Free Your Number by J. Joseph Wright Page A

powder, sifted and fashioned expertly into long lines.
     
    “No, thanks,” she waved her hand, then observed at Charlie. He put his Best Supporting Actor Award down and picked up a straw.
     
    “What the hell,” he vacuumed half a line up one nostril, then finished it up with the other. “It’s a celebration, am I right!”
     
    “Right!” Dean stood and gave Charlie a high-five, which evolved into a hug. When they separated, Dean sat down, out of breath. “That’s great, Charlie. Just great. Winning an Oscar this early in your career is amazing. I’m happy for you,” he looked at Kate. “And you, Kate. It’s true about being nominated. People’re talking about you already. It’s nothing but good for your career, nothing but good. Except…”
     
    “Except what?” Kate asked.
     
    All of the sudden, Dean’s face got serious. It made Kate nervous. He didn’t seem inclined to answer, so Angelle did for him.
     
    “You go by your real name, don’t you?” she asked Kate, then turned to Charlie. “And so do you. You guys both go by your birth names?”
     
    “Well, yeah,” Charlie shrugged. “I always liked my name.”
     
    “Me too,” Kate was confused. “So does my sister. What’s this have to do with anything?”
     
    Dean and Angelle exchanged glances. The others shifted in their seats.
     
    “Do you know your number?” Dean leaned over a candle, his features distorted by the conflicting shadow and light.
     
    Kate eyed Charlie. He looked mystified. She said, “My phone number? Yeah, I guess.”
     
    Everyone at the table cracked up at her, everyone except Charlie. Dean was especially gleeful, but that changed as he set down his champagne.
     
    “I mean your death number.”
     
    Kate squinted at him, then at Angelle. They both had poker faces. It was Kate’s turn to giggle. “You guys’re kidding, right?”
     
    Angelle cleared her throat and seized Kate’s attention. “Everyone, when they’re born, is fated a number. It could be one, or it could be one hundred billion. Whatever the number, it signifies how many times your name can be said aloud. Once that number is up, once your name has been said that many times, you die.”
     
    “What?” Kate said. “You can’t be serious.”
     
    “Listen,” Angelle sounded urgent. “This is real,” she looked at Charlie. Suddenly quiet, he turned away. “This affects famous people the most. Since we’re in the spotlight, a lot of people out there say our names every day.”
     
    “And the more famous you get, the more people say your name,” Elena lowered her dark glasses. “It adds up fast.”
     
    Angelle added, “It’s a dangerous game to use your real name in this business.”
     
    “That’s why so many of us use pseudonyms,” Dean nodded. “It’s not because the name sounds better…it’s because of the death number.”
     
    Charlie shook his head, an earnest and vehement denial. “This is crazy,” his voice went up several decibels. “You guys’re trying to scare us.”
     
    Angelle sighed. “I wish we were kidding, but we’re not. The death number has taken so many celebrities who made the mistake of using their real names. Too many recently.”
     
    “Amy Winehouse,” said Eli.
     
    “What?” Kate wouldn’t believe it. “I thought she died of alcohol poisoning.”
     
    “That’s what it was made to look like,” Dean said. “That’s what happens. It’s made to look like an accident or an overdose or a suicide, even diseases like cancer…but it’s not. It’s the death number.”
     
    “There’ve been so many of them,” Angelle said. “From James Dean to John Belushi to Chris Farley—”
     
    “Michael Jackson,” Elena concealed her eyes with her glasses again.
     
    “Michael Jackson?” Kate was even more skeptical. “No way!”
     
    “How do you know this,” Charlie asked. Kate couldn’t believe he believed. “How do you know it was this…death number that killed