Life Swap

“They finally got him,” I smiled as my eyes scanned the newspaper. My husband, Ralph, groaned. “I would think that you of all people would be thrilled that John Dillinger was killed. That bastard has done nothing but cause us problems. A real menace to decent society,” 

Ralph’s lips formed a tight line and his brows furrowed. “Thelma, darling, talking ill of the dead is not very nice. We need to set a positive example for the children.” 

In an exaggerated manner, I looked around the kitchen and into our living room. “I don’t see any children around, do you?”

He opened his mouth but closed it abruptly. It was an argument we’d had multiple times, and one that he was never able to win. Because of the way he looked, having a stable life was out of the question. Let alone trying to rear children. Finally, he sighed: “Do we have to do this so early in the morning?” 

“We didn’t have to until you tried to control me. Tried to tell me how to feel about that man being killed. Until you tried to defend the bastard who wrecked our lives,” I threw the newspaper at him. Ralph closed his eyes and sucked in a deep breath. There was no way I was letting him get a word in, my tirade was far from over. “You, of all people, should be happy that the feds got him.” I jabbed my finger at him, letting the anger fuel me.  “It means no more moving around, it means no more needing to borrow money from our families to survive because you can actually work now. You won’t be arrested for looking like him anymore.”

“It wasn’t that bad. And law enforcement always apologized once they realized their mistake.” 

“Let me see if the mortgage company will accept apologies as payment,” I snapped. Ralph stared at me, his gray eyes boring into me. It unsettled me. “Don’t give me that look.” 

“You’re acting like a self-righteous bitch,” he snarled, lip curling at the end. “If the police hadn’t been looking for him, if they had just let him go, you would have talked about how inept they are. But now you’re mad that they did look for him…” 

I tilted my head and tried to keep my voice as measured as I could, “it’s funny, you call me a bitch but have you looked in the mirror? Every time you were arrested, every time they took you downtown for your appearance, you wished Johnathan Dillinger dead. At one point, you even said that you would do it yourself. Do I need to remind you about going and buying a gun, using our grocery money, to do it?” 

Ralph slammed his hands down on the table, shaking everything on it. “What is your issue today? The man is dead? Do we need to celebrate it? I would think that some decorum would be nice here, we don’t need to speak ill of the dead.” 

“You want me to say something nice? He’s dead, good.” 

Ralph snatched his wallet from the table, stuffed it in his pocket, and headed towards the door. His face tomato red, he sneered, “I don’t know when you lost your humanity, but I pray one day you get it back.” 

“And I pray one day you grow a pair of balls,” he opened the door before he stepped out, I yelled, “where do you think you’re going?” 

“I’m going to get a beer or five. Maybe something stronger,” he answered. I threw a glass at him, but he ducked out of the way, it fell to the floor limply.  “I can’t deal with you right now. You’re not the woman that I married. Hell, I don’t know that I want to stay with you.” 

“Don’t come back,” then I stopped and thought about it.  “If you go get drunk, you can stay gone until you sober up and can act right. I swear, if you come home, I will call the cops and have you arrested for real.” 

A cold breeze filled the space between us. Ralph closed the door, with him on the other side. 

The cold disappeared quickly after Ralph’s exit. I walked to the kitchen and poured myself a large tumbler of brandy. Every time we had an argument about John Dillinger, it ended with both of us drunk. And then we’d make up, starting the cycle all over again.

After I poured more brandy, I screamed into the house. This song and dance with Ralph was getting old. Maybe it was time to stop it altogether. That thought brought a smile to my face. He’d bought a gun, as I threw in his face, a long time ago to kill his look alike, perhaps instead I could kill him. 

I went to the gun cabinet and picked up the piece. It was heavy in my hands., I struck a pose with it, like the one cops used in the talking pictures. My finger wrapped around the trigger, squeezing it just hard enough to move but not enough to actual shoot. This was a game I’d been playing a lot lately. Imagining if I shot and killed Ralph. 

A knock on the door brought me out of my fantasy. I glanced at the clock, whoever it was decided that ten in the morning was a good time to make a house call. Of course, I’d decided that having two tumblers of brandy was appropriate this early, so maybe I wasn’t the right person to make judgement calls. 

When the door swung open, I saw the new neighbor standing there. His name escaped me, so I decided to give him whatever moniker that came to my mind first. “Jackson, now is not a good time.”

“My name is Scott,” he shot me a puzzled look. “I saw that your husband left.” 

Oh my god, was he hitting on me. It wasn’t that he wasn’t attractive, he certainly was, but I’d had pretty boys before. They were so much maintenance. Still, when was the last time that Ralph made my eyes roll back into my head? Never. A little roll in the hay never hurt anyone.  

“Come on in,” I purred. Once we were both inside, “I haven’t had time to freshen up. Maybe we can shower together.”“What?”

“What?” 

“I don’t mean to be indelicate, but have you been drinking?” Scott asked. 

“It’s five o’clock somewhere,” I shot back at him. “So, if you don’t want to have an affair, why did you come over?” 

“I wanted to talk to you about your husband,” he said, then looked back at the door. “Will he be coming home any time soon?” 

“No. He’ll get drunk and hit on some poor waitress who will agree to let him flop around on her for a few minutes, then pretend like nothing ever happened,” I noted the look he gave me. “When you’ve been married as long as I have, you don’t worry about who your husband puts in, just that she doesn’t end up being a psycho bitch,” I laughed to myself. “That role is mine.” 

Scott shook his head and seemed to be thinking about something. “I have something to tell you, but maybe this isn’t the best time to do it.” 

“Well, you didn’t walk across the street to talk to a horny housewife out of wanting to go to bed with you,” I noted. Then went over and poured myself some more brandy. I held the bottle up for him. “Want some?” 

“That’s a double no from me,” he said. “While you are beautiful, I can’t in good conscience take advantage of you when you’re drunk. And um, I prefer to do my drinking at night. Usually with a group of friends.” 

I shrugged, “suit yourself.” 

“Mrs. Alsman,” he stopped, “Thelma. I don’t know if you know, but I work with the Bureau of Investigation as a law enforcement agent.” 

“And I work at the Pit Stop as a stripper.” 

He pulled out his wallet and produced a badge, handing it to me. The weight of it took me by surprise. Once I handed it back to him, he said: “Are you ready for the rest of what I need to tell you?” 

“It cannot possibly be more shocking than you being a cop,” I said as I took a large gulp from my cup. “Law enforcement in this area is lacking. And dumb. Do you know how many times they have arrested Ralph for looking like John Dillinger?” 

“About that,” Scott said, then walked over to the brandy and helped himself to a drink. Why do men turn down a drink then take one after? It’s irritating. “We have reason to believe that Ralph Alsman, your husband, was actually killed in the shootout at the Biograph Theatre.”

“No, that was John Dillinger. It had to have been him.” The words were just as much for me as for my guest. 

“There is reason to suspect that it wasn’t Dillinger,” Scott said slowly. “We think that he tricked your husband to go to the theatre and then gave us a tip that’s where he would be.” 

The floor fell out from under me, as the world began to spin around me. “You aren’t serious. I’ve been sharing a bed with a mad man? A criminal? And I didn’t even get to enjoy it?” 

“You don’t seem too upset about your husband being dead,” Scott said, watching me carefully. He took a deep breath, “certainly you noticed something was off.” 

“No, nothing seemed to be odd. Ralph, err, John acted like a lunatic, and we had the same fight about things that we always did,” I shrugged. “The only weird thing is that he never tried anything with me. But then Ralph was never one to require sex. I’m not certain that he was into women,” the admission deflated me. It was the first time I spoke the words out loud, the ones that I had felt since the day I met him, “or maybe it was just me that he didn’t like. And now the bastard is dead. Dead. In his place, I’ve been living with America’s most wanted criminal."

Once the initial shock wore off, with the help of some more brandy, Scott and I sat down to have lunch. He offered to take me to a local diner, but with the conversations that needed to be had, I decided to make chicken salad sandwiches paired with vodka and tonic, like a lady. My momma taught me how to entertain. Though, she failed to mention how one hosted a cop that told you that your husband was dead, and a world-renowned criminal took his place. Maybe in the next Ms. Manners book. 

“We need your help to bring John Dillinger to justice,” Scott said as he took another bite of his sandwich. “We can’t force you to do anything, but your help would be most appreciated.” 

Without missing a beat, “I can kill him.” After a pause, and watching his mouth fall open and the chewed contents fall out, I continued, “as long as I can be assured that I will not be prosecuted for it. Orange is not my color."

Scott used a napkin and cleaned up the mess he made. Once he was satisfied, he fulfilled social niceties, he spoke: “It’s kind of you to offer to commit murder, but I don’t think murder will be necessary. All I need you to do is get him to confess that he’s Dillinger and hand the evidence over to us.” 

“Can you kill a dead man twice?” I asked, ignoring what Scott said. “If I did go to trial, I could argue that Dillinger was already declared dead, if someone is already dead, they can’t be killed again.” 

Scott let out a long breath. After taking a drink from his cup, “again, we don’t need him dead. That would not be conducive to what we want to do. We intend to nail Dillinger and send him to a maximum security prison for the rest of his natural life.” 

“And I don’t want his natural life to go on much longer,” I shot back. My cup was empty, so I began making another cocktail. “How would you feel if someone got your spouse killed and then took her place?” 

“I’m single,” Scott answered, then took another drink from his cup. Once he emptied it, I made him another cocktail. “But I don’t envy the position that you’re in. I don’t know how it would feel to learn that someone tried to steal my partner’s identity. It has to be a lot to take in.” 

For a long while, I sat in silence. There was no way to describe how I felt, how things had gotten to the point it had. Ralph and I were never a happy couple, not by society’s standards at least. His proposal was less than romantic. Calling it business-like would be a step up from what it actually was, something we did because there was nothing else to do. 

Still, I loved him. Maybe not loved, but I didn’t mind his presence. Most of the time. 

But this man took my husband’s life. He pretended to be my husband. And for some reason, the American government would rather pay for him to be imprisoned rather than let me take him out. The gun I played with earlier sat on the kitchen counter, almost begging to be fired. To put a bullet into that man’s heart. Or the vicinity where a heart is supposed to be. 

“How do you propose we take this bastard down, if not with a bullet?” 

As if he were the new incarnation of Bloody Mary, John Dillinger opened the door to the house and walked in. He surveyed Scott and me, “well, if my wife wasn’t a disappointment enough, she’s brought over some other man to take her to bed.”

“I came over because I heard you guys yelling earlier,” Scott said, sizing up the other man. “You’re Ralph, right? Thelma, here, was telling me all about you.”

“Was that before or after you guys went to bed?” 

“I don’t even have sex with you,” I shot at the man pretending to be my husband. It would be so much easier if I could just tell him that I knew he wasn’t Ralph. “Why would I have sex with this guy?”

“Well, you did offer,” Scott shot me a look. It seemed that he had a plan. "But I’m too much of a gentleman to take an intoxicated lady to bed.” 

“The last time my husband was able to call himself a gentleman,” I said, my eyes focused on the look-alike pretending to be my husband, “he was in the womb. Maybe not even then.”

John sighed, then looked at Scott. “If you don’t mind, I need to get my drunkard of a wife into the shower and sober her up, so that she can make me some lunch. It’s the least she can do after she made a fool of me.” 

“I do mind,” Scott answered, staring at him. “I don’t like the way you’re talking to her or how you’re acting. Maybe I should take you down to the station. Let you sober up a bit.  I think that would be the best thing for both of you.”

“Take me down to the station?” He went pale. After a deep breath, he looked at the neighbor, “I doubt that’ll be necessary. You are in my home and have no reason to take me in.” 

“You’re drunk, verbally assaulting the lady and threatening an officer of the law,” Scott informed him. “So, do you want to go down to the station with me, or should I call my buddies in to help?”

John didn’t answer, he turned and ran out of the door.  

I threw my hands up in the air, “you let him go? We could have ended this nightmare, and you just let him run?” 

“Mrs. Alsman,” he paused then corrected himself, “Thelma. Technically, there was nothing we could hold him on. It’s not a crime to be drunk or belligerent with your spouse. Even threatening an officer, while a crime, an argument could be made that I was in his home.” 

“So, once again, John Dillinger gets to do whatever the hell he wants and the rest of us have to just suffer?” I asked, my eye back on the gun. It wouldn’t take much for me to pull the trigger, just a healthy dose of courage. Or a lot of anger. I had the latter in spades.

“Stop thinking about killing him,” Scott scolded me. “As tempting as it might be, it’s not the right way to take care of this situation. I can devise a plan to help you, help all of us bring him to justice,” then he added as if he continued to read my mind, “and we can do it legally.” 

“Doing things the legal way doesn’t seem to work, does it?” I shot back. Maybe my frustration would have been better directed at the man pretending to be my husband, but Scott was the one sitting in front of me telling me to let it go. “We have a plan, you just need to trust us,” then he added, “and help us. With your help, we can bring this to an end sooner rather than later.” 

Trust the government? Ha. They sold the story to the press that Dillinger was dead, only to come to me a week later and tell me that he was actually alive and pretending to be my husband. On top of that, my husband was the actual victim of their murder. “You already know what my plan is, it’s the best of both worlds.”   

“Murder is not the answer,” Scott muttered. Though, he apparently forgot that the whole thing kicked off with someone being killed. “All we need you to do is get him to confess to being Dillinger. We can do the rest.”

Did I want to help the “man?” I wasn’t anti-government, but that didn’t mean that I was cheering for Uncle Sam to  railroad the little guy, either. Then it hit me that the person they wanted to take down was the man who made my life a living hell for years, not that I needed the reminder, but it slipped my mind when I learned of his new diabolical scheme. “We are not doing this at my house. It’s bad enough that I have to burn it down once this is all over.”

“Arson is illegal,” Scott noted. 

“So is killing the wrong man and then launching a massive cover-up. I can look the other way, if you can.” 

The plan was for me to track John down and cause a scene at whatever bar he was at, but I thought that was stupid. Too many other people would be there and he was not a dumb man, he would never confess in front of a bunch of people. I decided to lure him out to an alleyway and force him to confess. Scott objected, but soon saw things my way. 

So, packing heat, I made my way to the most popular watering hole in the downtown area. The police were being alerted to keep an eye out for us, they were instructed to listen in as we talked. Not the first time I’d been eavesdropped on, but usually, it was a romantic rival and not the government doing it. Such is life. 

A glance around the bar told me that John wasn’t there. If he had been there, he was long gone. As I turned to leave, one of Ralph’s buddies was sitting at a table for two, but he was by himself. I walked over. “Mind if I join you for a second?” 

“Your husband just left,” George said as he finished off the contents of the beer mug. “And of course he left me with the tab. Jackass. You know I have half a mind…” 

“Don’t flatter yourself, George,” I shot. There was no love lost between the two of us. Mostly because he made a pass at me and I told his ex-wife. He was still paying to be free from her wrath. That reminded me, I needed to call her once this whole thing was over. “You haven’t had half a mind since you were on the baseball field.” 

“I guess we’re even, since you haven’t been sober since you were 16.” 

“A woman needs to be drunk to talk to you,” I answered. Then took a deep breath, “but I have to go berate John,” my eyes closed and mentally I yelled at myself for the slip up. “Ralph. I must speak with my husband.”

Before he could say anything, I stood up and practically ran out of the door. Only practically because I’m a lady and ladies do not run. They pack heat and shoot men who pretend to be their husbands. 

I caught a glimpse of John heading into an alleyway next to the bar, and I hurried my walk to catch him. There were a pair of eyes on me, which made me feel better that Scott or one of his cop buddies was watching me. 

John continued to walk as fast as he could, trying to get away from me. Finally, I’d had enough: “Are you going to stop and talk to me, or do I need to shoot your knee cap and watch you writhe in pain?” 

“You really are a psycho bitch, aren’t you?”

“You married me? What does that say about you?” I asked. John’s breathing was deliberate, as if he were trying to remain calm and not make any waves. He must have had some sense that something was off. Or maybe he was just a damn good criminal. Probably the latter. “Or did you marry me?”

“Of course I married you,” John said, but his voice cracked on the 'you.' “Thelma, I just don’t think I like you anymore. Maybe I never did. No, I know I never did. There’s nothing that could be called attractive about you.”

“And you’re Errol Flynn?” I shot back. Then decided to change my tactic; otherwise we would just stand in the alleyway insulting one another. It might sound like a good time, but I had a bottle of whiskey to get home to and he had a jail cell to occupy. “If you want to divorce me, just say so. I can take you to the cleaners and you’ll lose everything. Then you can praise that nitwit Dillinger all you want.” 

“You’re a bitch,” he came towards me. Nostrils flared, fists balled. “What did he ever see in someone as nasty as you?” His eyes grew wide as he realized his mistake. He pulled out a gun and trained it on me. “Why couldn’t you leave well enough alone? I mean, I didn’t love you. I didn’t like you very much, but I never actively hated you. Maybe I didn’t like that you stopped me from being with other women, but it was a choice I made and I could’ve lived with it for a few more months.” 

“Why John?” I asked. As I grabbed my gun, I let it sink in that I already knew his dirty little secret. It was time to bring this to an end and remove this man from my life once and for all. “Why did you put us both through all of this? There was no reason for it. You could have just disappeared and never come here to disrupt my life.” 

“How long have you known?” 

“About twelve hours,” I responded. My head tilted looking at him. “Scott came over to tell me about your switcheroo. It killed my buzz from the fight we had this morning. But did give me an excuse to drink some more. Learning that your husband was killed by the police because they mistook him for his look-alike and that the doppelgänger took over his life, does call for a few slugs of brandy.” 

He took a few deep breaths, “that must have been shocking for you,” he allowed. “But do you really need a reason to drink? Ever since I took over Ralph’s life, the alcohol bill has been really high. I’m surprised you didn’t drink poor Ralph out of house and home.” 

“Poor Ralph? Really? You made his life hell!” I screamed, my finger sliding over the trigger of my gun. “Every time you broke out of prison, every time you robbed a bank, he would be hauled into  jail. We had to move so many times that we still don’t know whether my grandmother is alive or not. But I followed him because,” how was I supposed to finish that sentence? Normal people would go with love, but that wouldn’t be truthful. “He was my husband.” 

I’d like to say that the police came in and arrested the bastard. They did not. 

John raised his gun and pulled the trigger. I followed his action and fired my gun. Within seconds, a white-hot pain spread from my shoulder to my entire body. Then everything went black. 

When my eyes opened, they were assaulted by bright florescent lights. I tried to move my arm to block the light, but the pain made it impossible. My scream alerted the nurse that I was awake. She came to my bed and looked at me. “Is all that noise necessary?” 

If boredom had a face, it would’ve belonged to her. I willed down the pain as much as I could in order to answer, “forgive me, I don’t know why I’m in the hospital and why it feels like my shoulder is in hell and the rest of my body is in Antarctica.” 

“You were shot,” the nurse said flatly. “Another guy was brought in, he was shot too. This city is getting so violent,” she intoned. Then looked at me, “the cops want to talk to you. I’ll let them know you’re awake.”

Even her walk suggested that she would have rather been anywhere but at the hospital. As she disappeared from my view, I thought about yelling again to see if I could get something to help with the pain. 

Scott walked in before I could let out a scream, he gave me a sad smile. “Well, that was one way to end this saga. Shooting and killing John Dillinger must have felt great.” 

“Not so great,” I answered. To prove my point, I tried to raise my arm again and let out a scream. “Great, that nurse is going to come back and yell at me again.” 

“Give her a break,” he smiled. “She’s had two patients come in and one of them died. It’s been a pretty busy night for her.” 

“So John is dead. Just like that?”

“What did you expect?” Scott asked as he sat down in the chair by my bed. “You are a great shot. And I don’t think that he was prepared for you to be packing heat,” he paused and looked at me. “None of us were, really. Even though I saw you grab it, I still didn’t think that you would use it.” 

“Me either,” I admitted. Then it dawned on me that there could be consequences for shooting someone. Even a man as vile and hated as John Dillinger. Which meant that they could send me to jail. “Am I going to prison for shooting him?” 

“Murder. You murdered him,” Scott corrected me. The way he said it indicated that I would be going to trial at the very least. “But no, you are not going to prison for killing John.”

“What? Really?” 

“The prosecutor wanted to bring charges and even had local law enforcement stationed outside the door,” he pointed behind him. “But after hearing the story about John taking Ralph’s place and the fact that my director gave me permission to testify on your behalf, he saw reason and decided not to bring any charges.” 

“Thank you,” I said. But the look on his face told me that there was more that he needed to say. “Out with it. I haven’t had a drink in I don’t know how long and any more surprises could send me over the edge,” moving my head as much as I could, I sighed, “at least I’m in the right place for it.” 

“John contacted his old gang,” he said, words running together. He knew that this was not something that I wanted to hear. The criminal was going to turn my life upside down one last time. “We think it would be best if you allow us to move you somewhere and give you enough money to start over. Faking your death in this town will be fairly easy, since you were shot.” 

“Once again, my life is being thrown into chaos because of John Dillinger,” I didn’t bother to mask my anger. “After everything that he has cost me, he couldn’t die without screwing me over one last time.” 

“You can say no and continue to live here if that’s what you want. But we won’t be able to keep you safe at all times.” 

“Nobody will ever be able to keep me safe, all the time,” I answered. “Let’s do it. It’ll be good for me to leave this life behind and forget about Ralph Alsman and John Dillinger forever.”

That was the last time anyone saw Thelma Alsman alive. What happened to me became a great mystery in the city for a long time. It was never solved.