DEAD CRICKETS

Arturo B. "Abe" Lincoln was seated in the Paramount Theatre balcony with one hand massaging the knee of his long-lost first love when he saw himself stumble onto stage.

Actually he didn't make the connection until Sabina Saldaña pointed to the name Abe Lincoln in the Gridiron Show program and grinned at the coincidence. But he soon couldn't take his eyes off of the limping man who made a slow, determined march to center stage with the added weight of a shiny maroon and silver accordion mapping his face with pain.

The newspaper reporter in Arturo started taking notes on his evil twin. Could this be the guy who had stolen his identity? Who had opened more than twenty credit card accounts and counting in less than six months? Surely no one was cocky enough to broadcast the name before a full house in downtown Austin on a Saturday night. After all, how many Abe Lincoln's were there in Texas?

To his tired eyes the man looked shriveled and sickly in the white gown and papier mache wings that marked him as an angel in fitting with the It's a Wonderful Life theme for this year's show. Every fall Austin journalists got together to make fun of politicians and pretend they could sing and dance as bad as most. This year they were aiming for a record lack of collective talent.

The audience hushed as the man jerked to a halt and lifted the accordion high on his chest. His left hand dropped the instrument's bellows downward and sweet music wafted from the stage as his fingers nimbly commanded them to life.

The evil Arturo grinned slyly toward the balcony and furrows crinkled around his eyes as the squeezebox moaned a deep, low note that seemed to originate from the man's heart. It was the most sad yet utterly joyful sound the real Arturo had ever heard, and it pissed him off all the more.

"He's cute," Sabina whispered through a cupped hand.

And he doesn't look anything like me, Arturo thought. Arturo was half black, half Mexican and one hundred percent cowboy screwup; this guy was practically white and a hell of a musician. More important, he was too slow to run. It was the beginning of the end for the identity thief, and Arturo wanted to know who he was and how he'd done it.

Sure, it was easy enough. Social security numbers were tossed about like business cards these days and he'd heard credit card numbers were sold on the Internet for pennies. But he craved the facts as much as he wanted revenge. He had to know the real name behind the fingers now caressing the accordion's buttons. Who, what, when, where, why and how. All of the cliché journalist's questions were on his mind.

Arturo's left leg had started to fall asleep where it was pressed against the metal backside of the chair in the next row. The seats were designed for short people from a hundred years ago. Now the only people tiny enough to fit in the space comfortably were under the age of twelve.

He scanned the theater looking for a way backstage. The ceiling of the historic Paramount was dabbed with curlicues and artwork that directed his eyes to the box seats that framed the stage, then down to a maroon-curtained doorway that lead inward. During a real production somebody likely would be guarding that pathway, but this was a charity gig, so he figured the odds were in his favor.

He lifted his six-foot, two-inch frame awkwardly and shook his foot awake. He mouthed the word "bathroom" to Sabina and eased his way into the aisle. Twenty years ago at Sam Houston State University she had left him curled up in a ball of confusion and hurt, and now, when she'd finally re-entered his life, older but no less stunning, he was abandoning her. Once an idiot, always an idiot.

At the bottom of the stairs two senior citizen ushers clad in red bow ties and cumberbunds smiled at him. He slipped past and entered the main theater. A few faces turned to his, but most were lost in the music.

The man on stage was spinning a web of sound that held the audience at taut attention. His smile was glorious and Arturo had to admit that Sabina was right; he was a good looking man whose disability vanished when he weaved music. But he was no Abe Lincoln.

Arturo hesitated for a moment, then thrust forward toward the stage entrance. He pushed the thick, musty curtain aside and entered. A round woman whose face was lost in an immense purple beehive wig was perched on a stool, a microphone in her hand. She turned and shook her hair at him like some scolding alien school principal. He winked and kept walking.

A few steps and he was at the curtain. His fake twin was bringing the number to a close, stretching the notes like sweet taffy and wrapping them around the audience. The identity thief was so close that for a moment Arturo considered dumping the beehive off her stool and throwing it--the stool, not the beehive--at him. But Arturo looked over his shoulder and saw

Barney the purple kiddie dinosaur staring him down.

"Get off the stage or I throw you off," the critter said in a muffled voice that sounded a lot less drugged-up than that of the purple beast on television.

"Do not hurt the costume!" This was beehive talking, dragging Barney backward.

The audience applauded and Arturo realized the culprit was exiting the other side of the stage. Arturo gave Barney a shove for good measure and sent the dinosaur and the beehive skidding toward the wall.

He followed the dark, dusty backside of the curtain, hopped a few prop clouds and made it to the other side of the stage as the cripple was limping around the corner. A pair of cute brunettes in pigtails and overalls had hold of each arm but the fake Abe's angel wings flapped freely.

"Nice toy." Arturo pointed at the accordion. "How much did it cost me?"

"The music is free, bro." The man's voice was scratchy, his face gray. "Have we met?"

Arturo stuck out his hand. "Arturo B. Lincoln. You can call me Abe, seeing as how we're related."

The man's brow lifted and his eyes widened for a second, then his face relaxed into a childlike smile that was so devoid of fear that it threw Arturo off guard.

"Did you come to beat me up, Abe?"

The gimp turned to one of the women and let out a rat-a-tat-tat of laughter. She looked puzzled but tittered along with him, massaging his arm lightly.

"I'm thinking about it." This guy was amazing. He was pretty much fessing up to the identity theft, and he had two beautiful women obviously hot for him in some twisted, sympathetic, mothering way.

"If it makes you happy, go ahead." The gimp's eyes shone out at Arturo fearlessly. "But it won't help none, bro."

"If you call me bro one more time, I'm going to twist those wings around your little white neck."

"You leave Abe alone!" One of the gimp's two honeys kicked out a chorus line foot at Arturo and caught him in the shin.

"Let's get this straight." Arturo rubbed the aching shin against his other leg. "I'm Abe. This guy is a thief whose real name I'd sure like to know. And we're going to find us a cop now so we can set it straight."

A purple hand appeared from behind Arturo and snaked around his neck.

"Let me guess, 'I hate you, you hate me, let's hang Barney from a tree?' " he muttered as the fuzzy dinosaur hand applied a rough massage.

Arturo ducked and the purple mitt lost its tentative hold. He saw his chance, aimed the top of his head at Barney's midsection and thrust forward in search of its soft underbelly.

Crack! Arturo's head slammed against a rock-hard stomach. Pain splintered across his cranium and he could swear something broke on impact.

"My microphone! The jerk wrecked my microphone!" Barney's head was off and Arturo recognized the man inside as a television weatherman whose stomach was decidedly softer than the equipment Arturo's head had connected with and shattered.

Arturo looked up through a gathering fog in time to see one cornpone brunette's foot attempt a field goal. Unfortunately he was supplying the balls.

He quickly forgot the pain in his head and much of anything else as he dropped to the dusty backstage, cradled his knees to his chest and waited for the throbbing that glowed from his crotch to release him from custody.

Barney the weatherman yanked his arms and some guy dressed in a business suit and a crown took his legs. They toted him like stale garbage to the back door and swung Arturo's limp body into the alley.

He landed in a cool puddle that smelled of vomit and stale beer. He'd been on the wagon for five months and the stench brought back memories. Fortunately he'd also discovered exercise and recently dropped thirty pounds, or he'd probably never muster the energy to stand while using the restroom again.

A light mist was falling as Central Texas endured a Noah-like, never-ending October downpour that followed a desiccated five-month summer with daily temperatures in or near the hundreds. He could relate to Austin. It was all about extremes: too hot one day, flooding the next. Empty office buildings and low rents in bust days, too many rich California Republicans and too much traffic when times were flush.

The chilly, sour stew Arturo was simmering in was full of brown lumps. A few of them rose from the puddle and scurried across his face. He scraped them away and looked down.