The Next to Die

“Thanks, Jim. I owe you.”

Dazed, Jim laughed. “God, my wife isn’t going to believe this.”

Tony glanced over his shoulder at his agent friend. “Bye, Benny. I’m with my buddy Jim here. Take the car. I don’t need it. Adios.”

Benny pleaded, but Tony Katz ignored him. He was too busy asking Jim where he was from, what he did for a living, and if he had any kids. To Jim’s utter surprise, even after the agent defeatedly stomped out of the restaurant, Tony remained at the table. It was as if he genuinely cared. “No kids, huh?” Tony said, finishing his drink. “Me neither. Linda and I are thinking about adopting. But there’s a lot to consider, y’know?”

Jim nodded emphatically.

“I mean, look at how everyone’s staring at us. It’s life in a fishbowl, and that’s no way to raise a kid. Plus there are some real nutcases out there. Lately, I’ve been getting these strange phone calls—on my private line, no less. Death threats, real nasty stuff. Makes me think twice about bringing a kid into this world.” He shrugged and sat back. “Anyway, it’s nothing to dump on you. So—what are your plans for the night?”

“I don’t really have any plans,” Jim said.

“Great. Because I’d like to buy you a drink for being such a good sport. Only not here. It’s too stuffy here. I know a place you might like.”

The place was called Vogue Vertigo, at least that was where Tony told the driver to go once they climbed into the taxi. They settled back, and Tony slung his arm around Jim’s shoulder—as though they were old pals. Jim was still in a stupor over this instant bond with the movie star. “I think you’ll dig Vogue Vertigo,” Tony said. “I hear this straight crowd is starting to take over. But that’s mostly on weekends. I don’t think we’ll have to put up with them tonight. We’ll see.”

The driver studied them in the rearview mirror. Jim caught his stare, and he suddenly became aware of how the two of them must have looked together, huddled in the backseat, one guy with his arm around the other.

Chuckling, Jim grinned at those disapproving eyes in the rearview mirror. “Hey, bub, what are you staring at?” he asked. “Think we’re queer or something? Do you know who you’ve got back here? This is Tony—”

“Shut the fuck up,” Tony whispered.

Jim fell into a stunned silence. He recognized the cold, deadly tone. Tony spoke that way to characters in the movies seconds before blowing them away. He frowned at Jim, then slid over closer to the window.

They went on for three more blocks without saying a word. All the while, Jim tried to figure out what he’d done wrong. It seemed as if his instant friendship with the movie star had just as instantly expired.

“This is good right here, driver,” Tony said, pulling out his wallet.

The taxi pulled up to the curb. Jim warily surveyed the neighborhood. He’d seen worse areas, but had never been dropped in the heart of one this bad—this late at night. Half of the stores looked as if they’d been shut down years ago, and the others didn’t look long for this world. The cab stopped near a dark, cheesy little grocery store.

Climbing out of the taxi, Jim could barely make out the green neon VOGUE VERTIGO sign in the window of a squat brick building farther down the block. “Why didn’t you let him take us right up to the place?” he asked as the taxi pulled away.

“Because you don’t want to go in there,” Tony replied. He pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his jacket. “Listen, Jim. I made a mistake. I’ll get you a cab—another cab, and pay for your ride back. Our plans for tonight are kaput.”

Tony switched on his phone, punched in some numbers, then cradled it to his ear. Apparently, he wasn’t getting a dial tone. Frowning, he rattled the phone in his fist. “Damn it,” he grumbled. “Battery’s dead. You don’t have a cell phone on you, do you?”

Jim shook his head. “Sorry. Listen, what’s happening here? What’s going on?”

“We’ll have to use a pay phone in the bar,” Tony said. “I didn’t want to take you in there, because you’ll probably freak out. It’s a gay bar, Jim. I was wrong earlier. I don’t think you’d like Vogue Vertigo after all.”

“This place is a gay bar?”

“Bingo. Go to the head of the class.” Tony started to walk toward the end of the block.

Jim grabbed his arm. “I don’t get this. You’re married to Linda Zane, for chrissakes, and you’re gay? How could you be gay?”

“I’ll tell you what James Dean said when someone asked him the same question. He said, ‘I’m not about to go through life with one hand tied behind my back.’”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jim stepped in front of him. “I still don’t understand. What made you think I was gay?”

Tony sighed. “I thought you were good-looking. Seemed worth a shot. I was wrong. I’m sorry, okay?”

“But I told you, I’m married.”

“There are lots of married gay guys, Jim,” he replied. “I’m a movie star. Sounds callous, but married men are my safest bet. They don’t talk. Now, I’ve already apologized, and I mean it, I’m sorry to have taken you out of your way.” He gave Jim’s arm a little punch. “So how about it? Do you think you can relax and be cool in this bar while I call you a cab? Or do you want to go on acting like an asshole?”

Jim stared at him for a moment, and realized he was arguing with Tony Katz—who was gay. His wife wasn’t going to believe this. “I think I’ll go on acting like an asshole,” he replied, chuckling. “It’s all right, I’ll be cool. Still, can you blame me for being pissed? I mean, my one big chance to get it on with a movie star, and it’s another guy. Just my luck.”

Tony laughed, but suddenly he froze up and his smile disappeared. He stared at something beyond Jim’s shoulder, and those famous aquamarine eyes filled with dread. The color left his face. “My God,” he whispered. “Run….”

“What?” Jim turned around. His heart stopped.

It happened so quickly. Jim hadn’t even heard the minivan pull up behind him. Two men sprang out of the back. Both of them wore nylon stockings over their heads, the faces hideously distorted—like something out of a nightmare. One of the men had a gun.

Jim wanted to yell out, but he could barely breathe. As if paralyzed, he helplessly watched the two men descend on him. The one with the gun grabbed him by the scalp and jammed the .38 alongside his head. Jim felt the barrel scrape against his cheek, then dig into his ear. It hurt like hell, and he cried out with what little breath he had. Clenching a fistful of hair, the thug yanked his head back, until Jim thought his neck would snap. The guy ground the gun barrel into his ear. Jim felt blood drip down the side of his neck. He could barely hear his attacker barking at Tony: “Get in the van or I’ll blow your boyfriend’s brains out! Hurry!”

“Leave him alone!” Tony demanded. “If it’s me you’re after, I hardly know this guy. Let him go—”

The thug swung Jim around and threw him into the backseat of the van. Toppling onto the floor, Jim blindly reached for the door handle, then realized there was no door on the driver’s side. No escape. Suddenly, Tony fell against him. He was unconscious.

Jim began to shake uncontrollably. He’d never been so scared.

Somebody climbed into the bench seat in back, then someone else jumped in front. Doors slammed, and the car started moving.

Wendy Lockett ran along the same trail through St. Helens Forest Preserve every morning before going to work at the bank. She had a Walkman blasting the Eurythmics’ greatest hits and Cushman, her black Labrador retriever, keeping her company on that lonely path. It was a cold, drizzly Friday, and still quite dark in the heart of the forest.

Sweat rolled off her forehead, and Wendy’s long brown ponytail slapped against the windbreaker on her back. She approached the halfway point, a little clearing in the woods, where she usually turned around.

“Cushman, stick with me!” she called. The dog bolted ahead of her, then disappeared behind some bushes. “Cushman?” she called again, catching her breath. Annie Lennox still wailed in her ears. “Cush? Come here, buddy….”

The Labrador was there for her protection. The thirty-three-year-old divorcee didn’t go jogging in the forest at five-thirty in the morning without her dog—and a small canister of mace in the pocket of her track pants. Cushman had pulled this vanishing act a few times in the past—running after a squirrel or a deer—and Wendy hated it.