The Imposter Page 4

  "That's right," Burton said.

  Ryan waited for him to go on, to recite some of the lines he'd been given. When it became clear that the man had said all he was going to, Ryan jumped in. "It's like I said: Mr. Burton is the stage manager for Les M—I mean, ah, Oliver. They want to know if I can tour with them."

  "That's nice," his mother said, as if this sort of offer came along every day. "Mr. … Burton, is it? No relation to Richard Burton, I suppose." She laughed. Burton didn't.

  If Ryan had been a total stranger, meeting his mother for the first time, he might have gotten the impression that she was quite at ease. He might even have failed to notice that she'd been drinking. But Ryan had lived with her too long to be fooled by the calm, composed facade. He knew the amount of effort she was putting into this act of hers. Still, she was convincing. If her life had gone just a little differently, she might have been a decent actress.

  "Well, Mr. Burton, as you know, Ryan is only fourteen. Legally, he can work no more than four hours a day, and, if the show's still running in September, he's going to need a tutor."

  "Yeah, sure." Burton seemed to be making no effort at all to play his part convincingly. "That's all taken care of."

  "I suppose you've discussed salary already?"

  "Salary," Burton said. "Sure." End of message.

  Ryan had seen fellow actors floundering helplessly enough times to recognize the signs, and he had always prided himself on his skill at bailing them out. Off the top of his head, he said, "They're guaranteeing me eight weeks, at seven-fifty a week."

  His mother nodded, still outwardly calm, but Ryan saw eagerness in her eyes. "That sounds reasonable. What cities will you be playing?"

  Ryan didn't even wait for Burton this time. "Oh, you know, the usual. Montreal. Winnipeg. Vancouver." As he said this, he realized he hadn't the vaguest idea where he actually would be going. "Anyway, you don't need to worry, Mom. I'll keep in touch. I'll call you every couple of days, okay?"

  "Well … I suppose …"

  "Good, good," said Burton, with obvious relief. "It's all settled, then." He started to rise from the couch.

  "Aren't you forgetting something?" asked Ryan's mother.

  Burton froze in a sort of crouching position. "What's that?"

  "Why, the contract."

  Burton opened his mouth as if to answer, but nothing came out. "Oh, yeah," he said finally. "The contract."

  Ryan sighed. Burton was right; he was certainly no actor, not even a bad one. "Didn't they say they had to mail the contract from the home office?" he offered.

  "Right! That's right. They're going to mail it. You should have it in a couple of days." Whoa, Ryan thought; the guy ad-libbed a line.

  "I suppose that's all right, then," his mother said uncertainly.

  Ryan knew that in a day or two she would have forgotten all about the matter. He shook Burton's beefy hand. "Well. I guess I'll see you in the morning, then."

  Burton nodded and headed for the door. "Meet me in the lobby of the Royal York, about 8 am."

  His mother raised an eyebrow—the one not hidden by her hair. "The Royal York? My, you people travel in style, don't you?"

  Burton just shrugged and made his escape. The moment he was out the door, Ryan's mother collapsed into the chair like a sock puppet with the hand removed. "Oh, lord!" she gasped. "Never do that to me again!"

  "Hey, I'm sorry. It was important. Besides, you did fine."

  She laughed sharply, humorlessly. "That's easy for you to say. Where's my drink?"

  "I dumped it out."

  "You dumped it out? Do you know how much good whiskey costs?"

  "So? I'll be making plenty of money now."

  "Oh, yes, oodles. Eight weeks at seven-fifty a week, that's … what? Five thousand dollars? Woo-hoo."

  "Six thousand." He wanted to tell her the truth, that he'd be making more than double that, but there was no way he could change his story now. That was the trouble with inventing the truth—once you said it, you were locked into it.

  His mother sighed. "Well, at least it's a start. I'd drink a toast to your success—if you hadn't poured my drink down the drain."

  "That's okay. You've had enough for a while, anyway. It's only a little past one. I don't suppose you've had any lunch." She made a face, as if the very notion of eating was repugnant. Ignoring her, Ryan set about making some sandwiches with processed cheese and the last stale slices from a loaf of white bread.

  "Be a dear and get me some ibuprofen first." His mother stretched out wearily on the couch, as if she'd done a day's hard labor. "You know," she said, as he fetched the pills from the bathroom, "you really ought to think about changing your name."

  "Doing what?" said Ryan, thinking he hadn't heard her right.

  "The Ryan is fine, of course, but I don't like the sound of Waite. Waite. Waite. It sounds as if you ought to be waiting tables. There are enough actors doing that already. You need something with a bit more … class."

  "For instance?" He handed her the ibuprofen and a glass of water, and she downed them.

  "What about my maiden name—Griffin? Ryan Griffin. Rrrrryan Grrrrriffin. Yes, it has a definite ring to it. Besides, Waite reminds me of your father, the creep." Like the words organized and crime or serial and killer, the terms your father and the creep had long since become permanently linked.

  Ryan didn't want to get her started on one of her tirades, but he also didn't want to pass up an opportunity to find out something more about his father. "Come on; he wasn't really so bad, was he?"

  "Oh, no," she said sarcastically, almost venomously. "He only got us into a car wreck that destroyed my face—and my life. And then he didn't even have the decency to stick around and take care of me. Not to mention, you." She sighed again, as if the outburst had left her exhausted. "I think to call him a creep is being generous."

  "Why did you marry him, then?"

  She turned on her side and buried her face in the couch. "I don't remember anymore," she murmured. "It doesn't matter. Leave me alone."

  Ryan tried to think of something more to say to her, something that might keep her from sinking into her familiar stupor, but his usual skill at improvising failed him. An aspiring playwright had once shown him a computer program that guided you through the scriptwriting process, step by step. To Ryan, it had seemed rather silly. How hard could it be to come up with a plot and some characters, and give them some dialogue? What the world really needed was a program that would guide you through the process of real life, that would give you advice on what lines to say, what choices to make.

  Making sandwiches was a lot easier, especially when you had only a couple of ingredients. He turned his attention to that task. He was sure his mother had fallen asleep, but as he was scraping the pasty dregs from bottom of the mayonnaise jar, he heard her say, "Turn the tv back on. I'm missing my soaps."

  Chapter 7

  The longest Ryan had ever been away from home was a three-day gig, shooting an indie film on Georgina Island. It was hard to know what to pack for a two-week trip, especially when you had no idea where you were going. His mother was no help. If he counted on her to take care of such things, he wouldn't have much to pack. For the last two or three years, he'd been buying his own shirts and jeans, mostly at second-hand stores. Half the time, he was the one who took the clothes to the laundromat, too.

  She wasn't always so neglectful, of course. Every few months—it usually happened when there was a spell of really good weather—she pulled herself together and vowed to quit drinking so much and went on a cleaning rampage or a shopping spree or even a cookie-baking marathon. This was not one of those times. Ryan worried a little about how she'd manage without him.

  That evening, when he handed the rent over to Mrs. Bondi, the super's wife, he asked her to look in on his mother every couple of days to see if she needed anything. "And what if she wants me to buy liquor for her?" Mrs. Bondi asked.

  "She can't. I'm not leaving her any money." A
fter he had taken the rent out of their welfare check, he had spent what was left on groceries; as little as his mother ate, it would surely last her until he got back from … from wherever it was that Burton was taking him.

  The next morning, when he was ready to take off, his mother was still asleep on the couch. She had conked out in the middle of The Late Show and Ryan had draped a blanket over her.

  He wrote a note reminding her of the fact (well, fiction, actually) that he would be on tour, and he stuck it up where she couldn't possibly miss it—on the screen of the tv. Then he approached the couch and, bending over, he pulled back her disheveled hair and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. Her skin felt cool, almost lifeless. For a moment, he stood watching her, making sure she was breathing. With her features relaxed in sleep and the scarred side of her face buried in the throw pillow, she looked like someone else altogether—someone younger, someone less bitter.

  Ryan smoothed out the blanket and pulled it up under her chin. Then, hefting his scuffed and faded vinyl suitcase, he slipped out into the hall and pulled the door softly shut behind him.

  He had passed the Royal York Hotel a hundred times; once a producer had even taken him to lunch in the elegant dining room. It didn't strike him as the sort of place where a man like Burton would live—or could afford to live, for that matter. It was all brass and polished oak and uniformed bellboys.

  But when he walked into the lobby, Burton was waiting, looking totally out of place in a rumpled army field jacket. Beside him on the marble floor sat a worn green duffel bag with Burton's name and service number stenciled on it.

  Ryan had worn the nerdiest clothes he owned—a pair of polyester slacks donated by a neighbor and a plaid flannel shirt buttoned at the neck. Burton looked him over and nodded. "Glasses would have been a nice touch, but never mind. You got a wallet?"

  "Sure." Ryan produced it, wondering if there was some special sort of wallet peculiar to nerds.

  Burton rummaged through it and removed Ryan's Social Insurance card, his Actor's Equity card, and a couple of photos. "These have got to go."

  Ryan gave his forehead a dope slap. "Of course. What was I thinking?" He pried open the mangled clasps of the suitcase. There were several rips in the fabric lining, and he stuffed the incriminating documents through one of them, into the space between the lining and the wall of the suitcase.

  Burton handed him two new items. One was a Social Insurance card with his alias on it—Allen Kurz. It was the first time any mention had been made of his new last name. Ryan tried the words on his tongue, as if tasting them. "Allen Kurrs. Sounds like a nerd, all right."

  "Kurts," Burton corrected him. "It rhymes with hurts. That's the way his old man pronounces it."

  "Okay, Kurts. It's still nerdy." The other item was a photograph of an attractive woman, probably in her early forties, smiling to reveal a set of perfect teeth befitting a dental hygienist. "My mother?" he asked. When Burton nodded, Ryan said, "Is she … you know?"

  "Dead? Yeah."

  "Bummer. Where'd you get the picture?"

  "From the dentist she worked for. Don't ask about the Social Insurance card."

  "I wasn't going to." He tucked the items in his wallet. "You really think all this is necessary? I mean, he's not going to go through my pockets or anything, is he?"

  "It pays to be on the safe side. Besides, I heard that really good actors want everything to fit the character they're doing, down to the smallest detail."

  "Well, yes, that's true." Ryan knew actors who, if they were doing a historical piece, insisted on having authentic period underwear. Personally, he had never been that obsessive. He surveyed the Royal York's huge, ornate lobby. "Speaking of being in character, I wouldn't have thought this was your sort of place."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't you live here?"

  Burton gave a hoarse laugh that threatened to turn into a cough. "Here? On what a private investigator makes? You've got to be joking." He dug one of his butterscotch candies from the pocket of his field jacket and unwrapped it.

  "Hey, forty thousand big ones sounds like pretty good wages to me."

  "Right. Except it's only twenty-seven thousand, thanks to you. Anyway, a case like this comes along once in a blue moon. Most of the jobs I do, I barely break even. Half the time, the client doesn't even want to pay up."

  "That stinks."

  Burton shrugged his hefty shoulders. "Yeah, well, there are ways of collecting, you know …"

  Ryan didn't ask what they were. He considered asking Burton where they were headed, but the man didn't look like he was in the best of moods. Maybe he wasn't used to getting up this early.

  The reason they'd met at the Royal York, it turned out, was in order to catch a shuttle bus to the airport. The bus was crowded; Ryan sat jammed in next to Burton, who took up more than his share of the space. Each time the man reached into his pocket for one of his candies, Ryan had to go into contortions to make enough room.

  They sat in silence most of the way. Ryan tried once to start a little small talk, with very limited success. "So, judging from the field jacket and the duffel bag, I'm guessing you spent some time in the army."

  "Three years."

  "Infantry?"

  "Military police."

  "Why didn't you stay in? I'll bet it pays better than being a private eye—investigator."

  Burton gave him a glance that nearly qualified as a glare. "You ask a lot of questions."

  "Sorry."

  Burton popped another candy. After a minute, he said, "The army has a lot of rules. I don't like rules." There was another long stretch of silence. Then, without any prompting from Ryan, Burton spoke again. "You play chess?"

  "Me?"

  "Who else would I be talking to?"

  "Well, I thought maybe you meant … you know, Allen."

  "I told you: starting now, you are Allen."

  "Right. Yeah, I do. A little. I mean, I know the moves. That's about it. Why? You think he'll want me to play?"

  "It pays to be on the safe side, that's all."

  "You keep saying that. Why didn't you bring it up sooner? I could have been practicing."

  Burton didn't answer. Ryan felt his stomach start to flutter again. He'd assumed this job was going to be a piece of cake. Now he was beginning to have doubts.

  At the Air Canada service counter, Burton told the clerk, "You have two tickets for Burton."

  "To Halifax? Yes, sir, Mr. Burton."

  So, at last their destination was revealed. Ryan had been hoping for somewhere a little more exciting. At least it was on the ocean, and he'd never seen the ocean.

  The clerk ran Burton's credit card through a gizmo next to the phone and waited, smiling a phony smile at them, until the machine told her something. She frowned slightly. "There seems to be a problem. According to this, you've exceeded your credit limit."

  Burton scowled and, muttering under his breath, leaned over the counter to glare at the machine as if trying to intimidate it. "Okay. Okay. Let me think a minute." He turned to Ryan. "Go get yourself a drink or something."

  "I'm okay," Ryan replied.

  "Go get a drink," Burton repeated, in a tone that was somewhere on the far side of firm.

  Ryan winced. "Tell you what. Why don't I go get a drink."

  As he sat in the food court sipping his tea—he'd given up soft drinks because they made you belch onstage—Burton approached him. "You stay there," the man said.

  "Did you get the tickets?"

  "Yes. Stay there."

  "I'm staying, I'm staying."

  When the investigator returned, he was carrying a small package, which he thrust into Ryan's hands. "Here."

  Ryan opened the bag. Inside was a miniature travel chess set; the pieces had pegs on the bottom that fit into holes on the tiny board. "Thanks."

  "Don't thank me. It goes on the expense account; your old man's paying for it."

  They still had an hour to kill before their flig
ht. Burton took the opportunity to put away a couple of hamburgers and a large order of fries. Ryan spent the time trying and failing to beat the automated chess set. Well, it was designed by chess Grandmaster Garry Kasparov; what chance did Ryan stand against him?

  The flight to Halifax gave him plenty of time to challenge Garry Kasparov again … and lose again. There was also plenty of time to ask some of the questions that were crowding his mind. When he asked about Mr. Kurz, he got even less information than his mom gave him about his real dad. For a private investigator, Burton certainly wasn't very well informed. "Hey, the guy never talked about himself," Burton growled. "He just told me about Allen."

  As they filed off the plane and into the terminal, Ryan said, "Where do we go now?" But before he had all the words out, they were approached by a trim middle-aged man wearing sunglasses, khaki pants, and a polo shirt.

  "Mr. Burton?" the man said.

  Burton gave his trademark curt nod. "Yeah."

  The man seized his hand and pumped it energetically—or as energetically as the lethargic Burton would let him. "I'm Ken Kurz." Then he grasped Ryan's hand so tightly that it hurt. Slowly, he removed the sunglasses, looked Ryan up and down, and nodded several times, as if the boy looked just the way he'd expected. He seemed to be having trouble with his voice. He cleared his throat and said, "You … you're practically grown up."

  "I'm sixteen," Ryan replied, remembering to sound nerdy. "Technically, I won't be grown up for five more years."

  "I'd have known you anywhere, though."

  Ryan wished he could say the same. He had no clue who this guy was. He'd said his name was Kurz, but there was no way he could be Allen's father. According to Burton, the Mr. Kurz was getting on in years and had a bad heart. This man had a little gray at the temples, but he couldn't be much over forty, and he was obviously in good shape. An uncle, maybe?

  Ryan sneaked a glance at Burton, as he might look to a prompter for his line. But Burton was paying no attention; he was too busy unwrapping one of his stupid butterscotch candies. As usual, it was up to Ryan to salvage the situation. He sniffed nerdily. "I suppose you must be one of my relatives."