Two Much! by Donald E. Westlake Page B

number, praying there was no subtenant there that I hadn’t been told about, and apparently there was not. After the third futile attempt, I said, “Why not call him in the morning? He’s bound to be in the office.”
    â€œThat’s just what I’ll do,” she said, and the three of us went out to dinner at Flynn’s. During which I excused myself to go to the john, found a pay phone, and called Gloria at home. “Be there, bitch,” I muttered, as I dialed, and damn if she wasn’t.
    Her husband answered, and when I identified myself he said, “Oh, yeah?” Then he covered the phone inefficiently—on purpose, I assume—and I heard him shout, “It’s that bastard!”
    Was no further identification necessary? And to think of the salaries I’d paid that ingrate, many of them on time.
    â€œHello?”
    â€œNow you have to guess which bastard.”
    â€œCome on, Art, I’m watching television.”
    Ah, the married life. “Tomorrow,” I said, “a lady will call asking for my twin brother Bart.”
    â€œOh, for God’s sake.”
    â€œNow, Gloria. All you have to do is take her number and tell her Bart is out at a meeting with his local distributor, and—”
    â€œ Local distributor!”
    â€œAnd,” I said firmly, “you will have him call back as soon as he gets in.”
    â€œHow many felonies will I be committing?”
    â€œNone. A little white lie in the service of love, that’s all it is.”
    â€œBullshit.”
    â€œGloria, remember how you hated working at Met Life? The bells going off all the time, twenty-two minutes for lunch?”
    She sighed. “Bart, huh? Very original.”
    â€œIt stands for Bay Area Rapid Transit,” I explained, and went back to dinner with the ladies.
    And so it came to pass that on Monday morning Betty called Bart, and an hour later Bart returned the call from the pay phone by the firehouse. Candy was discussed, and the unfortunate incident of the day before. Betty wanted to know if Bart thought Art had been adulterous with Candy, and Bart admitted he’d wondered the same thing himself. Betty proferred her invitation, and Bart was happy to accept. “We can be with each other three days a week,” he said.
    â€œAnd three nights,” quoth Little Miss Hot Pants.
    The intervening nights, however, belonged to Liz, who was no slouch herself. Bouncety bouncety; by Wednesday morning I was just as pleased to board that boat for a day’s vacation at the office.
    Liz saw me off at the pier. “I like a man who goes away for half the week,” she said.
    I bet you do, I thought. I said, “Have a nice rest,” and patted her cheek. And wrote my new Christmas card on the ferry. Thus do we artists adapt the facts of our own lives to the purposes of our art.

    T HE GENTLEMAN WAITTNG in my outer officer was up to no good; I could tell it the minute I laid eyes on him. Gloria, with a now-you’re-in-for-it look, waved grandly at the fellow and said, “There’s a Mr. Volpinex here to see you, Mr. Dodge. He wanted either you or your brother Bart.”
    Whoops. Mr. Volpinex had apparently been my age when he’d died, several thousand years ago, and in the depths of the pyramid been given this simulacrum of life. The ancient chemists had dyed his flesh a dark unhealthy tan, and painted his teeth with that cheap gloss white enamel used in rent-controlled apartments. His black suit was surely some sort of oil by-product, and so was his smile.
    â€œI take it,” this thing said, extending its hand, “I am addressing Mr. Arthur Dodge?”
    â€œThat’s right” His hand was as dry as driftwood.
    â€œI am Ernest Volpinex,” he said, and gave himself away. No real thirty-year-old would have reached into his vest pocket at that juncture and given me his card. So my first guess was right; he was the undead.
    I