Secret Dead Men (16 page)

No,
Paul said.
We're fine.

Then, to me:
You know, we've gotta start having these little conferences inside the hotel from now on.

Eighteen

Case Solved

Hours later I was sitting at Brad's table in his Brain Hotel room. I purposefully chose his room--spare as it was--to make him comfortable. If he was going to freak out and start foaming at the mouth and hurling profanities, better he do it in here.

"I have something important to show you," I said. "Something you've been waiting a long time to see."

"You do?" he said, a spark of hope in his eyes. It was the first time he'd resembled a living person since I'd absorbed him eight months ago.

"Yes." I slapped two photographs on his kitchen table. They were photos of Ray Loogan and Leah Farrell, extracted from my Brain footage of the cab scene. Years ago, Robert had graciously shown me a way to burn a memory onto a sheet of Brain film, then develop it. I'd never thought the skill would come in handy. What did I know?

"Well?" I asked. "Anything?"

Brad's face shifted slightly.

"It's a simple question," I said.

Brad nodded. "That's them."

Finally. Confirmation after all these months. We had our killers. It was a matter of time before we reeled the bastards in.

Brad didn't seem terribly excited about the case being solved. It was all he'd talked about for months:
Find my killers.
Well, break out the cake, ice cream and candles--I finally found the bastards. And the most Brad could do was nod?

Maybe he was confused. I tried it again. "Are you sure these are the people?"

Brad's eyes slowly lifted from the photographs and zeroed in on me. "Of course I'm sure. This prick shot my wife in the throat, and this bitch cut me up like a pound of lunchmeat. You don't think I can remember their faces?"

"I don't doubt it, Brad. But you don't seem particularly happy about it."

"There's nothing happy about looking death in the face. You of all people should know that. You do it for a living. Are
you
a happy man?"

I decided to change the subject. I slapped a third picture--a photo of our client, Susannah Winston--on the table. "Do you recognize this woman?"

Brad gave it a once over, then shook his head. "Nope. Should I?"

"You haven't seen here anyway? Even recently?"

"No, I haven't."

I didn't think Brad hung out much in the hotel lobby--otherwise, he would have seen thousands of hours of Susannah's face up on the screen. But it was worth a shot.

"So as far as you know, she's not a member of the Association?"

"Again with your 'Association.'" Brad smirked. "Nice try. But I've told you already. No information until I'm able to take a hot steaming piss on our killers' graves."

"Wait a minute," I said. "You're admitting it's possible you
do
know this woman? Are you holding back something?"

"Sure, it's possible. But not in this case. Look: I don't know this woman."

There was a knock at the door. I was startled. Another knock. It took me a moment to realize it came from reality, not the Brain Hotel.

"You'd better answer it, Del," Brad said. "It's probably your girlfriend. I'm going to spend the rest of my day wallowing in some personal misery, if you don't mind."

* * * *

I assumed control of my physical body and stood up from the couch. I answered the door, and sure enough, it was Amy, holding her hands behind the apartment wall, out of view. "Surprised?" she asked.

"Yes, very. Uh ... Amy..."

"I brought you something."

I shook my head and spread my hands as if to say,
You shouldn't have
, but Amy insisted. "It's a housewarming present. Come on, close your eyes."

"Okay." I took a few steps back, then closed my eyes. "Come on in." Involuntarily, the Brain Hotel lobby started to materialize, but I squeezed my eyes tighter and wiped it away. What was that about? Normally, I had to make the effort to port myself to the Brain Hotel. Maybe I hadn't snapped out of it completely.

"Where's the TV?" Amy asked.

"I don't have one."

"Oh. Thought I heard voices."

God
, I thought, horrified.
Was I broadcasting that conversation?
Sometimes the other end of the Brain Hotel conversation would slip through, like a mumble, creeping out of my physical body. Yikes. I heard the door close, and sensed Amy walking to my right. A paper bag rustled on the floor.

"Well?"

"Wait a minute..." she said. "Okay. Open up."

I did. And I saw a small gray rat running around on my hardwood floor. No, wait; it wasn't a rat. It was a kitten. A tiny gray kitten with white paws. It darted forward, to the beat-up houndstooth couch, then sunk its claws into the side and hoisted itself up to a cushion. "Surprise!" Amy laughed.

"It's a cat," I said.

"Whew! What a relief. For a moment there, Del, I wasn't sure if you'd be able to identify basic animal species."

"Why did you bring me ... a cat?"

"Face it, champ--you're lonely down here, all alone with your ugly couch and rusty toaster. Everybody needs someone to come home to."

The cat dug its claws into the couch and pulled them back. I heard strands of material strain and pop.

"Hey, kitty," I said, trying to be a sport about the whole thing, despite visions of Cat Chow and kitty litter and turd logs dancing through my head. "Come here. Pss-wss-wss-wss. Come on, girl."

"Boy," Amy said.

The cat took one look at me and froze. An anguished chirp issued from its lungs, and it quickly lunged for the hardwood floor, scratched its nails in a frenzied attempt to run, and squeezed itself beneath the couch.

"Well, that was charming."

Amy smiled. "Oh, he's scared."

"I've never had a pet before. I'm not sure I know what I should do."

"You seem like a natural. And besides..." Amy turned around to open the paper bag she'd brought along with her. "You've got enough supplies to last you at least a couple of months." She pulled out two bags of Cat Chow (can I call it, or what?), a bag of litter, a tan plastic box for said litter, and a miniature rubber brush--pink.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"To groom him, of course."

We looked at each other, then said at the same time:

Me: "Do you want a drink--"

Amy: "Hey, I was wondering if--"

I waved. "No, you first."

"Really, you go."

"I was going to ask if you wanted a drink."

"Water, please." She started to laugh. "I was going to ask you out to dinner."

I walked to the kitchen without another word. Amy waited a few uncomfortable seconds, then stood up and walked into the kitchen area. Why not? The case was as good as over. Paul was soon going to recuse himself from his babysitting gig. Soon, if I could help it. We'd find Loogan and Farrell, do a little soul collecting, and fly back to Vegas. There was no reason in the world not to have dinner with a beautiful woman.

I filled up her glass with tonic water and a wedge of lemon and walked it back out to her. Then, simultaneously:

Amy: "I've gotta go."

Me: "I'd like to go."

"Right," Amy said. Her eyes narrowed. "Wait. Go where?

"To dinner," I said.

"You ... oh, okay. Great. Uh, I'll give you a call later this week?"

Boy, she stammered worse than
me
in a tight spot. "There's no need to call. How about Thursday night? I'm off work." I wasn't sure, but what the hell. I had to reclaim my body wherever I could. Besides, I had a feeling we wouldn't be employed by Richard "Suck Me" Gard much longer.

"Sounds great," Amy said.

Moment of awkward silence.

"I'll come up for you," I said.

"Great. Enjoy your cat."

"I will. If he ever crawls out from under the couch."

Amy left my apartment with the strangest smile on her face. Strangely enough, I smiled too. Then I glanced over at a mirror and there was Paul's image, waiting for me.

Hey!

I said nothing. I didn't want to talk to Paul right now.

You don't have any "nights off." You've got a job to do.

The phone rang.

Oh, I'll get it.

Instantly, my vision went black and woozy. I was being sucked down into the lobby of the Brain Hotel. Ordinarily, I would have fought it, but I was too shocked it was happening in the first place. A tenant, taking control of my body ... without asking? What the hell was this Hotel coming to? Robert would have never put up with this kind of crap.

Up on the screen, I watched Paul answer the phone. Smug, arrogant prick. I'd given him too much power as of late, and he was taking it for granted, getting too comfortable flipping in and out of the real world as he pleased. I was going to have to crack down hard on that guy, let me tell you. But for the time being, I just watched.

Hello?

There was a pause. I couldn't hear the conversation, but three guesses.

I'll be right over
. Paul hung up, and put a jacket on our body.

I slammed the lobby mike button with my palm. "You're not going over there, are you?" I asked.

It's my job, remember?

"Not anymore. We're off the case."

As of when?

"Right now. Call her and tell her you quit."

Paul didn't say anything. He kept combing our hair.

"Look--you knew this day would come. Your time with our favorite oral gymnast is coming to an end. The case is over. We're only two quick soul collections away from leaving this damned city."

And I think Susannah can help us do that.

"How? With more lies? It's not as if she's going to suddenly say, 'Whoops, I'm sorry, I've been lying to you all this time. Here's the real scoop!'"

She's of more use to us alive than dead,
Paul said.

"Who said anything about killing her? I want you to quit."

Paul didn't answer. He walked over to the phone, picked it up, and spun out seven familiar numbers. She answered on the first ring.

It's me,
Paul said.
I need to ask you a favor.

Favor? I thought.

There was a short pause.
Just some time off tomorrow evening, for a few hours.
A short pause.
Nothing to do with you.
A longish pause.
I need this, Susannah.
An even longer pause.
Of course I do.
A short, staccato pause
. I'll be with you all day Friday. And all night. Through the whole Best of Philly party.
An amazingly long pause. Flowers wilted, generations passed, time flowed like a river of maple syrup ...
Don't worry--I'll protect you
, Paul said, and finally hung up the phone.

He walked into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, then looked into the mirror.
How's that for a Solomon-like compromise? You happy now?

"You get Gard to pay us," I said. "Then I'll be impressed."

Nineteen

Macho Cheese

I spent two hours preparing for my first date in over six years. Of course, that last date didn't count. It'd been before I was absorbed from the dead. I was interviewing a female source for a personal finance article I'd been writing. My suggestion was to go out for drinks to talk--I knew this place in the center of town with a cheap drink special: a double shot of whatever liquor for the price of one. At the time, I'd been fond of gin and tonic. Unfortunately, the place got away with their rock-bottom prices by serving rotgut liquor. Two glasses had me ready to crawl under the table and eat crumbs.

And my source? A short-haired, bee-stung-lipped, four-eyed cutie. She was ready to crawl under with me. I remember stumbling out of the bar, not one important question asked, and heading to a restaurant I knew, hoping some food would sober us up. It didn't, of course, because we ordered drinks first and forgot about the food. We left, but not before my little Deep Throat grabbed a basket of peppermints and flung them into the air. They flew all over the bar area and rained on the ground. I apologized like mad, and she laughed and tugged my arm and pulled me out of there.

We ran into a colleague of mine on the street--a cub reporter out double-checking a few facts for a Henderson nightlife roundup--at which point my source wrapped her legs around me, and started kissing my neck, all in the interest of embarrassing me. Of course, it worked. We ended up in the community park, watching people and sharing a bottle of red wine I'd bought from a grocery shop on the way over. This was when she confessed to still being married and vomited on my lap. "Sweet Pea" was playing on some radio in the background. Within seconds, I felt sobered up and utterly convinced this sick woman was not my "Sweet Pea," and that she was still somewhere out there, waiting to be found, and I helped her up and cleaned her face the best I could in a public bathroom and brought her back to my apartment and laid her to rest on my couch. In the morning, I felt how cheap the gin had been. Damn cheap. You shouldn't have been allowed to give that swill away. My brain was split in half. And then her husband showed up to pick her up, because she had called him in the middle of the night. It was an uncomfortable morning, to say the least.

Did that qualify as my last date? I don't think so. Needless to say, I was woefully out of practice.

I showered once and tried on a few different variations of the pieces of clothing I owned. Nothing seemed suitable, all of a sudden. Had I gone through life this long with such a shabby wardrobe? God, why didn't Paul pull me aside sooner? I got so sweated up I had to shower again.

Finally, I decided on the most conservative outfit I could have put together: a pair of black slacks and a blue button-down shirt. If only I could have taken Amy Langtree on a date in the Brain Hotel, I could have invented any suit to wear, taken her to any fancy restaurant I dreamed of ... But no. This had to be real. Times like these, I didn't envy Paul one bit.