Brandy Two was as fascinated by me as I was by
her. The idea that I’d taken over the agency, educated
myself, and married a white guy she found both incredible and
unbelievable, but Fast Eddie’s respect for the old me was
more than enough testimony. The problem was, she’d gone wrong
even earlier than me. Mama died even younger in her world, and
Daddy stuck her—as he almost did me—with a couple of
cousins who didn’t give a damn. She’d been into drugs
early, maybe in grammar school, and she was even wilder as a teen
than I had been. She’d been caught stealin’ when she
was only fourteen, and when Daddy threw a fit she’d run away
all the way to Washington—which existed in her world as in
mine—and had run the streets. By sixteen she had a habit and
was in the string of one of them pimps with the fancy coats and
Superfly image. Daddy had tried to find her, of course, but
considerin’ how hard it is to find runaway kids who want to
be found, it’s pure luck if you find one that
don’t.
She was a whore ’cause she’d been one all her adult
life and didn’t know how to be, or imagine she could be,
nothin’ else. It all went into the body, the looks, the
moves. She had always been dependent for everything, and the mind
was the one thing in her kinda life that it was better off not
payin’ much attention to. She didn’t read and had no
knowledge of or interest in the world. The fact that I’d come
from the same start and I’d made somethin’ of myself
gave her somethin’ of a feelin’ of worth by
association, but it was too late for her to change, she thought,
and what was the use anyway? We was both stuck in the same groove.
In a real way, she was less my twin than my shadow; she looked like
me, but there was nothin’ left down there.
The problem was, as time rolled on, I was becomin’ more
and more like her. On the road, we was even further removed from
Small and Siegel and all that lay behind ’em. We slept, ate,
exercised, had as much sex as we could with anybody, worked out new
routines for the act, and for fun went to stores and tried on all
sorts of clothes to make us look even sexier, experimented with new
cosmetics and perfumes, and spent a long time in mirrors
gettin’ it right. The future was the next jolt of juice.
The only thing that tempted me durin’ that time was
tryin’ to go thirty hours between juice jolts. They generally
gave us a week’s supply at a time, since you couldn’t
overdose on it and even with a week you wasn’t goin’
nowheres. I figured at the end of a week I’d have an extra,
and then maybe I’d go over to Lindy Crockett’s place
some afternoon, hold her down, and give her a taste of the stuff. I
never did, though. It’s the curse of an addiction that you
never give it away or delay gettin’ it when you got it and
it’s due.
We went back down to Atlantic City at the beginnin’ of May
to get ready for the high season at the club there, and for the
first time I was back in the same town as Small and Siegel. By now
it was clear that I was stuck and that I couldn’t do or learn
much more than I did unless things was taken out of my hands and
moved from a different source. My big worry was that Aldrath would
get itchy after all them faked reports from me and nothin’
really happenin’ and decide to come snatch me. I didn’t
want to be snatched or cured, no matter what the price. What I
wanted was a way to be independent of the beck and call of the
bastards who doled it out.
I mean, name me a girl over thirty, or a guy, either, who
suddenly had the body of their dreams and found keepin’ it
that way a pleasure? Who couldn’t get sick if they stood all
day in the wind and rain. Who had been an old thirty-two and now
looked a young twenty-five. Add to that an absence of hangups, of
any guilt, second thoughts, regrets for anything you done from that
point on, and a high, charged-up energy level that kept you always
active, always feelin’ good, never feelin’ bored or
down in the dumps, and just a little bit playfully high all the
time. The only real problem was the man who doled out the juice.
You had to dance to whatever tune he played or it all came
crashin’ in, and you was never secure he just wouldn’t
end it someday.
“Get all your things packed up,” Fast Eddie told us.
“You’re goin’ for a little ride.”
I was shocked and surprised, but you don’t ask no
questions in Fast Eddie’s string. Pack up for what? And
where? Another club, another city? It was just gettin’ real
nice and warm in Atlantic City and the crowds was startin’ to
pick up, at least on the weekends. I put on my metallic blue dress
that was real short and super-revealin’, as was almost all my
stuff, with matchin’ shoes and made myself up to go. Then I
packed the rest in this big steamer trunk, all I had in this world,
closed it, and took it downstairs. It was awkward goin’, but
even though the trunk musta weighed a hundred pounds or more
packed, I had no trouble movin’ and partly carryin’ it.
I was damned strong and proud of it.
I was relieved to see that my twin also had her marchin’
orders. I no longer was surprised that we’d independently
picked the same clothes and even jewelry and makeup. On the basic
conversation level we didn’t even have to talk much; each of
us kinda knew what the other was thinkin’. Not mind
readin’—just the same tastes and likes and thought
patterns. I looked at her and she shrugged and I knew she
didn’t have no more warning nor inklin’ of what was
goin’ on than I did.
Fast Eddie rarely paid direct, individual attention to nobody,
but he was there now. A huge black car pulled up just outside, and
the driver got out, opened the trunk, then waited.
“Okay, girls, there’s your ride,” Small told
us. “Sorry to lose you but the Boss wanted some fresh
faces.”
The Boss—Siegel? I wasn’t too sure I liked this, but
he was the man from whom all juice flowed, so there wasn’t no
way out. We got our trunks barely in the “boot” of the
big car, then got in the backseat. The driver and one of
Small’s henchmen got in the front, and off we went, south and
out of town. I figured we had to be headin’ for
Siegel’s place on the ocean, and I was right.
It was real isolated, like I said, with a big gate and high
fence around the whole forty acres that kept any spyin’
down. The fences was masked on the ground side by a
twelve-foot-high hedge wall, then went right down into the beach
and about to the low tide point, gettin’ a little lower as
they went. Way out in the water was a squared-off stone breakwater
that kept things mostly calm inside the house and discouraged
spyin’ from the sea. At the end was a pier and slip at which
was a big and fancy-lookin’ wooden yacht as well as a couple
of smaller boats. The yacht was moored in line with the beach, so
it kinda blocked a straight view in. You could spy on Arnie
Siegel’s place from the sea, but you had to be pretty damned
obvious about it. The grounds was green and landscaped, with lotsa
trees and bushes and low hedges. A staff spent a lot of time in the
spring and summer and fall keepin’ it that way.
The house itself was enormous; part brick, part wood, maybe
three stories tall and a city block around and all covered with
ivy. Back before all this, when I was checkin’ Siegel out, I
learned that the house was the former official summer residence of
the Governor General of America, the guy who represented the King
in this country. This was supposed to be some place, and you could
bet with bein’ able to tap into some of the Company’s
technology it was near impossible for anybody in this world to get
into or out of or learn much. There weren’t no soldiers or
nothin’ like that, but I couldn’t shake the funniest
feelin’ that I was goin’ back to Vogel’s
castle.
“You goils ain’t here to gawk, you’re here to
woik,” snapped Marty, the Fast Eddie man who’d come
with us. He had a real New Yauk accent. He wasn’t, however,
no man with the juice.
“Work at what?” I asked him. “Looks like he
got ’nuff folks here to run this place.”
Marty gave this sneering smile, like he got when he was
pickin’ wings off flies. “You’ll see.”
A young man in casual dress came out of the side
entrance—we was goin’ in the servant’s entrance,
of course—and he was one of the most gorgeous hunks you ever
could see. One of them super musclemen, well over six feet, blond,
blue-eyed. I never saw no man looked that good who wasn’t
gay.
“You two follow me,” he ordered in this
boomin’ voice that still had a trace of gentle lisp in it.
Iknew it, I thought.
We went in and down a narrow flight of stairs, then walked down
this hall past storerooms and stuff to near the end, then entered
one room that had no windows. It was almost surely built as another
storeroom, but it had been made over. The walls was paneled, the
floor was smooth polished wood so glossy you could see your
reflection in it, and there was half a wall of free-standin’
closets and dressers and a vanity with mirror as well as a
full-length mirror which proved to be a slidin’ door
leadin’ to a tiled bathroom with toilet, sink, and a shower
big enough for two, but no tub. The main room had two chairs, one
at the vanity, the other in a corner, and a queen-sized bed. But
the thing you noticed most was the ceilin’, which was low and
completely covered with mirror squares. The light came from floor
and table lamps, all of which seemed to have soft pink-colored
bulbs in them. It was some kinda room, ’cept it woulda been
nice with some windows and if it still didn’t have a damp
cellar kinda feel and smell to it.
“I am Alan Nordstrom, the manager of Mr. Siegel’s
estate,” he told us. “Mr. Siegel is a rich and powerful
man, and the only one who can give you what you need. He gives it
to me and I give it to you, so you obey either one of us. Got
that?”
“Yes, sir,” we both responded in unison.
“Now, men like Mr. Siegel aren’t like ordinary men.
He has everything he needs and he can buy anything he wants, so he
tends to get turned on by the few things nobody else can have.
There’s precious art all over—you don’t touch it.
There’s original sculpture all over. You don’t touch
that, either. That’s all you two are to him—part of his
collection, for his personal use and enjoyment. When he’s
here and wants you, you’re his, to do whatever he commands
and take whatever he gives. Other times you’re subject to
every other person in this house from me down to the gardener. If
they order you or I order you to do something, you do it. Anybody
wants your body, that’s fine, too. There’s a speaker
over there in the vanity so you can be called any time of the day
or night. You get called, you come running.
“Anything you want to do, you ask permission. You go back
down that hall, up those stairs, and see whoever’s in the
first room on the right. That’s the security manager, and
there’s always somebody on. You use this bathroom and only
this bathroom. You never use the pool or enter the main house
unless ordered. The grounds and the ocean are okay if you’re
free and ask permission and get it, but the water’s still
pretty cold right now. You always smile and you always say
‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ and
‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to any white
folks. And unless you’re ordered to do otherwise, while
you’re here, inside and out, you’ll wear nothing.
Nothing at all, except panties when you do your monthly bleeding.
You pick up your meals from the kitchen after everybody else eats,
and you take it out and bring it down here, then clean up the mess
and bring it back. Now—strip!”
“Why, dat’s slavery—sir,” Brandy Two
said softly.
“No it’s not. Anytime either of you don’t like
it here, you are free to leave. If you complain, or smart-mouth
anybody, or we don’t like the way you do things, we might
even toss you out. You see, Mr. Siegel likes practical pets, but
he’s allergic to dogs.”
We stripped, but if looks coulda killed we’d’a
burned this bastard to a crisp. Slaves, pets—his own damned
brand of Vogel’s Nazism. And this guy with a name like Arnold
Siegel!
But, of course, Arnie Siegel had never heard of no Adolf Hitler
or death camps. They didn’t have that in this world’s
history. The last big bad guy was Napoleon. Ten to one he heard
from somebody from the competition about Vogel’s thing and
never even knowed the history behind it, and how he’d have
been gassed no matter how much money and power he had. No race or
ethnic group was immune. Catholics stepped on Jews for centuries.
Moslems step on Jews, Jews blow up Moslems in my world. Some free
blacks in the old south owned slaves, and Liberia was made by freed
American blacks enslavin’ the Africans.
This was a radical change for us from anything we’d had up
to now, and they meant every word of it and also understood just
what kinda hold the juice had on us. They reinforced it by
bringin’ on withdrawal and makin’ their demands until
we crawled and begged and would do or say anything, and then they
used that mellow time after the high to tell us just how to act and
how to behave. And, like before, one day you wake up and it’s
the way things are. You still don’t hav’ta like it and
you don’t hav’ta enjoy it, but you obey all the rules
instinctively and you don’t even think of
disobeying. This was all the shit they learned in Vogel’s
world refined.
The one odd thing was that they wanted us both called Brandy,
nothin’ else, and they wanted us always together. Sleep
together, eat together, run, work, play together, even be a duo
when gettin’ fucked. It was like they was tryin’ to
make us identical, at the lowest level. I had a hunch the honeymoon
was over and they was preparin’ us for somethin’,
though right then it didn’t seem like much.
Fact was, we wasn’t treated too bad. The cooks always made
up what we wanted, the rooms got cleaned, and there was always some
members of some gang or another in the house who wanted to do it
with twins. Nordstrom was more of a Tinkerbell than even I had
thought, and he pretty well hated and looked down on women in
general, but because of that he didn’t like us around him
much. He was a real turkey when he did use us for
somethin’, but that wasn’t very often.
Arnie Siegel, on the other hand, was an icy cool charmer. You
got the idea that the guy could be sittin’ there
sippin’ sherry and in gentle good humor reminisce with a
chuckle about the time he murdered his parents inch by inch with a
knife. I doubt if he did that, but he sure was the type. The fact
that he was good-lookin’, even handsome, almost a movie star
type of look, only made it worse. He liked to cuddle sometimes in
his big den with the leather furniture, fireplace, hunting trophies
and bear rug, and sometimes he’d just be readin’ or
doin’ somethin’ on the couch and want us perched on the
rug. He was weird. When it got hot, he threw some parties
invitin’ all sorts of bigwigs—not just crime figures,
but politicians, show business types, even cops. When he did, we
was allowed to dress real pretty and slinky and sometimes entertain
the guests with a dance or strip act, and entertain a lot of
important folks in the mirrored bedroom as well. That we liked a
lot.
If he had all this and was only number two, you had to wonder
what Big Georgie Wycliffe must be like.
Then, one evenin’, we was summoned up to the den by the
master of the house himself, only this time he wasn’t alone.
There was a woman with him, one who looked slightly familiar but
who I was sure I never had seen before. She was fairly small and if
she was well built she took pains to dress to conceal it. She wore
a stock professional woman’s suit and blouse, blue with faint
stripes, and even though she didn’t even seem to have
lipstick on, let alone eye shadow, I couldn’t get it outta my
head that she was made-up like mad. She was almost as dark as me
but it was more like a temporary suntan than the tan I got, wore
thick glasses, and had black hair tied up in a bun. She might have
been a top secretary or somethin’, but she had real long and
perfectly shaped fingernails. Ever try typin’ with long
nails? Matter of fact, they looked more like the kinda nails
we had, and her hands was smooth as a baby’s.
They stood there, Arnie and Ms. Cool, and he put us through our
paces, makin’ us do all sorts of idiotic stuff, even do the
two bitches in heat number. We felt like pet dogs doin’
tricks. Finally we got up and stood there while she asked us
questions.
“Do you mind being here, living like this?” The
voice was high and, while cold, reminded me of somethin’.
“No, ma’am,” we both responded, which was a
lie. We’d be over that damned wall in a minute if we
didn’t need our juice.
She asked a bunch more innocuous and dumb questions, but she
come over to us and started runnin’ her nails over my skin
and then my twin’s, then actually pinchin’ our fannies
and feelin’ us up. It was gross and unusual, particularly
since you could see it was out of character for her and she
wasn’t in the least turned on by it like we was. Still, I got
a slight whiff of her perfume and it wasn’t no perfume you
could get here, but I’d smelled it before. At headquarters.
It was real popular among the women there.
“Amazing,” she said to Siegel. “I can’t
tell them apart, even from the reactions. Which of you is
Horowitz?”
“I am,” we both said at once. I started a bit and
gave a puzzled glance at my twin. What the hell was she
tryin’ to pull, anyways? Did she flip out from bein’
with me all that time and sorta take on my background ’cause
it was so much better than hers, or what? Damn it, I knew
who I was.
And then she had us turn back to back and started askin’
rapid-fire questions ’bout my personal life, ’bout Sam,
’bout the Company, lots of stuff, to each of us in turn. The
scary thing was, Brandy Two was givin’ the same right answers
as me, includin’ the kind of personal stuff I knew I never
told nobody, not even her. Worse, she was answerin’ in my
tone and my grammar and my vocabulary!
“Amazing,” said the cold woman. “Even
they can’t tell anymore!”
“Well, there’s one way,” Siegel said,
reachin’ down and gettin’ some cards from behind the
couch. They had big letters on them, like eye charts. Big enough
for even us to read with no glasses.
They showed one card to my twin, and she read, “
‘Universities are institutions of higher learnin’,
divided into specialized
colleges . . . ’ ”
“Enough!” said the woman, and Siegel came over and
held the other side of the card up for me to read.
And I tried. I saw the words clear, but I just couldn’t
put ’em together right. “ ‘De
opp—opra—was de cree—cree—cretin’ of
de—fam—fam’ly?—team—of . . . ’ ”
I couldn’t. I could see the words but I couldn’t make
sense of ’em. He took the card away and put it in front of
the other Brandy.
“ ‘The operetta was the creation of the famous team
of Gilbert and Sullivan,’ ” she read flawlessly,
and I felt like I could cry.
“It’s all right, dear, go back to your
quarters,” the woman told me. “You, Horowitz, stay
here.” And I was the one dismissed! I damn near ran
down to the room, tears flowin’, and fell on the bed.
Memories crept in, other memories. Memories of bein’ on the
street as a kid; memories of shootin’ up on smack, of
workin’ the Washington streets. Memories of bein’
carried off here, of workin’ the club, of seein’
myself in that room and givin’ her the juice and
bringin’ shit . . . My dialect, my
vocabulary, my grammar seemed to crumble even in my thoughts. My God! It ain’t possible! I ain’t her! I
ain’t no whore who make all de wrong moves! Dey be
messin’ wit’ yo’ brain, girl! Yeah, that was
it. That had to be it! Dey took me—her—to
Vogel’s place befo’ dey bring her here. Why? Dat
hypno-thing. Den dey pair us up and dis hypno-thing gits
sprung. But that didn’t make no sense, neither. Sure,
they might have done all this just to make her a perfect imitation,
but if so, they had to mess with my mind, too. Not with the juice;
it didn’t work that way. Did they have one here? Did they
make me forget? Iis Brandy Hor’witz, damn them!
I am!
But was I? No matter how much I went over it and explained it, I
couldn’t really accept it one way or the other. Ididn’t know! Not for real, not for sure. I tried to
get a mental picture of Sam, to hold on to him, to think about all
the real small, intimate moments, but he kept slippin’ away.
Then one of Nordstrom’s flunkies come in and give me the
juice, and all my troubles and doubts slipped away.
And when I started to come down, but was still in that mellow
state, Siegel came in. “Well, Brandy Parker, the games are
all over now. We were never sure if we could totally condition or
trust Brandy Horowitz, since she had a real strong will and a
devious mind, so we had to develop you anyway as a possible
replacement. But she came along just fine, so you can go back to
being just plain Brandy Parker again. Just put everything about her
out of your mind and don’t fight it. Go back to being
yourself. Don’t think about it anymore. Don’t fight it.
It’s too late for you to get her brains and background.
You’re a whore, you’ll always be a whore, and
that’s the best you can be. Now that we’ve turned her
as we planned, she’s no longer your concern.”
I smiled at him. You always love everybody when you’re
comin’ down. And when I was all the way down, some of it
stuck. No, I didn’t believe him—in fact, when you
started thinkin’ ’bout that cold killer type you had to
be suspicious that he bothered to come down in person anyways, let
alone explain anything—but I didn’t disbelieve
him, neither. If I was really her, and treated at Vogel’s, I
would be just this way now. I didn’t want to believe it, but
I was pretty sure that thing brung your mind down. It might make me
unable to read or edit my words, but it couldn’t instantly
teach somebody to read all them big words. It didn’t
make no sense if they was gonna break, turn, and use the original
to then get the two of us to believe we was each other and then
send the copy, leavin’ the original a copy of her. I
didn’t want to believe it, but no matter how I thought about
it it only made sense if she really was Brandy Horowitz and me
Brandy Parker.
Worst part was, it didn’t make no difference. I might as
well be Parker, since she was off doin’
their business and I was stuck here forever like before. I was a
lost ball, a shadow dancer, out of the game unless somethin’
happened to her before they was done. Just as well. I may be only a
whore but I wouldn’t have no blood on my hands.
They shipped me back to Atlantic City and put me back in real
slinky and sexy clothes, not to work the club but to work the
streets. There was hordes of vacationers all over the place and
even conventions. I still had both sets of memories in my head but
the way I was workin’ and the life I was leadin’ and
the end of all hope brought Brandy Parker supreme. All my thoughts
beyond the juice was in turnin’ tricks, lotsa tricks, and I
did. I didn’t get or want a dime of all that money, but it
was the only value I had. The more men who would pay for me, and
pay top prices for me, the more important I felt. Didn’t need
no brains. Didn’t need no egghead shit. Dat other girl,
she got dose, and where it git her?
By the end of the season, I no longer thought much about it or
had any doubts. Way back in my mind I still cared, still envied her
and thought they’d pulled a dirty trick on me, but that was
it. Fast Eddie was real happy. “Girl, you’re a
terror,” he said and chuckled. “I ain’t never
seen no whore pull in over a thousand a week before. Now that
things are winding down here, everybody, including the Boss, thinks
you should get a step up. You’re our special from now on. No
more cleaning up or shitwork for you. You’re gonna be for the
best customers.”
And I was real thrilled and proud to hear that. I would get
diamonds and gold jewelry now, real pretty stuff, and slinky
dresses tailored for me, and a suite with two other girls at fancy
hotels, and the customers would come to me. Otherwise, I could do
what I pleased and enjoy the places. It was the top of the
profession.
But Siegel wanted me before I went off on all this. He was
entertainin’ some very important folks at Mr.
Wycliffe’s lodge in the mountains, and he wanted me there. It
was still fairly warm; I just took a bag with some of my best
clothes and had a real excitin’ time gettin’ there.
They flew me up on a private airplane, a little one-engine job that
was kinda like a Piper Cub and rough over the mountains, but it was
all real pretty. We came down at a private airstrip on the
property, and I was real impressed.
Marty was there to meet me, and this time he carried
the luggage, what there was of it. “Well, goil, you really
come up in de woild since dat last time,” he said in his
Brooklynese.
“I’m de bestest whore dat eva’ was,” I
told him, walkin’ real sexy. Then I gave him a move.
“Want some choc’late fudge? I even fuck you dese days,
my man.”
“Eh. Don’t tempt me. I got a wife and two kids who
think I do now.”
The house was a fancy all-wood huntin’ lodge, almost like
a resort only it was just two stories and had a big deck. There was
a glassed-in patio and pool as well. I didn’t ask who I was
supposed to service, or why; I didn’t really care.
It was real nice inside; big fireplace, overstuffed chairs
around it, bear rugs and more trophies—but it looked more
right here than in Siegel’s estate. There was a very small
staff on, but they was gettin’ ready for some big arrivals,
that was for sure, and there was two or three hood types around
checkin’ it all out. Maybe it was Big Georgie! Wouldn’t
that be somethin’! Big George’s mistress. Top o’
de world, girl!
Since there wasn’t much goin’ on, I got the urge to
exercise. Normally I had this clingy gym shirt and shorts and shoes
for it, but I realized I forgot to pack ’em. Well, the hell
with it. I’d give ’em all a thrill. It was my body got
me this far; I wasn’t the least bit ashamed of showin’
it, and barefoot over grass sounded like real fun. This black girl
would be turnin’ on some white boys, that was for sure.
It was right near sundown, and there was a mist around. It got
cool fast in the mountains, but it was plenty warm enough for me. I
started out, gettin’ all sorts of stares, and began my run. I
never knew how far I ran most days, ’cept that it was several
miles when I had the time. I just ran as long as the juice made me
feel good and stopped when it stopped.
I went till I hit a boundary, which was a real mean barbed-wire
fence, then started ’round it, past the airstrip, past the
guards with guns and dogs at several places, and all the way around
the huge property, up hill and down, in and put of the trees. There
was this fair-sized cleared area right in back of the lodge with a
little fence around it and a kinda tent roof over it, but with no
sides. As I came near, I saw somethin’ happen there.
A blue-white line, then another line out of it, then finally the
outline of a cube, then another, then another. The Labyrinth!
This was the Labyrinth! Hell, I could jump that itty bitty
fence in nothin’ flat and be inside the thing before nobody
even noticed. Not that I would. This was proof positive of that.
Where could I go? No juice in there, at least none I could find
with a steady supply, and for what? I ran on past, up the front
steps to the deck, and stopped. It was a great run and I felt great
for doin’ it. Off in the distance, I heard the motor of
another plane comin’ in, and I ran to the side and watched
the runway lights come on and the little thing land. I turned and
saw Marty there, leerin’ at me. I couldn’t resist it. I
went over and put my arms around him.
“Hey! Stop it! Cut it out!” I laughed and teased him
and twitched him in his crotch, but finally backed off.
“Jeez! I sure as hell like you better den dat udder
one dey sent through dis mornin’!”
I stopped, mildly interested. “ ’Nother
what?”
“Another you. De other one, only you sure couldn’t
tell it. Real cool; professional, if you know what I mean. Even
packin’ a rod in that purse of hers.”
I suddenly was interested. “A gun? She had a
gun?”
“Yep. And walked through dat t’ing out back cool as
a cucumber.”
What had they been doin’ with her all these months?
Jesus! They was sendin’ her off to kill somebody!
Dat’s what dis is all ’bout! But who? Nobody
back in the world of them golden folks. Couldn’t get no gun
in. I searched through her old memories, findin’ it
uncomfortable, but this had me curious. Got to be goin’ back
to her home. To do what? To kill that Markham fella, most like.
He’d be in de way. Or, maybe not. Could she be far
’nuff gone to kill Sam? Suppose her Sam had woke up and come
home, much to somebody’s upset. Not near so many Sams in dem
worlds as Brandys, and he be harder to switch. But she
wouldn’t ice him, would she? She love him like crazy. Even
wit’ all dis brain shit, no way she could do it. Could de
juice make her pull dat trigger? Maybe on Markham, but on Sam?
I was shaken by the idea, but there was nothin’ I
could do about it ’cept hope they caught her before she did
it.
“You okay?” Marty asked. “You’re
lookin’ a little sick.”
“No, it ain’t nothin’. Jes’ my period
comin’ on or somethin’.” I went inside and up to
my room and tried to get the picture out of my mind.
The new plane carried Arnie Siegel. He came in, said hello to
the staff and the boys, and went up to his own room to shower and
change. I did the same, then put on my best face and jewelry and
the slinky metallic blue dress that looked painted on, left
nothin’ to the imagination, and was slit all the way up in
case it did anyways. I did it up right. Fingernails, toenails, his
favorite perfume, you name it. I needed to think ’bout
somethin’ else for a while. By the time I had checked the
nylons and garters and slipped on the shoes, Arnie had been done
for some time and was back in his office all the way down the hall.
His door was open and I could see part of his desk, so I kinda
eased down, real hesitant. I didn’t want him in no bad mood
with me, not now.
He heard me, leaned over, saw me, and said, real friendly-like,
“Oh, it’s you, Brandy. Come on in if you
like.”
So I waltzed in, then stopped dead. In front of Arnie on the
desk was a briefcase that musta contained hundreds of doses of the
juice at the very least.
He saw my look, and smiled, real amused. “Yeah.
Impressive, isn’t it? Just out of curiosity, what would you
do if I gave this case to you? Just a pretend question, you
understand.”
I thought about it. What would I do? My answer was the
point of his question. “Nothin’, Mr. Siegel. Jes’
stash it and keep on goin’.”
Even if I had an unlimited supply with no strings, it
wouldn’t matter. I just had no place to go that was better
than what I had now, ’specially after bein’ down so
far. That other one, she might just use it right, but a
whore was a whore in every world and it didn’t get no better
than I had it right here. “I ain’t got nobody and
noplace to go,” I told him.
He grinned and closed the case. “And that’s why
you’re here and why you’re my number-one girl now. I
can’t trust many people, you know, but I can trust you.
You’re somebody I just never have to worry about.”
I felt a real glow of pride at that.
“Originally, we kept you around just because we had to
have a backup just in case things went bad, but that’s all
over now. Now and for quite a while I’m keeping you for
myself, because I can trust you and there’s nothing hidden or
phony about you. Speaking of that, you still have any troubles with
some of those memories we planted?”
“Yeah, some,” I admitted. Like the past
hour.
“Well, we’ve got some doctor’s equipment here
that might help that, which we’ve been using the past few
months, and the doctor in charge is due back tonight. He put it in
there and he can get it out, real quick and painless, just like he
got it in. Maybe we’ll have him take a look at you and take
advantage of the fact that it’s all here and get rid of her
once and for all. I think you’ll be a lot happier.”
“Yes, suh. Whateva’ you say.”
I wasn’t real sure I wanted to lose what I had of her.
Just the idea that I coulda done better than I did if I had a few
breaks was kinda nice to feel, even if it was too late for me. But
I could see Arnie’s point and I didn’t want to say
nothin’ against it. A quick session, then I don’t know
nothin’ ’bout no other Brandys or this Company or no
plots or nothin’, and I wouldn’t wanna know.
What you see is what you get. Then I wouldn’t have this
naggin’ dirty feelin’ in the back of my head, neither,
’bout nobody gettin’ shot over juice.
We went on down to dinner, with me on my best behavior. I
wasn’t none too comfortable at a regular dinner. I never
could figure out which fork was what and what you ate with what,
but I just sat quiet and followed everybody else’s example.
Maybe that doc could teach me some manners with that magic machine
of his. ’Course, it wasn’t really needed. The only high
roller tricks was white guys who wanted to see if black girls
really did it better and they wouldn’t be seen dead in no
restaurant with no black woman. Bars, yeah, but not
restaurants.
The dinner group was small; just Arnie and me, and Marty, plus
two tough-lookin’ hoods named Tommy and Sal who I never seen
before. They didn’t seem to be Arnie’s men; I had a
hunch this place was gonna have some visits by other big shots in
the rackets, like a crime council meetin’. I just smiled
pretty, tuned out the men-talk, and passed the peas when asked.
My whole idea about Arnie Siegel was changin’ for the
better, though. He weren’t no Hitler type; oh, he might be a
crook, even a big-time one, but all that slave horseshit had been
to break and set up that other me. Nothin’ personal, strictly
business. This Doc Carlos guy didn’t show, though; he seemed
to have gone out someplace and didn’t get back yet. Arnie
could tell I was horny, so he gave the invite to Tommy and Sal and
both of ’em paid me visits later on that night in the room.
They was typical hoods; thought they was Mr. Macho and really
weren’t even Quickie Delight. After that I gave myself a shot
of juice and let it take over. This was earlier than I usually took
it, but I had a six-hour window. Thing was, though, I come out of
that nice, mellow period about three, maybe four in the
mornin’, and I usually didn’t go to sleep until six or
so.
This was a little different comedown than usual, though. Things
kept goin’ ’round and ’round in my head, and I
seemed to see them like pieces in a kid’s jigsaw puzzle. They
hadn’t really been there up front before, and might never
have been brought up had I been fully awake and aware or most
particularly if Marty hadn’t never mentioned the other Brandy
goin’ off that mornin’ and got me worried and depressed
over it. Vogel . . . hypnoscan . . . Beth . . . Aldrath . . . The
Security Committee at dinner . . . the ambush
in the Labyrinth . . . Lindy
Crockett . . . the shadow
dancers . . . Brandy
Two . . . the
juice . . . the woman at Siegel’s with
the strange perfume . . . “Who won that
war, anyway?” . . . Beth again,
carryin’ Vogel’s load up to the
mine . . . “be they yellow, black, or
white, there’s no difference in His
sight” . . . “The sensors would
detect any raw drug” . . . “the
commoners can move to other worlds, and
have” . . . “You’re a whore
and always will be” . . . Donna
feelin’ herself
up . . . Beth . . . Beth . . . Beth . . .
I sat up in bed and my mouth hung open. Them sons of bitches!
They done it to me again! And after I swore they couldn’t!
Never! And they’d’a got clean away with it, too, if
only poor, dumb Marty, who didn’t know what was goin’
on or care so long as he got paid good, hadn’t opened his big
mouth and said somethin’ he shouldn’t.
I stopped short. Damn it, they was gonna git
’way with it! I knew what they done and what they was
gonna do and why and I couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
So tomorrow sometime they was gonna take me down to this Dr. Carlos
and give me a hypnoscan like the one I had to become Beth, only
this time there wouldn’t be no trigger to let my old
self back in. I’d be little Brandy Parker, the dumb, ignorant
whore and a kinda trophy to their success, and
wouldn’t nobody even look for me since she had my
looks, my basic memories, and even my fingerprints and eye
patterns. ’Cept’n for Marty’s slip, I
wouldn’t even have known at all.
I was so frustrated and angry I wanted to cry, but then I heard
voices outside. They was muffled, but you could tell it was a man
and a woman and that they wasn’t agreein’ on much. I
slipped off the bed and crept to my door, then opened it a crack.
The whole place was pitch dark ’cept for a light
shinin’ from under the closed door of Arnie’s office at
the end of the hall. I was just decidin’ whether or not to
get closer—I could always say I was goin’ to the
bathroom—when I heard two dull sounds. Thud! Thud!
They sounded like gunshots done with a silencer!
I rushed forward, and at that moment the door opened and a dark
figure clad in black rushed out the door. The light and the action
stunned me for a second, and they run right into me and we both
fell down. I heard the clatter of somethin’ fallin’ on
the floor, but the other one didn’t stop but was up and away
down the stairs in nothin’ flat. I picked myself up and felt
around and got it. A pistol! Felt a little light and
funny, but it was definitely a pistol. I picked it up and walked
into the office and stopped dead in my tracks. Outside there was
some yellin’ and screamin’ and the sound of a few
unmuffled shots.
Arnie lay lack in the office chair, head cocked, eyes open and
glazed over, a little blood tricklin’ from his mouth. There
was two neat, red holes in his silk pajamas, and they was
gettin’ bigger. Somebody ran up the stairs and reached the
edge of the doorway. I turned, nearly forgettin’ the gun in
my hand, to see Marty.
“Mr. Siegel! Somebody ju—Jesus
Christ!” He saw Arnie, then me. “You dumb broad!
You just killed Mr. Siegel!”
“No! Wait! I—” I started, but Marty was
goin’ for his gun. Somethin’ suddenly kicked in and
took over for me. The whole thing slowed, like it was some kinda
slow-motion movie, and as his hand went to his shoulder holster my
hand come up with the pistol in it. I had much better reflexes than
Marty, and somethin’ else seemed to be controllin’ my
actions. I shot Marty dead center in the middle of his forehead. He
looked surprised, then kinda puzzled, and I kicked him down and
started lookin’ ’round the office. Then I saw
it—the black briefcase, off to one side of the desk. I picked
it up and started to move. There was still some commotion outside,
but nobody else seemed to be comin’ straight in, so I headed
for my room and suddenly was thinkin’ again, although on a
real supercharged level. I thought ’bout ditchin’ the
gun and pretendin’ to be asleep, but I knew that
wouldn’t wash. There was no way to hide that briefcase in
time, and no way I was gonna part with it short of dyin’.
With Arnie dead there’d be a new order around, and I
wouldn’t be worth shit to the new guys even if they
didn’t blame me for this.
I didn’t waste no time gettin’ dressed. I just threw
what I saw into my bag, includin’ the shoes, and put it over
my shoulder. I had the briefcase in one hand and the gun in the
other. I didn’t know how many more bullets was in that gun,
but it was all I had. I opened the door and saw somebody had come
in and turned the main room’s lights on. I crept to the top
of the stairs, saw two men lookin’ around. One of ’em
thought to look up, and I plugged him and then his companion with
no thought. That kind of accuracy, when both had guns in their
hands, was near impossible. The juice—the juice was
readin’ my danger level and forcin’ me to protect it,
and me, at any cost!
I made a leap that woulda done Tarzan proud down to the main
floor and hit in a crouch without losin’ the case or the bag.
I stopped tryin’ to fight the juice, and suddenly I was a
killer machine. I had only one thought: escape. I was like some
vicious cornered animal, only I knew the layout and I knew the gun
and I knew the only way out I could go.
I made my way back to the kitchen area, then peered outside. It
was real dark, but the glow from the house lights lit it up some.
Two guards, one with a rifle, was out there arguin’ and
pointin’—at the Labyrinth.
It was on, right full, all them cubelike shapes dancin’
and changin’ and ready for use. No way to make any kinda run,
so I just held the pistol at my side and walked through the
backdoor onto the porch. They turned and their guns come up.
“Hey, boys!” I called to them. “What de hell
goin’ on, anyways?”
One of ’em cussed but they both relaxed, and then I shot
’em both down with my eyes at more than thirty feet and
jumped down onto the lawn. Somebody come at me right then, and I
swung the briefcase and caught him on the head, then kicked him
hard with my foot. He fell back and doubled over.
There was another one near the Labyrinth I didn’t see, and
he made right for me. He musta been six three and three hundred
pounds and yet so fast I didn’t even have time to use the
gun. I dropped the briefcase and then kicked him, grabbed him, and
brought both my arms, with gun, down on his head so fast I
ain’t never gonna know what I did or how. I was now only a
few feet from the fence, but I couldn’t go yet. I had to drop
that case and wasn’t no way I was goin’ without it even
if they shot me dead.
I made for it, got it, then looked up and saw a man on the back
porch, framed by the house lights, gun held steady by both hands.
There was no way I could figure on scoopin’ up the case and
gettin’ off more’n a wild shot while he had me cold,
but I went for it anyways, hardly lookin’ as I shot him. I
turned and looked back to see him fall forward off the porch onto
the ground. At that moment I wasn’t one to question luck; I
jumped that little fence and ran into the Labyrinth just as it
seemed to be slowin’ down and growin’ smaller.
I hit the cube runnin’, then rolled and stopped, then
crouched and waited to see if anybody was followin’ me.
Instead, I watched the cube face from which I’d entered
slowly fade out to black. Only then did I get back my wits and try
to think ’bout what to do next.
First I looked at the pistol. No wonder it made that funny
noise! It was made outta somethin’ like yellow or gold
plastic and you could see a lot of funny works in there. It sure as
hell shot somethin’ hard and real, though; those was holes in
Arnie, not no ray gun burns or shit like that. That also meant it
could run outta bullets anytime. Hell, it might be empty now, but I
didn’t dare test it. That test might be my last bullet,
too.
I looked next at the briefcase that was life to me. Hell, maybe
it was only six months, maybe a year, but it was more’n
they tried to give me or woulda if I’d stayed with
no Arnie around. I opened the case and felt panic. It wasn’t
empty, but it nearly was. Only one of them shrink-wrapped packets
of juice cubes was in there. Only one. Panicky as hell, I counted
them. Four layers of eight each. A month’s supply. Probably
my supply. I still had three in my bag, that meant
thirty-five. I had thirty-five days to live.
That meant I had to do somethin’, make some hard
decisions, but not right away. More worrisome right off was that
somebody back there had helped me escape. The other guys I shot,
they all fell backwards like they should, but the guy on the porch,
the one who had me cold, had fallen forward. Maybe that
killer was still back there, waitin’ for the time to light
out for South America or whatever. It was a woman, that was for
sure, and I didn’t think she planned to kill Arnie. I really
didn’t. She coulda done that nice and quiet. Most likely it
was that strange woman at Siegel’s house. That was almost
surely Addison, only she didn’t look nothin’ like the
sketches that Crockett bitch showed me.
Maybe Arnie’d gotten greedy, or ambitious. He knowed what
was up, that’s for sure, but he wouldn’t be more than a
small part of it. What had they promised him? That he’d
replace Big Georgie as crime boss when they took over? It probably
sounded good at the time, but he now knew that was just chicken
feed. So maybe, after years of setup, Arnie decides when they begin
to roll that he’ll throw some kinda monkey wrench in the
machinery and hold out for more. The only, way to know for sure
what it was about was to ask Addison, and I was a long way from
bein’ able to do that yet.
Now I had only a few choices. First switcher I met, I’d
hav’ta give a destination. I was one of them lucky few
cleared through to headquarters and it was the logical place to go,
but I didn’t want to go there unless I had to. They’d
take all my information, all right, but then I’d wind up in
the Center. Maybe if I started into withdrawal and there was no
other way I’d do that, but so long as I had juice I sure as
hell wouldn’t. Requestin’ some destination by
description, like Brandy two’s home world, was risky. Them
switchers used translators and so many worlds was alike enough to
them that they usually got it wrong anyways. Besides, what would
that buy me ’cept a month of freelance whorin’? Crazy
fact was, the best chance I had was tryin’ to push the case.
Get ’em where I could call the tune. I didn’t
give a damn if they took over everything or not no more, but I
wanted a personal, guaranteed, lifetime supply of juice they
couldn’t cut off. It was a lot cheaper price than Arnie
probably asked for, and if I was smart about it they wouldn’t
dare knock me off.
Yeah, I know, it was crazy to think that they would even bother
dealin’ with me with all the power they had, but that’s
the thing ’bout bein’ hooked. Still, other than that,
it made me very cool and logical. I just had killed my first three
people and it didn’t bother me one bit. I had no inhibitions
at all. Now I knew. My twin would kill without a thought if it was
that or juice. That was my only lead, then, too. If I was wrong, if
I hadn’t doped it out right, I was stuck, but if I was right,
I had a place to start.
The briefcase didn’t seem worth keepin’, now. I put
the packet in my shoulder bag, and the gun, too.
I knew what they done to me, and I kinda guessed why. Brandy Two
and I was even more alike than I figured. Oh, she was a whore, all
right, but that didn’t mean nothin’ when it came to
other interests. She’d still come from a readin’ family
and she read real good. She maybe talked better than I did, too;
she might have been a higher class hooker by the time they got her
than she was supposed to be. That’s why they run her up to
Vogel’s place first—to get her brains scrambled a
little, the same kinda thing as they did to me. Made her a dumb-ass
ignorant slut, then sent her down to Siegel till they could get
hold of me. Workin’ the shadow dancer route, bein’
conditioned with slow withdrawal and then suggested to death on the
comedown, she was probably all set up as the girl I saw. It’s
all they needed from her.
Then I showed up, and I didn’t look the same no more, and
for a while I gave ’em the slip before walkin’ right
into their hands as I had to sooner or later. This was a patient
bunch. They had somethin’ else they was gonna use this other
Brandy for, somethin’ I didn’t have worked out yet, but
then there I was. Somehow, durin’ that time, they had an
extra problem, too. If Sam was dead or still in a coma, then I was
all wet, but I bet my last shot of juice that he recovered.
Watchin’ me, they had a healthy respect for him, and he
wasn’t no easy snatch and switch. More, he’d be a real
dangerous enemy ’cause he’d know where I was and sooner
or later he’d come and find out, and maybe not alone. So they
changed their plans.
And that’s the point I was really guessin’ on.
Suppose Vogel’s experimenters found that they could make a
juicer do absolutely anything, and I mean
anything—even kill. But there was a point,
someplace, where even the juice couldn’t force it. Maybe a
percentage of folks just couldn’t be made to kill their
wives, husbands, or babies. Maybe it was only a few, but it was
there no matter what they did, and they needed a Brandy so
convincin’ that Sam wouldn’t have no doubts at
all—and they wouldn’t, neither. So they had Brandy Two
watch me, watch my moves, my mannerisms, my quirks and habits, talk
a lot about myself. Maybe she didn’t even know then that she
was takin’ it all in, but she was. We was inseparable.
So, when they was ready, maybe when Sam was just due to come
home, they took us to Siegel’s estate and stuck us in such a
low, degradin’ situation we didn’t even have no track
of days or times, just shot to shot. Then, when we was on our juice
high, they bring in this Dr. Carlos and he hooks up the hypnoscan
to us and he puts that dumb, ignorant slut version in me,
probably a real edited version of the real thing, and two triggers.
The cards! The crazy things on them cards they had us
read! More than enough.
All they had to do was start when we was juicin’ high,
keep us out for a full twenty-four hours, then give us the next
day’s jolt and let us come out natural. We never woulda
knowed we lost a day, not there, and Carlos would have a
full day to do real fancy work on both our brains.
So when Brandy Two read her card, bingo! All her old
skills and speech and shit come back, just flowin’ in till it
dominated the other, and that along with all she’d learned
and observed by bein’ closer to me than anybody else could
for all that time and a friendly hypno-shove convinced her she was
me. At the same time, when I read my card, the
Brandy Two lower personality flowed in and my old stuff was shoved
to the back. I couldn’t read that card ’cause I’d
been cut off from my old skills.
But why not just do a Beth number on me? Make me Brandy Two
completely and block off the old me entirely? Maybe ’cause
they couldn’t, quite. When Doc Jamispur done it to me at
Mayar’s place, he had all the top shit, the best computers
and stuff they had. Maybe it took more than a hypnoscan to do it
completely. How would I know?
What he done was bad enough. Even I believed it.
Forcin’ that Brandy Two personality and cuttin’ the
skills—they knew just where to look ’cause they already
did it once to her—to be up front. Even if you had
the old stuff, you could do what they couldn’t—forget
it or push it all the way back till it rotted. Vogel proved that by
bringin’ out Beth on the getaway. All he did was talk me into
the idea that I was turnin’ back into Beth and I
couldn’t fight it, and I was so ignorant of what they done to
me and so in awe of their powers that I swallowed it and started
becomin’ Beth and trashin’ Brandy. This time they was
more clever, ’cause I didn’t know I’d been
hypnoscanned, wasn’t ready for it, and when I figured it out
they had a real convincin’ reason for me to doubt my own
identity. Real convincin’. Still, it was one of their stock
tricks, and it had worked on me twice. Woulda worked, too,
if Marty just hadn’t shot off his fat mouth and started that
old part of me movin’.
Not that it was easy. I knew who I was now, and had my old
memories, but Brandy Two was still forward, still in the
driver’s seat, and I didn’t have no Center to get her
out. I was stuck with that real southern ghetto dialect, had a hard
time handlin’ big words, and I wasn’t gonna write no
incriminatin’ statements. I needed to take a chance on
somebody who could and who might not turn me in.
If that damned twin of mine hadn’t already murdered
him.
Brandy Two was as fascinated by me as I was by
her. The idea that I’d taken over the agency, educated
myself, and married a white guy she found both incredible and
unbelievable, but Fast Eddie’s respect for the old me was
more than enough testimony. The problem was, she’d gone wrong
even earlier than me. Mama died even younger in her world, and
Daddy stuck her—as he almost did me—with a couple of
cousins who didn’t give a damn. She’d been into drugs
early, maybe in grammar school, and she was even wilder as a teen
than I had been. She’d been caught stealin’ when she
was only fourteen, and when Daddy threw a fit she’d run away
all the way to Washington—which existed in her world as in
mine—and had run the streets. By sixteen she had a habit and
was in the string of one of them pimps with the fancy coats and
Superfly image. Daddy had tried to find her, of course, but
considerin’ how hard it is to find runaway kids who want to
be found, it’s pure luck if you find one that
don’t.
She was a whore ’cause she’d been one all her adult
life and didn’t know how to be, or imagine she could be,
nothin’ else. It all went into the body, the looks, the
moves. She had always been dependent for everything, and the mind
was the one thing in her kinda life that it was better off not
payin’ much attention to. She didn’t read and had no
knowledge of or interest in the world. The fact that I’d come
from the same start and I’d made somethin’ of myself
gave her somethin’ of a feelin’ of worth by
association, but it was too late for her to change, she thought,
and what was the use anyway? We was both stuck in the same groove.
In a real way, she was less my twin than my shadow; she looked like
me, but there was nothin’ left down there.
The problem was, as time rolled on, I was becomin’ more
and more like her. On the road, we was even further removed from
Small and Siegel and all that lay behind ’em. We slept, ate,
exercised, had as much sex as we could with anybody, worked out new
routines for the act, and for fun went to stores and tried on all
sorts of clothes to make us look even sexier, experimented with new
cosmetics and perfumes, and spent a long time in mirrors
gettin’ it right. The future was the next jolt of juice.
The only thing that tempted me durin’ that time was
tryin’ to go thirty hours between juice jolts. They generally
gave us a week’s supply at a time, since you couldn’t
overdose on it and even with a week you wasn’t goin’
nowheres. I figured at the end of a week I’d have an extra,
and then maybe I’d go over to Lindy Crockett’s place
some afternoon, hold her down, and give her a taste of the stuff. I
never did, though. It’s the curse of an addiction that you
never give it away or delay gettin’ it when you got it and
it’s due.
We went back down to Atlantic City at the beginnin’ of May
to get ready for the high season at the club there, and for the
first time I was back in the same town as Small and Siegel. By now
it was clear that I was stuck and that I couldn’t do or learn
much more than I did unless things was taken out of my hands and
moved from a different source. My big worry was that Aldrath would
get itchy after all them faked reports from me and nothin’
really happenin’ and decide to come snatch me. I didn’t
want to be snatched or cured, no matter what the price. What I
wanted was a way to be independent of the beck and call of the
bastards who doled it out.
I mean, name me a girl over thirty, or a guy, either, who
suddenly had the body of their dreams and found keepin’ it
that way a pleasure? Who couldn’t get sick if they stood all
day in the wind and rain. Who had been an old thirty-two and now
looked a young twenty-five. Add to that an absence of hangups, of
any guilt, second thoughts, regrets for anything you done from that
point on, and a high, charged-up energy level that kept you always
active, always feelin’ good, never feelin’ bored or
down in the dumps, and just a little bit playfully high all the
time. The only real problem was the man who doled out the juice.
You had to dance to whatever tune he played or it all came
crashin’ in, and you was never secure he just wouldn’t
end it someday.
“Get all your things packed up,” Fast Eddie told us.
“You’re goin’ for a little ride.”
I was shocked and surprised, but you don’t ask no
questions in Fast Eddie’s string. Pack up for what? And
where? Another club, another city? It was just gettin’ real
nice and warm in Atlantic City and the crowds was startin’ to
pick up, at least on the weekends. I put on my metallic blue dress
that was real short and super-revealin’, as was almost all my
stuff, with matchin’ shoes and made myself up to go. Then I
packed the rest in this big steamer trunk, all I had in this world,
closed it, and took it downstairs. It was awkward goin’, but
even though the trunk musta weighed a hundred pounds or more
packed, I had no trouble movin’ and partly carryin’ it.
I was damned strong and proud of it.
I was relieved to see that my twin also had her marchin’
orders. I no longer was surprised that we’d independently
picked the same clothes and even jewelry and makeup. On the basic
conversation level we didn’t even have to talk much; each of
us kinda knew what the other was thinkin’. Not mind
readin’—just the same tastes and likes and thought
patterns. I looked at her and she shrugged and I knew she
didn’t have no more warning nor inklin’ of what was
goin’ on than I did.
Fast Eddie rarely paid direct, individual attention to nobody,
but he was there now. A huge black car pulled up just outside, and
the driver got out, opened the trunk, then waited.
“Okay, girls, there’s your ride,” Small told
us. “Sorry to lose you but the Boss wanted some fresh
faces.”
The Boss—Siegel? I wasn’t too sure I liked this, but
he was the man from whom all juice flowed, so there wasn’t no
way out. We got our trunks barely in the “boot” of the
big car, then got in the backseat. The driver and one of
Small’s henchmen got in the front, and off we went, south and
out of town. I figured we had to be headin’ for
Siegel’s place on the ocean, and I was right.
It was real isolated, like I said, with a big gate and high
fence around the whole forty acres that kept any spyin’
down. The fences was masked on the ground side by a
twelve-foot-high hedge wall, then went right down into the beach
and about to the low tide point, gettin’ a little lower as
they went. Way out in the water was a squared-off stone breakwater
that kept things mostly calm inside the house and discouraged
spyin’ from the sea. At the end was a pier and slip at which
was a big and fancy-lookin’ wooden yacht as well as a couple
of smaller boats. The yacht was moored in line with the beach, so
it kinda blocked a straight view in. You could spy on Arnie
Siegel’s place from the sea, but you had to be pretty damned
obvious about it. The grounds was green and landscaped, with lotsa
trees and bushes and low hedges. A staff spent a lot of time in the
spring and summer and fall keepin’ it that way.
The house itself was enormous; part brick, part wood, maybe
three stories tall and a city block around and all covered with
ivy. Back before all this, when I was checkin’ Siegel out, I
learned that the house was the former official summer residence of
the Governor General of America, the guy who represented the King
in this country. This was supposed to be some place, and you could
bet with bein’ able to tap into some of the Company’s
technology it was near impossible for anybody in this world to get
into or out of or learn much. There weren’t no soldiers or
nothin’ like that, but I couldn’t shake the funniest
feelin’ that I was goin’ back to Vogel’s
castle.
“You goils ain’t here to gawk, you’re here to
woik,” snapped Marty, the Fast Eddie man who’d come
with us. He had a real New Yauk accent. He wasn’t, however,
no man with the juice.
“Work at what?” I asked him. “Looks like he
got ’nuff folks here to run this place.”
Marty gave this sneering smile, like he got when he was
pickin’ wings off flies. “You’ll see.”
A young man in casual dress came out of the side
entrance—we was goin’ in the servant’s entrance,
of course—and he was one of the most gorgeous hunks you ever
could see. One of them super musclemen, well over six feet, blond,
blue-eyed. I never saw no man looked that good who wasn’t
gay.
“You two follow me,” he ordered in this
boomin’ voice that still had a trace of gentle lisp in it.
Iknew it, I thought.
We went in and down a narrow flight of stairs, then walked down
this hall past storerooms and stuff to near the end, then entered
one room that had no windows. It was almost surely built as another
storeroom, but it had been made over. The walls was paneled, the
floor was smooth polished wood so glossy you could see your
reflection in it, and there was half a wall of free-standin’
closets and dressers and a vanity with mirror as well as a
full-length mirror which proved to be a slidin’ door
leadin’ to a tiled bathroom with toilet, sink, and a shower
big enough for two, but no tub. The main room had two chairs, one
at the vanity, the other in a corner, and a queen-sized bed. But
the thing you noticed most was the ceilin’, which was low and
completely covered with mirror squares. The light came from floor
and table lamps, all of which seemed to have soft pink-colored
bulbs in them. It was some kinda room, ’cept it woulda been
nice with some windows and if it still didn’t have a damp
cellar kinda feel and smell to it.
“I am Alan Nordstrom, the manager of Mr. Siegel’s
estate,” he told us. “Mr. Siegel is a rich and powerful
man, and the only one who can give you what you need. He gives it
to me and I give it to you, so you obey either one of us. Got
that?”
“Yes, sir,” we both responded in unison.
“Now, men like Mr. Siegel aren’t like ordinary men.
He has everything he needs and he can buy anything he wants, so he
tends to get turned on by the few things nobody else can have.
There’s precious art all over—you don’t touch it.
There’s original sculpture all over. You don’t touch
that, either. That’s all you two are to him—part of his
collection, for his personal use and enjoyment. When he’s
here and wants you, you’re his, to do whatever he commands
and take whatever he gives. Other times you’re subject to
every other person in this house from me down to the gardener. If
they order you or I order you to do something, you do it. Anybody
wants your body, that’s fine, too. There’s a speaker
over there in the vanity so you can be called any time of the day
or night. You get called, you come running.
“Anything you want to do, you ask permission. You go back
down that hall, up those stairs, and see whoever’s in the
first room on the right. That’s the security manager, and
there’s always somebody on. You use this bathroom and only
this bathroom. You never use the pool or enter the main house
unless ordered. The grounds and the ocean are okay if you’re
free and ask permission and get it, but the water’s still
pretty cold right now. You always smile and you always say
‘sir’ or ‘ma’am’ and
‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to any white
folks. And unless you’re ordered to do otherwise, while
you’re here, inside and out, you’ll wear nothing.
Nothing at all, except panties when you do your monthly bleeding.
You pick up your meals from the kitchen after everybody else eats,
and you take it out and bring it down here, then clean up the mess
and bring it back. Now—strip!”
“Why, dat’s slavery—sir,” Brandy Two
said softly.
“No it’s not. Anytime either of you don’t like
it here, you are free to leave. If you complain, or smart-mouth
anybody, or we don’t like the way you do things, we might
even toss you out. You see, Mr. Siegel likes practical pets, but
he’s allergic to dogs.”
We stripped, but if looks coulda killed we’d’a
burned this bastard to a crisp. Slaves, pets—his own damned
brand of Vogel’s Nazism. And this guy with a name like Arnold
Siegel!
But, of course, Arnie Siegel had never heard of no Adolf Hitler
or death camps. They didn’t have that in this world’s
history. The last big bad guy was Napoleon. Ten to one he heard
from somebody from the competition about Vogel’s thing and
never even knowed the history behind it, and how he’d have
been gassed no matter how much money and power he had. No race or
ethnic group was immune. Catholics stepped on Jews for centuries.
Moslems step on Jews, Jews blow up Moslems in my world. Some free
blacks in the old south owned slaves, and Liberia was made by freed
American blacks enslavin’ the Africans.
This was a radical change for us from anything we’d had up
to now, and they meant every word of it and also understood just
what kinda hold the juice had on us. They reinforced it by
bringin’ on withdrawal and makin’ their demands until
we crawled and begged and would do or say anything, and then they
used that mellow time after the high to tell us just how to act and
how to behave. And, like before, one day you wake up and it’s
the way things are. You still don’t hav’ta like it and
you don’t hav’ta enjoy it, but you obey all the rules
instinctively and you don’t even think of
disobeying. This was all the shit they learned in Vogel’s
world refined.
The one odd thing was that they wanted us both called Brandy,
nothin’ else, and they wanted us always together. Sleep
together, eat together, run, work, play together, even be a duo
when gettin’ fucked. It was like they was tryin’ to
make us identical, at the lowest level. I had a hunch the honeymoon
was over and they was preparin’ us for somethin’,
though right then it didn’t seem like much.
Fact was, we wasn’t treated too bad. The cooks always made
up what we wanted, the rooms got cleaned, and there was always some
members of some gang or another in the house who wanted to do it
with twins. Nordstrom was more of a Tinkerbell than even I had
thought, and he pretty well hated and looked down on women in
general, but because of that he didn’t like us around him
much. He was a real turkey when he did use us for
somethin’, but that wasn’t very often.
Arnie Siegel, on the other hand, was an icy cool charmer. You
got the idea that the guy could be sittin’ there
sippin’ sherry and in gentle good humor reminisce with a
chuckle about the time he murdered his parents inch by inch with a
knife. I doubt if he did that, but he sure was the type. The fact
that he was good-lookin’, even handsome, almost a movie star
type of look, only made it worse. He liked to cuddle sometimes in
his big den with the leather furniture, fireplace, hunting trophies
and bear rug, and sometimes he’d just be readin’ or
doin’ somethin’ on the couch and want us perched on the
rug. He was weird. When it got hot, he threw some parties
invitin’ all sorts of bigwigs—not just crime figures,
but politicians, show business types, even cops. When he did, we
was allowed to dress real pretty and slinky and sometimes entertain
the guests with a dance or strip act, and entertain a lot of
important folks in the mirrored bedroom as well. That we liked a
lot.
If he had all this and was only number two, you had to wonder
what Big Georgie Wycliffe must be like.
Then, one evenin’, we was summoned up to the den by the
master of the house himself, only this time he wasn’t alone.
There was a woman with him, one who looked slightly familiar but
who I was sure I never had seen before. She was fairly small and if
she was well built she took pains to dress to conceal it. She wore
a stock professional woman’s suit and blouse, blue with faint
stripes, and even though she didn’t even seem to have
lipstick on, let alone eye shadow, I couldn’t get it outta my
head that she was made-up like mad. She was almost as dark as me
but it was more like a temporary suntan than the tan I got, wore
thick glasses, and had black hair tied up in a bun. She might have
been a top secretary or somethin’, but she had real long and
perfectly shaped fingernails. Ever try typin’ with long
nails? Matter of fact, they looked more like the kinda nails
we had, and her hands was smooth as a baby’s.
They stood there, Arnie and Ms. Cool, and he put us through our
paces, makin’ us do all sorts of idiotic stuff, even do the
two bitches in heat number. We felt like pet dogs doin’
tricks. Finally we got up and stood there while she asked us
questions.
“Do you mind being here, living like this?” The
voice was high and, while cold, reminded me of somethin’.
“No, ma’am,” we both responded, which was a
lie. We’d be over that damned wall in a minute if we
didn’t need our juice.
She asked a bunch more innocuous and dumb questions, but she
come over to us and started runnin’ her nails over my skin
and then my twin’s, then actually pinchin’ our fannies
and feelin’ us up. It was gross and unusual, particularly
since you could see it was out of character for her and she
wasn’t in the least turned on by it like we was. Still, I got
a slight whiff of her perfume and it wasn’t no perfume you
could get here, but I’d smelled it before. At headquarters.
It was real popular among the women there.
“Amazing,” she said to Siegel. “I can’t
tell them apart, even from the reactions. Which of you is
Horowitz?”
“I am,” we both said at once. I started a bit and
gave a puzzled glance at my twin. What the hell was she
tryin’ to pull, anyways? Did she flip out from bein’
with me all that time and sorta take on my background ’cause
it was so much better than hers, or what? Damn it, I knew
who I was.
And then she had us turn back to back and started askin’
rapid-fire questions ’bout my personal life, ’bout Sam,
’bout the Company, lots of stuff, to each of us in turn. The
scary thing was, Brandy Two was givin’ the same right answers
as me, includin’ the kind of personal stuff I knew I never
told nobody, not even her. Worse, she was answerin’ in my
tone and my grammar and my vocabulary!
“Amazing,” said the cold woman. “Even
they can’t tell anymore!”
“Well, there’s one way,” Siegel said,
reachin’ down and gettin’ some cards from behind the
couch. They had big letters on them, like eye charts. Big enough
for even us to read with no glasses.
They showed one card to my twin, and she read, “
‘Universities are institutions of higher learnin’,
divided into specialized
colleges . . . ’ ”
“Enough!” said the woman, and Siegel came over and
held the other side of the card up for me to read.
And I tried. I saw the words clear, but I just couldn’t
put ’em together right. “ ‘De
opp—opra—was de cree—cree—cretin’ of
de—fam—fam’ly?—team—of . . . ’ ”
I couldn’t. I could see the words but I couldn’t make
sense of ’em. He took the card away and put it in front of
the other Brandy.
“ ‘The operetta was the creation of the famous team
of Gilbert and Sullivan,’ ” she read flawlessly,
and I felt like I could cry.
“It’s all right, dear, go back to your
quarters,” the woman told me. “You, Horowitz, stay
here.” And I was the one dismissed! I damn near ran
down to the room, tears flowin’, and fell on the bed.
Memories crept in, other memories. Memories of bein’ on the
street as a kid; memories of shootin’ up on smack, of
workin’ the Washington streets. Memories of bein’
carried off here, of workin’ the club, of seein’
myself in that room and givin’ her the juice and
bringin’ shit . . . My dialect, my
vocabulary, my grammar seemed to crumble even in my thoughts. My God! It ain’t possible! I ain’t her! I
ain’t no whore who make all de wrong moves! Dey be
messin’ wit’ yo’ brain, girl! Yeah, that was
it. That had to be it! Dey took me—her—to
Vogel’s place befo’ dey bring her here. Why? Dat
hypno-thing. Den dey pair us up and dis hypno-thing gits
sprung. But that didn’t make no sense, neither. Sure,
they might have done all this just to make her a perfect imitation,
but if so, they had to mess with my mind, too. Not with the juice;
it didn’t work that way. Did they have one here? Did they
make me forget? Iis Brandy Hor’witz, damn them!
I am!
But was I? No matter how much I went over it and explained it, I
couldn’t really accept it one way or the other. Ididn’t know! Not for real, not for sure. I tried to
get a mental picture of Sam, to hold on to him, to think about all
the real small, intimate moments, but he kept slippin’ away.
Then one of Nordstrom’s flunkies come in and give me the
juice, and all my troubles and doubts slipped away.
And when I started to come down, but was still in that mellow
state, Siegel came in. “Well, Brandy Parker, the games are
all over now. We were never sure if we could totally condition or
trust Brandy Horowitz, since she had a real strong will and a
devious mind, so we had to develop you anyway as a possible
replacement. But she came along just fine, so you can go back to
being just plain Brandy Parker again. Just put everything about her
out of your mind and don’t fight it. Go back to being
yourself. Don’t think about it anymore. Don’t fight it.
It’s too late for you to get her brains and background.
You’re a whore, you’ll always be a whore, and
that’s the best you can be. Now that we’ve turned her
as we planned, she’s no longer your concern.”
I smiled at him. You always love everybody when you’re
comin’ down. And when I was all the way down, some of it
stuck. No, I didn’t believe him—in fact, when you
started thinkin’ ’bout that cold killer type you had to
be suspicious that he bothered to come down in person anyways, let
alone explain anything—but I didn’t disbelieve
him, neither. If I was really her, and treated at Vogel’s, I
would be just this way now. I didn’t want to believe it, but
I was pretty sure that thing brung your mind down. It might make me
unable to read or edit my words, but it couldn’t instantly
teach somebody to read all them big words. It didn’t
make no sense if they was gonna break, turn, and use the original
to then get the two of us to believe we was each other and then
send the copy, leavin’ the original a copy of her. I
didn’t want to believe it, but no matter how I thought about
it it only made sense if she really was Brandy Horowitz and me
Brandy Parker.
Worst part was, it didn’t make no difference. I might as
well be Parker, since she was off doin’
their business and I was stuck here forever like before. I was a
lost ball, a shadow dancer, out of the game unless somethin’
happened to her before they was done. Just as well. I may be only a
whore but I wouldn’t have no blood on my hands.
They shipped me back to Atlantic City and put me back in real
slinky and sexy clothes, not to work the club but to work the
streets. There was hordes of vacationers all over the place and
even conventions. I still had both sets of memories in my head but
the way I was workin’ and the life I was leadin’ and
the end of all hope brought Brandy Parker supreme. All my thoughts
beyond the juice was in turnin’ tricks, lotsa tricks, and I
did. I didn’t get or want a dime of all that money, but it
was the only value I had. The more men who would pay for me, and
pay top prices for me, the more important I felt. Didn’t need
no brains. Didn’t need no egghead shit. Dat other girl,
she got dose, and where it git her?
By the end of the season, I no longer thought much about it or
had any doubts. Way back in my mind I still cared, still envied her
and thought they’d pulled a dirty trick on me, but that was
it. Fast Eddie was real happy. “Girl, you’re a
terror,” he said and chuckled. “I ain’t never
seen no whore pull in over a thousand a week before. Now that
things are winding down here, everybody, including the Boss, thinks
you should get a step up. You’re our special from now on. No
more cleaning up or shitwork for you. You’re gonna be for the
best customers.”
And I was real thrilled and proud to hear that. I would get
diamonds and gold jewelry now, real pretty stuff, and slinky
dresses tailored for me, and a suite with two other girls at fancy
hotels, and the customers would come to me. Otherwise, I could do
what I pleased and enjoy the places. It was the top of the
profession.
But Siegel wanted me before I went off on all this. He was
entertainin’ some very important folks at Mr.
Wycliffe’s lodge in the mountains, and he wanted me there. It
was still fairly warm; I just took a bag with some of my best
clothes and had a real excitin’ time gettin’ there.
They flew me up on a private airplane, a little one-engine job that
was kinda like a Piper Cub and rough over the mountains, but it was
all real pretty. We came down at a private airstrip on the
property, and I was real impressed.
Marty was there to meet me, and this time he carried
the luggage, what there was of it. “Well, goil, you really
come up in de woild since dat last time,” he said in his
Brooklynese.
“I’m de bestest whore dat eva’ was,” I
told him, walkin’ real sexy. Then I gave him a move.
“Want some choc’late fudge? I even fuck you dese days,
my man.”
“Eh. Don’t tempt me. I got a wife and two kids who
think I do now.”
The house was a fancy all-wood huntin’ lodge, almost like
a resort only it was just two stories and had a big deck. There was
a glassed-in patio and pool as well. I didn’t ask who I was
supposed to service, or why; I didn’t really care.
It was real nice inside; big fireplace, overstuffed chairs
around it, bear rugs and more trophies—but it looked more
right here than in Siegel’s estate. There was a very small
staff on, but they was gettin’ ready for some big arrivals,
that was for sure, and there was two or three hood types around
checkin’ it all out. Maybe it was Big Georgie! Wouldn’t
that be somethin’! Big George’s mistress. Top o’
de world, girl!
Since there wasn’t much goin’ on, I got the urge to
exercise. Normally I had this clingy gym shirt and shorts and shoes
for it, but I realized I forgot to pack ’em. Well, the hell
with it. I’d give ’em all a thrill. It was my body got
me this far; I wasn’t the least bit ashamed of showin’
it, and barefoot over grass sounded like real fun. This black girl
would be turnin’ on some white boys, that was for sure.
It was right near sundown, and there was a mist around. It got
cool fast in the mountains, but it was plenty warm enough for me. I
started out, gettin’ all sorts of stares, and began my run. I
never knew how far I ran most days, ’cept that it was several
miles when I had the time. I just ran as long as the juice made me
feel good and stopped when it stopped.
I went till I hit a boundary, which was a real mean barbed-wire
fence, then started ’round it, past the airstrip, past the
guards with guns and dogs at several places, and all the way around
the huge property, up hill and down, in and put of the trees. There
was this fair-sized cleared area right in back of the lodge with a
little fence around it and a kinda tent roof over it, but with no
sides. As I came near, I saw somethin’ happen there.
A blue-white line, then another line out of it, then finally the
outline of a cube, then another, then another. The Labyrinth!
This was the Labyrinth! Hell, I could jump that itty bitty
fence in nothin’ flat and be inside the thing before nobody
even noticed. Not that I would. This was proof positive of that.
Where could I go? No juice in there, at least none I could find
with a steady supply, and for what? I ran on past, up the front
steps to the deck, and stopped. It was a great run and I felt great
for doin’ it. Off in the distance, I heard the motor of
another plane comin’ in, and I ran to the side and watched
the runway lights come on and the little thing land. I turned and
saw Marty there, leerin’ at me. I couldn’t resist it. I
went over and put my arms around him.
“Hey! Stop it! Cut it out!” I laughed and teased him
and twitched him in his crotch, but finally backed off.
“Jeez! I sure as hell like you better den dat udder
one dey sent through dis mornin’!”
I stopped, mildly interested. “ ’Nother
what?”
“Another you. De other one, only you sure couldn’t
tell it. Real cool; professional, if you know what I mean. Even
packin’ a rod in that purse of hers.”
I suddenly was interested. “A gun? She had a
gun?”
“Yep. And walked through dat t’ing out back cool as
a cucumber.”
What had they been doin’ with her all these months?
Jesus! They was sendin’ her off to kill somebody!
Dat’s what dis is all ’bout! But who? Nobody
back in the world of them golden folks. Couldn’t get no gun
in. I searched through her old memories, findin’ it
uncomfortable, but this had me curious. Got to be goin’ back
to her home. To do what? To kill that Markham fella, most like.
He’d be in de way. Or, maybe not. Could she be far
’nuff gone to kill Sam? Suppose her Sam had woke up and come
home, much to somebody’s upset. Not near so many Sams in dem
worlds as Brandys, and he be harder to switch. But she
wouldn’t ice him, would she? She love him like crazy. Even
wit’ all dis brain shit, no way she could do it. Could de
juice make her pull dat trigger? Maybe on Markham, but on Sam?
I was shaken by the idea, but there was nothin’ I
could do about it ’cept hope they caught her before she did
it.
“You okay?” Marty asked. “You’re
lookin’ a little sick.”
“No, it ain’t nothin’. Jes’ my period
comin’ on or somethin’.” I went inside and up to
my room and tried to get the picture out of my mind.
The new plane carried Arnie Siegel. He came in, said hello to
the staff and the boys, and went up to his own room to shower and
change. I did the same, then put on my best face and jewelry and
the slinky metallic blue dress that looked painted on, left
nothin’ to the imagination, and was slit all the way up in
case it did anyways. I did it up right. Fingernails, toenails, his
favorite perfume, you name it. I needed to think ’bout
somethin’ else for a while. By the time I had checked the
nylons and garters and slipped on the shoes, Arnie had been done
for some time and was back in his office all the way down the hall.
His door was open and I could see part of his desk, so I kinda
eased down, real hesitant. I didn’t want him in no bad mood
with me, not now.
He heard me, leaned over, saw me, and said, real friendly-like,
“Oh, it’s you, Brandy. Come on in if you
like.”
So I waltzed in, then stopped dead. In front of Arnie on the
desk was a briefcase that musta contained hundreds of doses of the
juice at the very least.
He saw my look, and smiled, real amused. “Yeah.
Impressive, isn’t it? Just out of curiosity, what would you
do if I gave this case to you? Just a pretend question, you
understand.”
I thought about it. What would I do? My answer was the
point of his question. “Nothin’, Mr. Siegel. Jes’
stash it and keep on goin’.”
Even if I had an unlimited supply with no strings, it
wouldn’t matter. I just had no place to go that was better
than what I had now, ’specially after bein’ down so
far. That other one, she might just use it right, but a
whore was a whore in every world and it didn’t get no better
than I had it right here. “I ain’t got nobody and
noplace to go,” I told him.
He grinned and closed the case. “And that’s why
you’re here and why you’re my number-one girl now. I
can’t trust many people, you know, but I can trust you.
You’re somebody I just never have to worry about.”
I felt a real glow of pride at that.
“Originally, we kept you around just because we had to
have a backup just in case things went bad, but that’s all
over now. Now and for quite a while I’m keeping you for
myself, because I can trust you and there’s nothing hidden or
phony about you. Speaking of that, you still have any troubles with
some of those memories we planted?”
“Yeah, some,” I admitted. Like the past
hour.
“Well, we’ve got some doctor’s equipment here
that might help that, which we’ve been using the past few
months, and the doctor in charge is due back tonight. He put it in
there and he can get it out, real quick and painless, just like he
got it in. Maybe we’ll have him take a look at you and take
advantage of the fact that it’s all here and get rid of her
once and for all. I think you’ll be a lot happier.”
“Yes, suh. Whateva’ you say.”
I wasn’t real sure I wanted to lose what I had of her.
Just the idea that I coulda done better than I did if I had a few
breaks was kinda nice to feel, even if it was too late for me. But
I could see Arnie’s point and I didn’t want to say
nothin’ against it. A quick session, then I don’t know
nothin’ ’bout no other Brandys or this Company or no
plots or nothin’, and I wouldn’t wanna know.
What you see is what you get. Then I wouldn’t have this
naggin’ dirty feelin’ in the back of my head, neither,
’bout nobody gettin’ shot over juice.
We went on down to dinner, with me on my best behavior. I
wasn’t none too comfortable at a regular dinner. I never
could figure out which fork was what and what you ate with what,
but I just sat quiet and followed everybody else’s example.
Maybe that doc could teach me some manners with that magic machine
of his. ’Course, it wasn’t really needed. The only high
roller tricks was white guys who wanted to see if black girls
really did it better and they wouldn’t be seen dead in no
restaurant with no black woman. Bars, yeah, but not
restaurants.
The dinner group was small; just Arnie and me, and Marty, plus
two tough-lookin’ hoods named Tommy and Sal who I never seen
before. They didn’t seem to be Arnie’s men; I had a
hunch this place was gonna have some visits by other big shots in
the rackets, like a crime council meetin’. I just smiled
pretty, tuned out the men-talk, and passed the peas when asked.
My whole idea about Arnie Siegel was changin’ for the
better, though. He weren’t no Hitler type; oh, he might be a
crook, even a big-time one, but all that slave horseshit had been
to break and set up that other me. Nothin’ personal, strictly
business. This Doc Carlos guy didn’t show, though; he seemed
to have gone out someplace and didn’t get back yet. Arnie
could tell I was horny, so he gave the invite to Tommy and Sal and
both of ’em paid me visits later on that night in the room.
They was typical hoods; thought they was Mr. Macho and really
weren’t even Quickie Delight. After that I gave myself a shot
of juice and let it take over. This was earlier than I usually took
it, but I had a six-hour window. Thing was, though, I come out of
that nice, mellow period about three, maybe four in the
mornin’, and I usually didn’t go to sleep until six or
so.
This was a little different comedown than usual, though. Things
kept goin’ ’round and ’round in my head, and I
seemed to see them like pieces in a kid’s jigsaw puzzle. They
hadn’t really been there up front before, and might never
have been brought up had I been fully awake and aware or most
particularly if Marty hadn’t never mentioned the other Brandy
goin’ off that mornin’ and got me worried and depressed
over it. Vogel . . . hypnoscan . . . Beth . . . Aldrath . . . The
Security Committee at dinner . . . the ambush
in the Labyrinth . . . Lindy
Crockett . . . the shadow
dancers . . . Brandy
Two . . . the
juice . . . the woman at Siegel’s with
the strange perfume . . . “Who won that
war, anyway?” . . . Beth again,
carryin’ Vogel’s load up to the
mine . . . “be they yellow, black, or
white, there’s no difference in His
sight” . . . “The sensors would
detect any raw drug” . . . “the
commoners can move to other worlds, and
have” . . . “You’re a whore
and always will be” . . . Donna
feelin’ herself
up . . . Beth . . . Beth . . . Beth . . .
I sat up in bed and my mouth hung open. Them sons of bitches!
They done it to me again! And after I swore they couldn’t!
Never! And they’d’a got clean away with it, too, if
only poor, dumb Marty, who didn’t know what was goin’
on or care so long as he got paid good, hadn’t opened his big
mouth and said somethin’ he shouldn’t.
I stopped short. Damn it, they was gonna git
’way with it! I knew what they done and what they was
gonna do and why and I couldn’t do a damned thing about it.
So tomorrow sometime they was gonna take me down to this Dr. Carlos
and give me a hypnoscan like the one I had to become Beth, only
this time there wouldn’t be no trigger to let my old
self back in. I’d be little Brandy Parker, the dumb, ignorant
whore and a kinda trophy to their success, and
wouldn’t nobody even look for me since she had my
looks, my basic memories, and even my fingerprints and eye
patterns. ’Cept’n for Marty’s slip, I
wouldn’t even have known at all.
I was so frustrated and angry I wanted to cry, but then I heard
voices outside. They was muffled, but you could tell it was a man
and a woman and that they wasn’t agreein’ on much. I
slipped off the bed and crept to my door, then opened it a crack.
The whole place was pitch dark ’cept for a light
shinin’ from under the closed door of Arnie’s office at
the end of the hall. I was just decidin’ whether or not to
get closer—I could always say I was goin’ to the
bathroom—when I heard two dull sounds. Thud! Thud!
They sounded like gunshots done with a silencer!
I rushed forward, and at that moment the door opened and a dark
figure clad in black rushed out the door. The light and the action
stunned me for a second, and they run right into me and we both
fell down. I heard the clatter of somethin’ fallin’ on
the floor, but the other one didn’t stop but was up and away
down the stairs in nothin’ flat. I picked myself up and felt
around and got it. A pistol! Felt a little light and
funny, but it was definitely a pistol. I picked it up and walked
into the office and stopped dead in my tracks. Outside there was
some yellin’ and screamin’ and the sound of a few
unmuffled shots.
Arnie lay lack in the office chair, head cocked, eyes open and
glazed over, a little blood tricklin’ from his mouth. There
was two neat, red holes in his silk pajamas, and they was
gettin’ bigger. Somebody ran up the stairs and reached the
edge of the doorway. I turned, nearly forgettin’ the gun in
my hand, to see Marty.
“Mr. Siegel! Somebody ju—Jesus
Christ!” He saw Arnie, then me. “You dumb broad!
You just killed Mr. Siegel!”
“No! Wait! I—” I started, but Marty was
goin’ for his gun. Somethin’ suddenly kicked in and
took over for me. The whole thing slowed, like it was some kinda
slow-motion movie, and as his hand went to his shoulder holster my
hand come up with the pistol in it. I had much better reflexes than
Marty, and somethin’ else seemed to be controllin’ my
actions. I shot Marty dead center in the middle of his forehead. He
looked surprised, then kinda puzzled, and I kicked him down and
started lookin’ ’round the office. Then I saw
it—the black briefcase, off to one side of the desk. I picked
it up and started to move. There was still some commotion outside,
but nobody else seemed to be comin’ straight in, so I headed
for my room and suddenly was thinkin’ again, although on a
real supercharged level. I thought ’bout ditchin’ the
gun and pretendin’ to be asleep, but I knew that
wouldn’t wash. There was no way to hide that briefcase in
time, and no way I was gonna part with it short of dyin’.
With Arnie dead there’d be a new order around, and I
wouldn’t be worth shit to the new guys even if they
didn’t blame me for this.
I didn’t waste no time gettin’ dressed. I just threw
what I saw into my bag, includin’ the shoes, and put it over
my shoulder. I had the briefcase in one hand and the gun in the
other. I didn’t know how many more bullets was in that gun,
but it was all I had. I opened the door and saw somebody had come
in and turned the main room’s lights on. I crept to the top
of the stairs, saw two men lookin’ around. One of ’em
thought to look up, and I plugged him and then his companion with
no thought. That kind of accuracy, when both had guns in their
hands, was near impossible. The juice—the juice was
readin’ my danger level and forcin’ me to protect it,
and me, at any cost!
I made a leap that woulda done Tarzan proud down to the main
floor and hit in a crouch without losin’ the case or the bag.
I stopped tryin’ to fight the juice, and suddenly I was a
killer machine. I had only one thought: escape. I was like some
vicious cornered animal, only I knew the layout and I knew the gun
and I knew the only way out I could go.
I made my way back to the kitchen area, then peered outside. It
was real dark, but the glow from the house lights lit it up some.
Two guards, one with a rifle, was out there arguin’ and
pointin’—at the Labyrinth.
It was on, right full, all them cubelike shapes dancin’
and changin’ and ready for use. No way to make any kinda run,
so I just held the pistol at my side and walked through the
backdoor onto the porch. They turned and their guns come up.
“Hey, boys!” I called to them. “What de hell
goin’ on, anyways?”
One of ’em cussed but they both relaxed, and then I shot
’em both down with my eyes at more than thirty feet and
jumped down onto the lawn. Somebody come at me right then, and I
swung the briefcase and caught him on the head, then kicked him
hard with my foot. He fell back and doubled over.
There was another one near the Labyrinth I didn’t see, and
he made right for me. He musta been six three and three hundred
pounds and yet so fast I didn’t even have time to use the
gun. I dropped the briefcase and then kicked him, grabbed him, and
brought both my arms, with gun, down on his head so fast I
ain’t never gonna know what I did or how. I was now only a
few feet from the fence, but I couldn’t go yet. I had to drop
that case and wasn’t no way I was goin’ without it even
if they shot me dead.
I made for it, got it, then looked up and saw a man on the back
porch, framed by the house lights, gun held steady by both hands.
There was no way I could figure on scoopin’ up the case and
gettin’ off more’n a wild shot while he had me cold,
but I went for it anyways, hardly lookin’ as I shot him. I
turned and looked back to see him fall forward off the porch onto
the ground. At that moment I wasn’t one to question luck; I
jumped that little fence and ran into the Labyrinth just as it
seemed to be slowin’ down and growin’ smaller.
I hit the cube runnin’, then rolled and stopped, then
crouched and waited to see if anybody was followin’ me.
Instead, I watched the cube face from which I’d entered
slowly fade out to black. Only then did I get back my wits and try
to think ’bout what to do next.
First I looked at the pistol. No wonder it made that funny
noise! It was made outta somethin’ like yellow or gold
plastic and you could see a lot of funny works in there. It sure as
hell shot somethin’ hard and real, though; those was holes in
Arnie, not no ray gun burns or shit like that. That also meant it
could run outta bullets anytime. Hell, it might be empty now, but I
didn’t dare test it. That test might be my last bullet,
too.
I looked next at the briefcase that was life to me. Hell, maybe
it was only six months, maybe a year, but it was more’n
they tried to give me or woulda if I’d stayed with
no Arnie around. I opened the case and felt panic. It wasn’t
empty, but it nearly was. Only one of them shrink-wrapped packets
of juice cubes was in there. Only one. Panicky as hell, I counted
them. Four layers of eight each. A month’s supply. Probably
my supply. I still had three in my bag, that meant
thirty-five. I had thirty-five days to live.
That meant I had to do somethin’, make some hard
decisions, but not right away. More worrisome right off was that
somebody back there had helped me escape. The other guys I shot,
they all fell backwards like they should, but the guy on the porch,
the one who had me cold, had fallen forward. Maybe that
killer was still back there, waitin’ for the time to light
out for South America or whatever. It was a woman, that was for
sure, and I didn’t think she planned to kill Arnie. I really
didn’t. She coulda done that nice and quiet. Most likely it
was that strange woman at Siegel’s house. That was almost
surely Addison, only she didn’t look nothin’ like the
sketches that Crockett bitch showed me.
Maybe Arnie’d gotten greedy, or ambitious. He knowed what
was up, that’s for sure, but he wouldn’t be more than a
small part of it. What had they promised him? That he’d
replace Big Georgie as crime boss when they took over? It probably
sounded good at the time, but he now knew that was just chicken
feed. So maybe, after years of setup, Arnie decides when they begin
to roll that he’ll throw some kinda monkey wrench in the
machinery and hold out for more. The only, way to know for sure
what it was about was to ask Addison, and I was a long way from
bein’ able to do that yet.
Now I had only a few choices. First switcher I met, I’d
hav’ta give a destination. I was one of them lucky few
cleared through to headquarters and it was the logical place to go,
but I didn’t want to go there unless I had to. They’d
take all my information, all right, but then I’d wind up in
the Center. Maybe if I started into withdrawal and there was no
other way I’d do that, but so long as I had juice I sure as
hell wouldn’t. Requestin’ some destination by
description, like Brandy two’s home world, was risky. Them
switchers used translators and so many worlds was alike enough to
them that they usually got it wrong anyways. Besides, what would
that buy me ’cept a month of freelance whorin’? Crazy
fact was, the best chance I had was tryin’ to push the case.
Get ’em where I could call the tune. I didn’t
give a damn if they took over everything or not no more, but I
wanted a personal, guaranteed, lifetime supply of juice they
couldn’t cut off. It was a lot cheaper price than Arnie
probably asked for, and if I was smart about it they wouldn’t
dare knock me off.
Yeah, I know, it was crazy to think that they would even bother
dealin’ with me with all the power they had, but that’s
the thing ’bout bein’ hooked. Still, other than that,
it made me very cool and logical. I just had killed my first three
people and it didn’t bother me one bit. I had no inhibitions
at all. Now I knew. My twin would kill without a thought if it was
that or juice. That was my only lead, then, too. If I was wrong, if
I hadn’t doped it out right, I was stuck, but if I was right,
I had a place to start.
The briefcase didn’t seem worth keepin’, now. I put
the packet in my shoulder bag, and the gun, too.
I knew what they done to me, and I kinda guessed why. Brandy Two
and I was even more alike than I figured. Oh, she was a whore, all
right, but that didn’t mean nothin’ when it came to
other interests. She’d still come from a readin’ family
and she read real good. She maybe talked better than I did, too;
she might have been a higher class hooker by the time they got her
than she was supposed to be. That’s why they run her up to
Vogel’s place first—to get her brains scrambled a
little, the same kinda thing as they did to me. Made her a dumb-ass
ignorant slut, then sent her down to Siegel till they could get
hold of me. Workin’ the shadow dancer route, bein’
conditioned with slow withdrawal and then suggested to death on the
comedown, she was probably all set up as the girl I saw. It’s
all they needed from her.
Then I showed up, and I didn’t look the same no more, and
for a while I gave ’em the slip before walkin’ right
into their hands as I had to sooner or later. This was a patient
bunch. They had somethin’ else they was gonna use this other
Brandy for, somethin’ I didn’t have worked out yet, but
then there I was. Somehow, durin’ that time, they had an
extra problem, too. If Sam was dead or still in a coma, then I was
all wet, but I bet my last shot of juice that he recovered.
Watchin’ me, they had a healthy respect for him, and he
wasn’t no easy snatch and switch. More, he’d be a real
dangerous enemy ’cause he’d know where I was and sooner
or later he’d come and find out, and maybe not alone. So they
changed their plans.
And that’s the point I was really guessin’ on.
Suppose Vogel’s experimenters found that they could make a
juicer do absolutely anything, and I mean
anything—even kill. But there was a point,
someplace, where even the juice couldn’t force it. Maybe a
percentage of folks just couldn’t be made to kill their
wives, husbands, or babies. Maybe it was only a few, but it was
there no matter what they did, and they needed a Brandy so
convincin’ that Sam wouldn’t have no doubts at
all—and they wouldn’t, neither. So they had Brandy Two
watch me, watch my moves, my mannerisms, my quirks and habits, talk
a lot about myself. Maybe she didn’t even know then that she
was takin’ it all in, but she was. We was inseparable.
So, when they was ready, maybe when Sam was just due to come
home, they took us to Siegel’s estate and stuck us in such a
low, degradin’ situation we didn’t even have no track
of days or times, just shot to shot. Then, when we was on our juice
high, they bring in this Dr. Carlos and he hooks up the hypnoscan
to us and he puts that dumb, ignorant slut version in me,
probably a real edited version of the real thing, and two triggers.
The cards! The crazy things on them cards they had us
read! More than enough.
All they had to do was start when we was juicin’ high,
keep us out for a full twenty-four hours, then give us the next
day’s jolt and let us come out natural. We never woulda
knowed we lost a day, not there, and Carlos would have a
full day to do real fancy work on both our brains.
So when Brandy Two read her card, bingo! All her old
skills and speech and shit come back, just flowin’ in till it
dominated the other, and that along with all she’d learned
and observed by bein’ closer to me than anybody else could
for all that time and a friendly hypno-shove convinced her she was
me. At the same time, when I read my card, the
Brandy Two lower personality flowed in and my old stuff was shoved
to the back. I couldn’t read that card ’cause I’d
been cut off from my old skills.
But why not just do a Beth number on me? Make me Brandy Two
completely and block off the old me entirely? Maybe ’cause
they couldn’t, quite. When Doc Jamispur done it to me at
Mayar’s place, he had all the top shit, the best computers
and stuff they had. Maybe it took more than a hypnoscan to do it
completely. How would I know?
What he done was bad enough. Even I believed it.
Forcin’ that Brandy Two personality and cuttin’ the
skills—they knew just where to look ’cause they already
did it once to her—to be up front. Even if you had
the old stuff, you could do what they couldn’t—forget
it or push it all the way back till it rotted. Vogel proved that by
bringin’ out Beth on the getaway. All he did was talk me into
the idea that I was turnin’ back into Beth and I
couldn’t fight it, and I was so ignorant of what they done to
me and so in awe of their powers that I swallowed it and started
becomin’ Beth and trashin’ Brandy. This time they was
more clever, ’cause I didn’t know I’d been
hypnoscanned, wasn’t ready for it, and when I figured it out
they had a real convincin’ reason for me to doubt my own
identity. Real convincin’. Still, it was one of their stock
tricks, and it had worked on me twice. Woulda worked, too,
if Marty just hadn’t shot off his fat mouth and started that
old part of me movin’.
Not that it was easy. I knew who I was now, and had my old
memories, but Brandy Two was still forward, still in the
driver’s seat, and I didn’t have no Center to get her
out. I was stuck with that real southern ghetto dialect, had a hard
time handlin’ big words, and I wasn’t gonna write no
incriminatin’ statements. I needed to take a chance on
somebody who could and who might not turn me in.
If that damned twin of mine hadn’t already murdered
him.