Double Fantasy

Dedicated with love to John Lennon and Stephen King.


          Normally, when a woman--any woman over twelve or so, be it a cleaning lady, secretary or lawyer--entered Thomas Andersen's office, he would mentally take a minute to evaluate her and calculate how much money he would have to spend to get her in bed with him. Today, however, he barely glanced at the young lawyer as she entered, attractive as she was; his eyes were fixed on one thing, and that was the briefcase in her right hand.

          "Mr. Andersen?” The woman stepped up and held out her hand, smiling tentatively. "Lee Parker. I'm the representative for--"

          "I know why you're here, Ms. Parker. Just hand me the briefcase.” Andersen took the handle and laid the case down, impatiently gesturing at the chair as the lawyer hesitated. He sat, his hands brushing over the worn leather, an avaricious gleam in his cold gray eyes and a slight smile on his thin lips. Then he flicked his thumbs and snapped the latches, which cracked open like two quick rifle shots.

          Carefully he lifted the lid, drawing in a short breath as he gazed upon what lay inside. It was a simple black-and-white cardboard sleeve of about twelve square inches with a photograph on the front, showing a couple kissing, their eyes shut and expressions of ecstasy on their faces. Along the top border, simple typeface proclaimed:

          John Lennon Double Fantasy Yoko Ono.

          And scrawled along the surface, five more words and figures, larger and more impressive: "December 8, 1980" with "John Lennon" below.

          Andersen reached in and picked up the record, careful to touch only the edges, and lifted it out. He held it up and inspected the back and spine, then expertly removed the disc and held it up to the light by its edges, alert for defects. There were none visible. "Very good,” he proclaimed, quite satisfied but careful to keep the feeling hidden. He reassembled the album and put it gently back down, glancing up again at the lawyer, whom he had almost forgotten. She was sitting still, her hands in her lap, watching.

          "Is it what you expected?” Her voice was a pleasant contralto, and her looks, now that he could take time to notice them, were also impressive. She had dark brown shoulder-length straight hair, lovely green eyes, and managed to give an impression of a gorgeous figure even in the standard navy blue suit that was required among career women. He did a quick estimate and came up with about two, three hundred dollars; she seemed like a tough nut.

          "It seems fine on the surface," he answered, leaning back in his chair and smiling at her. The effect, had he known it, was not one of geniality; Parker had seen many clients like Andersen, although none quite so rich, and she was familiar with the look on his face. It was that of an emperor or dictator who was attempting to be friendly with an inferior subject. "But I can't say for certain until I actually hear the record. The agreement--"

          "I'm certain you'll find everything in order, Mr. Andersen. If not, you have three days to notify my office and arrange for a refund of your payment, the balance of which is due now.” Parker reached over and reclaimed her briefcase as Andersen took his gold fountain pen and leaned over his checkbook, open on his desk. "Now, the rest of the agreement states--"

          "I'm familiar with the terms, Ms. Parker.” Deftly filling in the seven figures, Andersen completed his signature with a flourish and tore out the check, handing it to her. "Thank you for your time."

          "Mr. Andersen, the terms clearly state that I must read you this history upon delivery of the album. If you refuse to listen, then my client insists that the sale is void.” Parker's eyes met Andersen's with identical looks of determination. Andersen's dropped first.

          "All right then, get on with it," he said, leaning back in his comfortable leather chair as she removed a document from her briefcase. He looked down at the record on his desk and smiled as she raised her head and began.

          "My client states in a preface that she does not want this record to go unsold without the buyer's full knowledge of its past history. Thus the terms of the agreement signed by you both. To begin,"--her voice grew crisper as she began to read--"in August of 2012, the original owner of this record, who was serving a prison sentence, became eligible for parole. Two days before--"

          "I assume you're referring to Lennon's assassin,” Andersen interrupted, grinning to reveal even white teeth, perfected by thousands of dollars of dental work. "Do you have a problem with his name?"

          "As you know, Mr. Andersen, one key condition of the sale is that the original owner never be mentioned by name. Do you wish me to continue?” Parker said, keeping her eyes on the document. Andersen grunted an assent and she continued.

          "Two days before he was to be released, he was found hung in his cell. The verdict was suicide.” Andersen had his own theory about that—he’d heard rumors that the warden was a devout Beatles fan and had had the investigation hushed up--but he remained silent. "His possessions were willed to his former girlfriend. Lacking money, she sold most of them privately, including this record.

          "The album was bought by Mr. Nathaniel Silverman at an undisclosed price in October of 2012. In January of the next year, Mr. Silverman also committed suicide. His motivation was unknown, but a note found by his bedside stated, 'The voices told me to do it.' His son and daughter-in-law then inherited the record.

          "Two months after they took possession, Mrs. Silverman fell to her death from the balcony of their eight-story apartment. Authorities were unable to determine whether it was accidental or suicide. Her husband immediately negotiated with Christie's and sold the album for an undisclosed amount, rumored to be at least three million. The buyer was Rex Stephens, the science-fiction writer from Wisconsin. About three weeks after he purchased the record--"

          "Don't tell me,” Andersen interrupted, holding up his hand and leaning forward. "He died in an accident. Or was it suicide?"

          "It was murder, Mr. Andersen. He was gunned down by a deranged fan.” Parker glanced up at Andersen, whom she regarded dispassionately. "As I told you, Mr. Andersen, I am required to give you this information by my client."

          "Well, to me it sounds like a bunch of horseshit.” Andersen had had enough of this arrogant girl and her client's idea of comic-book horror. "Are you trying to tell me that this record is cursed or something? Because if you are, let me tell you this.” He waved around the office. "See this? It's nice, but is it the kind of place you'd expect from a multimillionaire? Hell, no. Plain wood paneling, no carpet on the floor, ordinary desk and chairs. No wet bar, no fabulous view, none of that stuff. Check out my suit: it's off the rack at J.C. Penney's. I don't care about fashion. I'm only interested in spending my money on one thing, Ms. Parker, and that's investments. And collectibles like this are an excellent investment--nothing more or less."

          "Are you aware that Ms. Ono has sued for return of this record, Mr. Andersen?"

          He barked a laugh. "That witch is almost eighty and has maybe a year left to live, and I've got enough money to outlast even her son in court. I'm not worried about keeping a find like this, no matter how much nonsense you try to scare me with.” He waited for a response, but she merely sat there and regarded him with that same cold stare. "All right,” he muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Finish your horror tales so I can get home."

          "Thank you, Mr. Andersen; I'm almost done. As I was saying, Mr. Stephens's oldest daughter inherited the record and immediately placed it up for sale once more--as you know. Ms. Stephens is my client."

          "And what happened to her husband or children? No terrible disasters or tragic deaths?”

          "Ms. Stephens did not give me that information. I can tell you that she appeared extremely uneasy when she hired my firm as her representative. When she delivered the album to me yesterday, she implored me to be careful. I told her that I would certainly take care with such a valuable item. She replied that she didn't care about the record, but about my personal safety."

          "Yes, of course. You seem fine to me.” Andersen drummed his fingers on his desk. "Are you through?"

          "Yes.” Parker returned the papers to her briefcase and rose, smoothing her hair back from her eyes and giving Andersen another cold glance. "Enjoy your investment, Mr. Andersen, and thank you for your time."

          "The pleasure's been all mine.” Andersen buzzed the secretary to show Ms. Parker out, banishing her from his thoughts as he gazed upon his newest find. He snorted in derision at the idea of its being "cursed". Just a story to fuel the bidding wars.

*********

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