BAD TWIN - CHAPTER 1

Excerpted from BAD TWIN by Gary Troup. Copyright © 2006 Gary Troup. All rights reserved. Available wherever books are sold. 1    On the Jersey side of the river, he found his way past shopping malls and town-home developments to the Palisade Pines Golf and Tennis Club. The club was miles from the Palisades and Artisan did not see any pines. Then again, there hadn’t been any towns where the town-homes were. What there were, on this weekday morning in the parking lot of this midlevel suburban club, were a lot of Acura and Lexus SUVs, the usual sprinkling of BMWs and Benzes. Retired men in unforgivable trousers bent painfully to retrieve their golf clubs from their trunks. Knots of chattering ladies adjusted their visors so as not to squash their beauty parlor hairdos. Artisan slung his unnaturally heavy tennis bag over his shoulder and headed for the door.    Inside, a chipper desk clerk wished him a good morning, tentatively reached a towel in his direction, then asked if he was a member.    The simple question allowed Artisan to do one of the things he was very good at, namely, gain admission to places where technically speaking he did not belong. The scary part was how easy this usually was. In recent years, people had gotten crazy about security, but security tended to be yet another fraud, at best a comforting illusion. Put a bouncer at the door. Give him a stun gun and a walkie-talkie. So what? Even locked doors had to open now and then. There were plenty of ways to get past the velvet rope. Bribes still worked, though they were crass and seldom necessary. Usually all it took were a few magic words suited to the particular occasion and said in a calm, unthreatening manner.    For example, Artisan now confessed that he was not a member. Then he said, “I’m new to the area. Still seeing what’s available. I’ve booked an eleven o’clock lesson with Ryan.”    New to the area was a magic phrase. It conjured images of initiation fees, a nice commission for the membership rep, a few bucks for the clerk who’d made first contact. Booked a lesson was a magic phrase. It meant some poor bastard of a teaching pro would make seventy-five bucks on a Tuesday morning when things were generally dead.    “Ah. Welcome!” said the clerk, and extended the towel. “If you don’t mind, there’s this liability form—”    “No problem.” Artisan knew from liability. He filled out the form, even signed his real name.    The clerk stuck the paper in a drawer and looked at a clock behind him. “It’s only ten thirty. Would you like to have someone from Member Services show you—” click to continue