Someone Else

Chapter 10 (Tommy)

Tommy Gaines couldn't believe his bad luck. The second he heard the tinkling of the bell as the door opened, his stomach dropped. Without even turning around, he knew it was Ben and his pet troll, Moose, looking for him. His pulse quickened, but he didn't flinch. Years of work on sets with demanding DPs had forced him to develop a calm demeanor, no matter how outlandish the demands.

He sneaked a peek and saw Ben searching the restaurant for him, his unbandaged hand inching toward a steak knife on the counter. But Ben didn't seem to recognize him, so he spun back toward the counter and stared at his half eaten stack of pancakes.

He pondered slinking away toward the bathroom when he saw a waitress turn the corner and call out Ben's name. To his astonishment, Ben's face broke into a smile, and not the usual painted-on smile he used to mask a scheming mind filled with evil thoughts. This was a natural, genuine smile conjured up from a place of inner happiness that he never would have guessed Ben capable of having.

Tommy strained to listen to their conversation, but the clank and clatter of the diner made it difficult. It didn't matter. He knew within seconds the man was not Ben Flanagan. He looked like Ben—spitting image—but his demeanor was altogether wrong. Their voices didn't match, but that wasn't the clincher. This fake Ben exhibited kindness. The real Ben could be friendly, but never kind.

After a few minutes of cheesy banter and an amazing moment where fake Ben offered to pay for the breakfasts of everyone in the diner if the waitress would go out with him, the imposter made his way toward the exit. Tommy watched him leave, the bell tinkling merrily as he thrust open the door. A moment later, the waitress squealed with delight—actually squealed—and began to dance, her ass swaying provocatively in her polyester skirt.

He reached for his wallet before remembering his hand was wrapped in a large, makeshift ACE bandage he had picked up from Wal-Mart the night before, the clerk staring bug-eyed at the blood-soaked towel covering his hand. "Might wanna see a doctor."

"Thanks for the tip," he had replied, biting down hard on the towel on the way out of the store, trying to lessen the pain.

He switched hands, fished out his wallet, and managed to nudge out a ten-dollar bill, forgetting that the instigator of his pain, or least a close facsimile to him, had just ponied up for his meal and all the meals of his fellow diners. It seemed too much of a hassle to get the money back into his wallet, so, even though he was twenty-five thousand in the hole, he dropped the ten bucks onto the counter and hustled out the door.

Too many jobs gripping on improbably scripted movies had his mind whirling with conspiracy theories for why Ben had an imposter. This has got to be the work of the pigs or even the Feds cracking down on the drug trade. Or did the real Ben get bumped off by his supplier? Am I next?

Tommy spotted Ben climbing into a rusty old Sonata. Any creeping doubts that this man might be Ben were swept away. Ben Flanagan would never drive that piece of shit. So who's this guy, and what the hell's he doing?

Keeping one eye on Fake Ben, he fumbled for the keys to his old pickup, his mind drifting to his thumb. Not about the bloody nub left where his thumb used to be, but about his missing appendage. Where is it now? Lying lonely and afraid in the corner of the warehouse or casually discarded with the trash?

Ben went too far taking his thumb. Sure, he was a day or two late with the payment, but Ben would get his damn money. Tommy had never welched on a payment—at least not entirely.

His mind flashed back to last night, wondering if he could have done anything different. It had felt strange that Ben wanted to meet at the old prop warehouse. Tommy had given Ben the keys to the dilapidated, musty place months ago. The production company that owned the building used it to store outdated equipment and props, but they hadn't used it for years.