugar, drained his cup without stirring, and then motioned for a refill.

“Now tell me. Everything. How can you prove I’m Lincoln?”

Bert gave him the abbreviated explanation, beginning with how he was contacted by Jessup. He glossed over the meeting with Harold, not really understanding the science behind it himself, and then talked about their disastrous confrontation with Stang. The grand finale was the writing test, comparing a sample of Abe’s script with a Xerox of one of Lincoln’s original letters.

“This is fantastic.” Abe looked back and forth between the two papers. “I’m actually Abraham Lincoln.”

“Didn’t you hear the rest of it? Someone is trying to kill you.”

“Every silver lining has a cloud.”

“Has anyone threatened you lately? Attacked you?”

“No more than usual. Great, here’s the grub.”

Meg brought over three plates. Bert eyed his dinner dubiously. It looked quasi-pornographic.

“Francheesie,” Abe explained. “They split open a quarter pound hot-dog, stuff it with cheese, then wrap it up in bacon and deep fry it.”

Abe picked his up and took a large bite, grease dripping down his chin. Bert frowned. “I think I can hear your arteries harden.”

“The secret is the lard. Some places use vegetable oil, and it just isn’t the same.”

Bert went to work on his fries.

“So what’s the next step? Do we hit the newspapers, or go straight to Letterman and Leno?”

“We have to stop the people who want to end our lives.”

“Yeah yeah, after that. Do you have any of this scientific evidence stuff?”

“Nope.”

Roy’s mouth was occupied by a burger that looked a lot better than Bert’s choice. Maybe he’d trade.

“Hey Roy, half your burger for my francheezie?”

“Hell no. Looks like a fried donkey dick.”

“What about that dead science guy? Didn’t he take notes?”

“Stang has it all, and he’s not going to hand it over.”

Abe polished off his dog and licked his fingers. “Way I see it, we could do it three ways. Go through official channels and try to get the media behind us, then let them prove the truth. Or break into the Senator’s place and get the proof ourselves. You gonna eat your donkey dick?”

“Help yourself. What’s the third way?”

“We rob some graves. We can start with Lincoln and Jefferson.

Where’s your brain at?”

Roy grinned. “I ask him that all the time.”

“Some guy has it at Princeton. Abe, you don’t seem to understand how serious this is.”

“You’re right. We should probably get agents. Someone to negotiate all the offers when they start pouring in. I know a guy at William Morris. Bernie something. He’s a big shot, represents Mr. T.”

They had pie, and more coffee. Bert soon gave up trying to convince Abe that his life was in danger. The guy was on their side, and if they stuck together it would hopefully be enough.

“Where are you guys staying?”

“We haven’t decided yet.”

“There are a few hotels near the airport. Some pretty good bars, too. We’re going out to celebrate, right?”

Bert didn’t know if that was the smartest move.

“I’m up for a beer. You, Bert?”

“Well, Tom is—”

Roy nudged Bert with an elbow. “Tom is in LA with a hottie. We don’t need to check in with him for another two hours. A drink or two can’t hurt.”

“Come on, Bert! Live a little!”

Peer pressure won, and they agreed to go to a bar named the Porter House, on Pine Lake Rd.

“Only a few miles away, walking distance to the Ramada Inn. I’ll point out the road when we pass it.”

The sun had gone down, and the cold wind made Bert consider a jacket. They all piled back into the Lincoln, Abe verbally debating between rock stardom and a career in politics.

“I could be President, right? Wouldn’t you vote for Lincoln?”

“Damn straight.”

“Bert, you want to be VP? And how about you, Roy? Secretary of Defense? Then Jefferson can be Secretary of State.”

“How about Joan of Arc?”

“She could cook for us. Keep the White House tidy. How could we lose with a ticket like that?” Abe pulled into his car lot and killed the engine. “I have to do some quick work here, roll up windows, move some cars. I’ll meet you at the Porter House. Think you can find the place okay?”

“No problem.”

“See you there, kids.”

Abe waved and walked back into the little building.

“He’s a pretty good guy.” Roy shook his head, smiling. “It’s like we hanging out with the Pope, or Michael Jackson.”

“The guy has presence. But I wouldn’t buy a car from him to save my life.”

“Check to see if my donut is done. That stool gave me an awful ache.”