The Impersonator Read Online Free PDF Page B

public will remember. Years ago, when I was in the Kid Kabaret with Eddie Cantor, he told me his real name was Israel Iskowitz. Who’s going to remember that, let alone spell it? I could give you dozens of examples like that.”
    No need. Oliver was all business at hand.
    “What made you change your mind?”
    It was a question I had wrestled with during the past few days as I lay in bed. Why had I changed my mind? The easy answer, of course, was that I had been sick, scared, and desperate enough to snatch at any way out. In my fevered state, Oliver Beckett’s card in my coat pocket represented the solution to all my troubles. Penniless and alone, I had few options. And yet … it wasn’t that simple.
    My mother would have disapproved. Well, you’re not sick anymore, I could hear her say. I’m still very weak, I protested. So wait a few days and then tell him you can’t go through with it. But I can’t find work. You can sell tickets at a box office in Cleveland until a suitable act passes through. I’m not good enough. Anything I got would be Small Time or “death trail.” Nonsense, you’ve more talent than that. I’m just trying the part on for size. I can always back out. It’s dishonest. No more than most. We’re not cutting the family off, you know, just spreading the wealth a bit further. It’s really no different than what those spiritualists do, taking money from people who can afford it and making them happy by contacting their lost loved one. No harm done. It’s dangerous. No one will get hurt.
    Mother came to me every night in my dreams, but I wouldn’t listen to her. Vaudeville had beaten me down and humiliated me beyond recovery. I couldn’t go back for another punch in the face. I wasn’t as talented as Mother thought. As I myself had once thought. And I had found work, I argued. I had taken a role in Oliver Beckett’s production of She Stoops to Con, and if I played the part well, I had a shot at real money, a comfortable life, and something else. Something money couldn’t buy. Suppose they were happy to see me? Suppose I really could take Jessie’s place in Jessie’s family?
    And then there was that feeling I could not quite put into words, even to Mother. The sense that this was what Jessie wanted. From the moment I saw her photograph, I had liked her, and I suspected she liked me. We had something in common, Jessie and I, something more than just our looks, as remarkable as that resemblance was. Something beyond our shared status as orphans. But what? I was no threat to her, and she knew it. If she were still alive and returned home, I’d exit stage left faster than you could say “Jack Robinson.” If she were dead … but she felt too alive to be dead.
    To be sure, masquerading as an heiress would be tricky. I’d been impersonating people all my life, but this was a tougher gig than any I’d ever had, being on stage every waking minute. The challenge roused me from the melancholy that had held me down for weeks. I could do this. I could do it well.
    I looked at Oliver. I had anticipated his question. Still, I cocked my head to one side and paused so my reply would not sound rehearsed.
    “Jock and Francine decided to shrink the act to genuine Darlings. I had a lot of offers—good ones—but, to be honest, nothing appealed. In twenty-five years of vaudeville, I’ve played every part the circuit has to offer. I want to see what it’s like to live somewhere for longer than a week. I want to wear clothes that aren’t costumes and makeup that isn’t greasepaint. I want to see the Leaning Tower of Pisa and the Eiffel Tower before I die. I want some money.”
    “You realize you are going to have to work hard?”
    “I’ve always worked hard, Mr. Beckett,” I said in a tone that would freeze water.
    “And it involves a good deal of risk. More for me than you.”
    He was right about that. In a pinch, I could disappear into anonymity with little lost, since I came into this