Page 3 of Twice
“So?”
“I’ll need it.”
LaPorta thought for a moment.
“Stay put.”
He rose and, locking the door behind him, went to his office and retrieved a faded leather satchel. He returned and handed it to the man, who reached inside and pulled out a composition notebook with a black marble cover. On the label were nine handwritten words:For the Boss, To Be Read Upon My Death.
He pushed it across the table.
“What?” LaPorta said. “I should read this?”
“Only if you want answers.”
The detective leafed through the handwritten pages.
“What is it?” he mumbled.
The man almost smiled.
“A love story,” he said.
The Composition Book
Dear Boss,
So how do I begin? That I’m dying? I suspect you know that by now. The other day you came into the beach house and found me on the floor by the laundry basket with my left leg splayed out and my head on my elbow and you said, “Alfie, what are you doing?” and I said, “I’m looking for ants.” You smiled but I could see in your eyes a genuine concern, and as you helped me to my feet there was a gentleness in your touch, the way your arm hooked under mine, the way your fingers spread against my back. If I didn’t know better, I might call it a loving embrace. But I do know better. It’s knowing better that leads me to this confession.
I’m not afraid of dying, Boss. I know you tell me not to call you “Boss,” but hey, you pay my salary, and I guess I’m old-fashioned. Anyhow, I’m not afraid. I’ve skirted death many times. That may sound exaggerated. It’s not.
In my long life—and it’s been far longer than anyone knows—I have leapt off a mountain in Spain, dived into a pool of sharks in Australia, stood in front of an oncoming train in China, even taken a bullet during a Mexican bank robbery.
I did most of these things to see what it was like, to feel the breath of God or the devil or whatever awaits me when this life is over. It wasn’t courage. Iknew I would survive. The reason I knew will be difficult to believe, Boss, but please try, because I’ve been waiting a long time to tell you.
All right. Here goes.
I get to do things twice.
I mean it. I get a second chance at everything. Do-overs. Rollbacks. Whatever you want to call them. It’s a gift. A power. There’s no explanation. But while everyone in the world must suffer the consequences of their actions, I can undo mine and try again. Not endless chances, mind you. I can’t keep messing up and wiping the slate clean. Can’t take the same test a hundred times.
Twice. I get two shots at everything. The thing is, I have to live with my second try. There’s no going back. Over the years, I have found this to be the price that I pay for this gift.
And the price I have paid in love.
I’ve had one great love in my life, Boss. One woman in whose eyes I found the better version of myself. But I made a grave mistake, one I couldnotgo back and fix. It’s a cruel trick to have two chances at your heart’s desire. It can make—
Nassau
LaPorta stopped reading and looked up from the notebook.
“You’re screwing with me, right?”
“I’m sorry?”
“You want me to believe you can go back in time and correct things?”
“If I choose to, yes.”
