Double Take

By Abby Bardi

'Bardi pushes a lot of hot buttons' Publishers Weekly

Set in Chicago, 1975, Double Take is the story of artsy Rachel Cochrane, who returns from college with no job and confronts the recent death of Bando, one of her best friends. When she runs into Joey, a mutual friend, their conversations take them back into their shared past and to the revelation that Bando may have been murdered. To find out who murdered him, Rachel is forced to revisit her stormy 1960s adolescence, a journey that brings her into contact with her old friends, her old self, and danger.

Surprising and haunting, this is an insightful reminiscence of  a time of naivety, danger and renewal.

 

PRAISE FOR ABBY BARDI

'compelling ... evocative ... [a] gritty tale of friendship, forgiveness, and adventure' Anara Guard, Goodreads

'I couldn't put it down' Danika Dinsmore, Goodreads on The Book of Fred

'The Secret Letters is a book I'd recommend to any reader who enjoys women's fiction' Sue, Goodreads

'You'll like this book [The Secret Letters] if: The thrill of the chase is something you enjoy, followed by a hugely surprising twist!' Pam, Netgalley

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781460707203

Abby Bardi

Abby Bardi is the author of THE BOOK OF FRED. She grew up in Chicago, went to college in California, then spent a decade teaching English in Japan and England. She currently teaches at a college in Maryland and lives in historic Ellicott City with her husband and dog.

Book preview

PART ONE

I.

1975

I recognized his voice from across the room. When I handed him a menu, he looked up absent-mindedly and went on talking to some guys, then did a double take.

Cookie? he said.

I tried on the name like an old article of clothing to see if it still fit. It felt like a suede fringed jacket. Yep, I said.

Wow. You look so different.

I cut my hair.

Everyone did.

I’m older, I said.

Everyone’s older.

You look exactly the same, I said. He was wearing a beat-up leather jacket over a green T-shirt, maybe the same jacket and T-shirt he had always worn. His thick black hair was shorter now and curly, skin still tan from summer, small mouth with perfect teeth. He still looked tough and handsome, but in a creepy way, like someone you couldn’t trust.

Cookie, what the hell are you doing here?

I work here. I’d rather you didn’t call me that. My name is Rachel.

I thought your name was Cookie.

Nope. Do people still call you Rat?

He laughed. Nowadays I go by Joey.

Okay, Joey, I said, since this was nowadays.

Miss? a voice called from a nearby table. The voice brought me back to where I was standing, in Diana’s Grotto, a Greek diner on 57th Street, with ten tables full of customers. For a moment, I had thought I was in Casa Sanchez.

It took me a while to make it back to Joey’s table. A divinity student had found a fly in his milkshake, and it wouldn’t have taken so long if I hadn’t made the mistake of saying, So, how much can a fly drink? Like most academics, this guy had no sense of humor and gave me a lecture on hygiene. It was amazing that knowing as much about hygiene as he seemed to, he would continue to eat at Diana’s Grotto. By the time I got back to Joey’s table, the men he had been sitting with were gone. Off-duty police, from the looks of them, I thought, or plain-clothes. We got a lot of cops in Diana’s; they slumped on stools at the counter with their guns hanging from their belts, sucking down free coffee. Back in the sixties, the sight of their blue leather jackets had always made me nervous, like I’d committed some crime I’d forgotten about.

So why are you working here? Joey asked. I thought you were a college girl. A co-ed. He flashed his white teeth. I don’t mean to be nosy.

The problem with college is they make you leave when you finish.

And here I thought it was a permanent gig.

Nope.

But why aren’t you doing something a little more—

Collegiate? Don’t ask. I slid into the booth next to him. From across the room, Nicky, the maître d’, shot me a poisonous glance. I ignored him. I like it here. I smiled a crazy little smile.

Hey, different strokes. His eyes swept the room, resting on a mural of a white windmill on an island in the Aegean. The windmill’s blades were crooked. I remembered this eye-sweep from Casa Sanchez, where he had always sat facing the door so he could constantly scan the whole restaurant. His eyes returned to me. Didn’t I hear a rumor you were supposed to be getting married? Some guy in California?

Just a rumor. Glad to hear the grapevine still works.

I felt someone hiss into my ear. Nicky had slunk up behind me. He looked like a garden gnome in a plaid jacket and baggy pants, reeking of aftershave that had tried and failed. Rose! he snapped. He never called anyone by their right name. What’s in a name? I always murmured.

Be right with you. I gave him what I hoped was a reassuring smile.

This is a classy place, Joey said as Nicky ambled away.

He’s the owner’s brother-in-law.

Diana?

There is no Diana. She’s a mythological figure.

Like Hendrix?

Kind of.

Hey, you want to have a drink after work?

Actually, I don’t drink any more.

You want to come watch me drink? What time do you get off?

Nine thirty. You could come help me fill the ketchups.

What?

You know, take the empty Heinz bottles and pour cheap generic ketchup in them.

Sounds like fun, but why don’t you meet me at Bert’s? Back room?

I thought for a moment. This did not seem like a good idea, but I didn’t care. Okay, why not. So, can I get you anything?

Just coffee.

You want a side of taramasalata with it? It’s made from fish roe.

I’ll pass, thanks.

When I brought him his coffee, he said, You’re still a hell of a waitress, Cookie.

"You’re still a hell of a waitress, Rachel."

Whatever.

Thanks, I said.

II.

I could barely see Joey’s face in the light from the candle on our table, a cheap glass bulb with plastic mesh around it that I couldn’t stop myself from tearing. While he went to the bar and got our drinks, I went over to the jukebox, threw in a handful of my tip money, and chose Monk, Billie, Miles, and as an afterthought, Ella, because Michael loved her. But he’s not here, I said out loud to myself.

I picked up the candle, poured wax into my palm, molded it into a ball, and rolled the ball toward Joey, who caught it just before it fell off the edge of the table.

So, I said, what do you do? That seemed like a nice safe question, though since I had become a waitress again, it packed a bit of a punch.

Light from the candle surrounded his eyes like a mask. You can do better than that, can’t you?

Sorry. I shrugged. What can I say? I mean, I never really knew you all that well or anything. So we know each other from Casa Sanchez, but it’s like being relatives. I don’t really know much about you.

What do you want to know? he asked. Ella was singing about the shark’s pearly teeth and how he showed them pearly white.

I pretended to think for a minute. What do you do?

What do I do? He leaned his chair so far back I thought he was going to tip over. I work for the city. He snapped the chair back in place.

In what capacity? Everyone works for this city in one way or another.

I work with juveniles.

What do you do with them?

I try to keep them from turning out like me. He flashed his pearly teeth. I’m what you might call an ombudsman. I got a grant and I sort of set this thing up.

Very entrepreneurial.

I always was. And I had some good teachers.

I had some good teachers in college.

Same thing.

"How is Sam, by the way?"

Dunno. Haven’t seen the dude in years. He gave me a sideways look. Who says I meant Sam?

Nobody says, I said.

Miles is running the voodoo down, he said, pointing to the jukebox.

Yeah, I said. I like that song.

So tell me about you. He put on what I guessed was his ombudsman expression. What are you doing at Diana’s Grotto?

I am honored to be able to represent their fine cuisine in my small way.

Seriously.

Seriously? Well, I had this other job when I came back here three months ago, when I graduated. I got it through a friend of my mother’s. It was sort of paralegal work. I guess you could call it para-paralegal.

And?

It involved a lot of Xeroxing, I said, growing more animated. Sometimes I got to read documents. The trouble was, whenever I read the documents I’d fall asleep. One time I actually drooled all over a divorce case.

They fire you?

No, I quit. They never found out about the drooling. I told them I was going to go to law school.

You’re in law school?

No. That’s just what I told them.

Ah. You want another club soda?

No thanks. I never drink and drive. Joke.

Ha ha. I’ll be right back.

I watched him walk up to the bar and order another Scotch. It had never before struck me as strange that I spent so much time in bars whenever I was home, even though I had quit drinking. The obvious reason was that there was nothing else to do in my neighborhood, but also, there was something about bars that made me feel comfortable. Maybe it was because they were always dark, and I was not a big fan of light. Joey was leaning on the bar as if he felt comfortable in the darkness, too. Telling him about my job at the law firm had brought this contrast home to me; my cubicle there overlooked the brilliant blue of the lake, and the fluorescent office light always seemed too bright.

So you didn’t want to be a paralegal, he continued.

A para-paralegal.

Okay. So why’d you take the job?

You sure ask a lot of questions. Is this what an ombudsman does?

I’ll stop if you want me to.

No one has asked me anything about it. When I quit, my parents never made any reference to it again. It was like they were embarrassed and thought that if they didn’t mention it, it never happened. You know what I mean?

Sure.

It’s funny, I used to come back here every summer after being at this little college in California where everyone was really friendly, and they’d say hi to you even if they didn’t know you. Like they do in small towns, right? I hated it, like they were invading my space. But then I got used to it. Then whenever I came back here I’d have to wear sunglasses for the first few weeks because I kept accidentally making eye contact with people. And you can’t do that here.

People be following you home and shit.

Exactly. So one day someone asked me why I always wore sunglasses. And I told them, well, it’s because there’s so much dirt blowing around here and it always gets in my eyes, and they said, Okay, whatever. And then I said, well, actually, it’s because I always wear sunglasses in California and I’m used to the way they feel. I didn’t tell them about my problem with eye contact.

And then you told them it was because you were trying to look cool.

Right. So then I realized that if there really was a reason I was wearing sunglasses, I had no fucking idea what it might be. I had completely lost touch with my feelings by then. If I had a real reason, I no longer knew what it was.

Same thing with the job?

Exactly. I think I took it because I thought my mother thought I should. She never actually tells me what she really thinks about anything, so I just guess. I think her philosophy is that it doesn’t really matter what you do, as long as you hate it. Am I whining?

Sort of.

Sorry. Anyway, the answer is ‘I don’t know.’

What was the question?

I don’t know.

Were you always like this? He looked amused.

What do you think?

You don’t know?

You’re good, Joey. Is it your ombudsman training? Do they have ombuds-women?

You think you can, like, ombud?

I don’t know. Hey, could you buy me a beer?

I thought you didn’t drink.

I just feel like a beer. Just one. It’s because talking to you reminds me of the good old days, and the good old days remind me of beer. I closed my eyed and sighed.

What kind of beer you want? Wait, I’ll bet I know. An Old Style, right?

Of course. An Old Style.

III.

1969

When the phone rang, Cookie picked it up. Casa Sanchez didn’t have a regular phone, but everyone knew the number of the pay phone on the wall. Cookie recognized the voice immediately. She was good with voices. She couldn’t quite put a face to it right away, but she knew its cadence. It was a rough voice, not a nice one. Whoever it was asked for Clay.

He’s not here, she said, which was true, though he had been there a minute ago, which she didn’t mention. She was always circumspect. Everyone knew the pay phone at Casa Sanchez was tapped, and they were always arranging little jokes to prove it. One day last summer she had been there when Rat, for his own amusement, called someone at another pay phone and pretended to arrange a drug deal at the corner of 57th and Blackstone. Within seconds the street was full of police cars.

The voice asked when Clay would be back. Who is this? Cookie asked.

It’s Levar. Levar was Clay’s best friend, a plump guy with a smoky, jolly voice. This hard voice was definitely not Levar’s. Don’t tell Clay I called.

Okay, I won’t. She hung up, then went outside to look for Clay so she could tell him.

Cookie would always remember that this was the third day of Woodstock. Some guy she met on the street that morning had told her that some people there had been run over by tractors. He made it sound like total carnage, and she was glad she’d stayed home. She couldn’t have gone anyway. Sanchez needed her to work because all the other waitresses were college students and had gone home for the summer.

She would also remember that day because it was her friend Bando’s seventeenth birthday. For the past forty-five minutes she had been sitting at a table in the front window of Casa Sanchez, watching for him. Sanchez had turned up the air conditioning full blast, and her arms were covered with goose bumps. Outside, heat rose from the pavement in waves. People stood on the corner where they always stood, leaning on the mailbox, lounging against parked cars, sitting on the pavement next to the storefronts. Often Cookie hung out there, too. The rest of the time she watched through the plate glass window of Casa Sanchez. It was like watching TV.

Just before the phone rang, she caught a glimpse of Bando out the window, or rather, of his sleeve, which she recognized. It was the sleeve of a shirt that had been tie-dyed in rainbow colors. She happened to know that the tie-dying had been done by his mother, but if you weren’t aware of this, it looked cool. Now as she scanned the street for Clay, she saw Bando disappearing around the corner. Wait up! she called, starting after him. Where are you going?

He turned and regarded her through his wire-rimmed glasses, his expression unchanged. As a matter of fact, I was going into the alley to relieve myself.

You can use the bathroom in Casa. Sanchez isn’t there. He went to the butcher.

No, thank you. He turned away.

Happy birthday, she called after him as he rounded the corner.

Thanks, he said when he appeared again, smoothing his jeans, which had creases in the front where he had ironed them. His shiny plum leather boots clashed with his tie-dye.

You could have peed in Casa, you know, Cookie said.

That would be stooping. I choose never to stoop. His hair fell across his glasses, and he brushed it away.

Suit yourself. She handed him a paper bag from the Book Nook.

What’s this? A present? he asked in a soft voice. Rachel, you’re so bourgeois.

Do you want it or don’t you?

He peered into the bag. She had known better than to wrap it. "Steppenwolf?"

You approve?

He looked down at the shiny toes of his boots. It’s a funny thing, Rachel. This is the only present I’ve gotten.

Hey, the day is young. I’m sure your mother will give you something.

Don’t be sure. She’s out of town. My stepfather is suspiciously absent. I think he has a girlfriend.

You think you’re that Hamlet guy.

No, I’m not Hamlet, I’m J. Alfred Prufrock. Will you give me a birthday kiss?

Sure. She kissed him lightly on the mouth. His lips were thin and dry, as always.

His eyes were soft for an instant, then he said, You never close your eyes when you kiss me.

Neither do you.

One of us should, and I think it should be you. You’re the girl.

Bastard, Cookie said, smacking him on the arm. They began to walk past the strip of storefronts where Casa Sanchez was sandwiched between an alley and a Christian Science Reading Room. As they rounded the corner, a plain olive-green sedan rolled slowly down the street. On the opposite side of the street, Clay, a tall man in a broad-brimmed hat and mirror sunglasses, stood in front of his yellow Porsche, talking to his friend Levar. The sedan pulled up next to them, and Cookie heard four loud cracking noises, then the car sped past her. She looked at the driver and saw a monstrous face. The face had no features, and for years afterwards when she thought about it, it still filled her with horror. She realized later that the face had been distorted by a nylon stocking.

Slowly, it seemed, Clay fell against his Porsche, his mouth open as if in surprise, or maybe because he needed air. She could see Levar bending over him, then turning around and screaming for help, as Clay sagged and then slumped to the ground. The whole scene took maybe thirty seconds, but seemed drawn out in slow