THE DOLL: Alternate Ending

           I left the States and settled down in a modest apartment in Venice. The old place looked over the polluted waters where the water taxis parked when they were out of service. I liked it, although it required me to leave almost everything I’d had behind. I couldn’t say I missed any of it. I rather liked the misery.

            The news of Crawford’s company’s collapse came almost two years later. The article was tucked away in a single paragraph in the international section of the local paper. Crawford had died unexpectedly, according to the company spokesman. The cause was undisclosed in all the sources I referenced. There was no mention of the fate of the company’s assets.

            I had a momentary urge to find Pete and perhaps have him investigate the real reason why Crawford’s company folded and what had happened to the Dolls. Instead I found myself opening a beer, lighting up a cigarette and looking out at the tethered water taxis swaying in the water below.

            There was no point in my knowing.

            The letter came four months later. The small cream-colored envelope held a matching note card that had been folded in half. The note disclosed an address that I did not know except that it was near where Crawford’s corporate office had been. Fourteen Hundred  was printed below. There was no return address on the envelope. The New York City postmark meant nothing to me.

            I left the letter on the kitchen counter for nearly a month. I looked at it and re-read the address every few days, then replaced it on the counter. I thought of looking up the address on the internet, but somehow, the motivation was fleeting.

            Winter arrived. Tourists still came, but in thinner droves. There were more water taxis gathered at the dock below. Most of the locals had retreated to the mainland. The city was lonelier, and usually I liked it that way. However, I came to realize that I didn’t want to be there. I wanted to go home.

            I packed what I could into a carry-on. As I left, I snatched the envelope from the kitchen counter and shoved it into my pocket. It was probably nothing, but old habits die hard. I was suddenly besieged by curiosity to know the contents of the letter.

            The address was a small sidewalk café that was across the street from the corporate building where I had received the assignment to recover Kai. But I did not go there first. I stood on the steps of the high-rise and stared up at it. I walked up to read the ample directory that was made from white plastic lettering and locked in a clear cabinet.  

Crawford’s building had been bought out by a medical research group that I had never heard of. It would not be a far fetched theory that the Dolls had somehow become part of the research.

Briefly I wondered about the fate of Alexi and what his functions had been relegated to in a medical field.  Perhaps he would be made to wear sexy doctor outfit with a stethoscope wrapped around his neck and nothing else.  He’ll be rented out to rich old, bed ridden men and occasionally offered sponge baths.  I smiled inwardly at my absurd imagination and I might have snickered at it, if I weren’t out in public.

            I was still scanning the long directory listing, looking for a familiar name, when a security guard shuffled up to me and asked if I needed help. A balding old guy whose bulk was straining against the uniform that was two sizes too small.

            “Not been here in years,” I said. “Just looking to see what’s changed.”

            “No one from that group is here,” he said.

            “Do you know what happened to the previous tenant?”

            He shrugged.

            "The crazy old man burnt through his money for some insane, super secret shit.  He even sold whatever was left of his company to these folks."

            "No one knew what it was he spent the money on?"

            "Nah.  Whatever it was probably didn't even work out," he said and then he leaned in closer so he could drop his voice.  "Ate his gun in the office right upstairs."

            "He committed suicide?" I asked. 

            “Yeah.  Anyway,” he said and cleared his throat. He thumbed toward the sidewalk. “Sorry buddy, unless you have business here, you can’t be standing here.”

            I didn’t feel up to asserting my right to loiter, so I told him to have a nice day and left. It was two-thirty three. Long past the two o’clock listed on the note card. I felt I needed to look at the café anyway. I didn’t want to come back later.

          That was when I saw him.  As I stood at the cross-walk, waiting for the light to turn. 

            He was sitting at one of the small tables outside, the only one to brave the cold, sipping hot coffee from a white ceramic cup and reading the newspaper. I didn’t wait for the pedestrian light to turn. I maneuvered through moving traffic, across the four-lane highway to where he was.

            When I stopped short of his table, he placed the cup back onto the saucer and laid the folded New York Times down next to it. He looked up and smiled brilliantly.

            “You are late,” he said.

            “I would have come sooner if I had known....”

            “I think it is more important that you did come, Vincent.”

            “I’m sorry,” I said, those two words the only way I could convey all of my regret.

            He took my hands into his--the warmth of them shocking.  Suddenly I realized I had forgotten what our last day was like.  The sensation of losing him.  The pain and the guilt of failing to protect the one thing I had come to understand that I adored.  My eyes misted then, stinging.  I felt stupid, as I stood there worrying about the tears that were about to come. 

            “Today is the first day of my life,” he said with a smile. “My name is Kai. Nice to meet you again, Mr. Vincent Lynch.”

Post Script

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