The Dead Love Longer (6 page)

Drifting is an awkward act. In the movies, it always looks graceful, with the ghost floating around all misty and mournful. Drifting takes its own sort of willpower that is in some ways even more demanding than jerking your leg muscles. I couldn't shake the old habit of stopping for traffic, either. I'd wasted about two minutes before I realized I could walk right through the cabs, limos, tour buses, low riders, and homeless people pushing shopping carts.

The lobby of the Hype was cavernous and musty, a row of faded scarlet holiday stockings pinned to the front desk.
It's a Wonderful Life
was playing on the television in the lobby. I wanted to tell Jimmy Stewart that the only difference between living and dying was the size of your credit card bill. But that was the old, cynical me thinking. This new
me
, the dead one that was full of hope, kept on plugging.

I could have just floated up to the second floor, but instead I took the stairs. It was a mock-up of those stairs where Clark Gable carried Vivian Leigh in
Gone with the Wind
. The rest of the Hype was just as cheesy. Painted stars like those on
Hollywood Boulevard
lined the hallway floor, but the stars were scuffed so you couldn't read the names. The walls were covered with framed movie posters and memorabilia that were definitely not licensed by the studios.

I checked out all the rooms with north-facing windows. In the first, the sheets were in such a quiver that I thought I had stumbled onto a fellow ghost, and then I realized I had walked in on a loving couple. I'm not a peek freak unless I'm getting paid for it, so I gave the windowsill a quick once-over for any sign of residue or marks. No dice.

The second and third rooms were unoccupied, though suitcases on the bed indicated recent arrivals. The fourth was empty, marked off with yellow crime tape. Why didn't I think to look for that? The truth is
,
my brain was getting a little foggier the longer I was dead. If I didn't solve this case soon, I wouldn't have enough brains left to attend my own funeral. Afterlife Alzheimer's was a bitch.

I searched the room but found nothing of merit. The police had given it the comb's teeth. They'd even snagged the chocolate off the pillow, though I suspect that never made it into an evidence bag. I was just about to skulk off to my elevator shaft when I noticed the mirror.

I didn't stop to admire myself, because I didn't want to waste the willpower it would take to don a face. But the dresser mirror had been carefully turned so that someone sitting at the desk had a clear line of sight to my room. The assassin might have had me staked out for days. In that case, why wait until just before I was supposed to meet Bailey before pulling the trigger? Or maybe Bailey was just a coincidence, one of those red herrings life likes to throw at you to keep you confused.

If my murderer had watched me, he or she knew I was a creature of habit. If I had an appointment, I never showed up early. I tried to time my appointments so that the person I was meeting would be checking their watch at the moment I walked up.
Gave you an edge on a person, in my opinion.

A quick drift downstairs to the front desk, then I tipped over a couple of boxes in the stockroom. When the hostess ran from the desk to check the commotion, I willed my hands into enough substance to flip through the sign-in book. Room 217 had been rented by a Mr. Raymond Chandler. Jeez. My killer was a damned comedian.

So the name was
fake
, but at least I learned that the room had been rented two days prior to my death. "
Chandler
" had paid for a week, cash in advance. The police had all that information, and no doubt were running
Chandler
aliases through their database, but they still didn't have a body.

I was reminded of one of Lee's little endearments, something she'd whisper in my ear on those nights when we lay under the sheets, our sweat drying.

"
Habeas corpus
, baby," she would say. "You got the body." A legal term never sounded so sexy. What I wouldn't give for just one more night of her sweet whispering.

Lee. Would I ever see her again? I was afraid I'd never make it across town to her place, not with my soul juice tapped. I didn't have any leads, and I was running out of time. I was down, so down that only another dead person would understand. It can get pretty dark down there.

Feeling like my stores of hope had
drained,
I drifted back to my apartment.

***

5.

"Where have you been?" Diana called as I entered. Just like old times.

She was waiting in the bedroom. Just like old times.

"Nowhere."
I hovered in the living room.

"Everybody's somewhere. Who was that woman in the coffee shop?"

"Nobody."

"That was some body, all right.
38D?
I'll bet those melons were fake."

"I didn't notice."

"Don't play games with me, Richard. Get your ass in here."

"This is my place. You can't boss me around."

The sliver of darkness under the bedroom door pulsed orange with flame and a sulfuric steam clouded the crack. "I said
get your ass in here
."

Shit. Never marry a Leo.

I opened the door instead of drifting through it, dreading the inevitable. She was on the bed, nude, glistening, 36C, throwing off her own candlelight. One leg was cocked in a way that made it seem as long as the bed. The other curled in a provocative arch.

"Is she as hot as me?" Diana said, her voice taking on a low purr.

I averted my gaze. It was damned hard, but her marbled skin, caused by carbon monoxide poisoning, was a bit of a mood killer.

"That woman in the photograph," she
said,
her voice low and taunting.
"On your television.
Does she do that thing you like?"

That thing I like. When you are intimate with one person for a long time, you become vulnerable and slowly reveal your true desires. You let them try things that never happen during one-night stands. You bring your fantasies out of your head and onto the playground of love.

Then, when you are with the next person, or the one after that, you can't expect them to jump right to the full course. They have to sample the buffet, go through the entire menu, nibbling at things to see which tastes they prefer. You can't exactly say, "Well, my last lover did this, so why don't you?"

It sucks, except sometimes it doesn't.

Diana, for all her faults, was good at some things. She knew how to serve dessert. I couldn't help licking my lips. They were cracked and parched from the heat in the room.

"I'm aching," she said, stretching the word out into a moan. Her legs spread and she rolled her hips forward. I swear
,
a tuft of steam rose. I reached up to loosen my tie or strangle myself.

"This isn't right," I said.

"It feels right to me," she said, moving a hand down to play.

"We're done," I said. "I can't—"

"Come on, honey. I'm your wife."

"No, that's over."

"This was yours.
All yours.
And nobody else could ever take it the way you could."

Damn.
Hitting me at my male pride.
She sure knew how to play me. My fingers tugged the tie free and I was messing with the buttons of my shirt.

"It's not cheating," she said. "You didn't make any promises."

"Not cheating," I said, glad Lee's photograph was in the other room. I didn't want her eyes on me.
Even though she might learn a few things about me.
Several fantasies and several realities.

My pants slid down easily. I didn't look. When you die, you want everything to work just as it had before.
All your parts.
I wasn't sure I felt anything. You don't throb much when your heart doesn't beat.

But I was game. She was Eve, Jezebel, Delilah, a Siren, a
selkie
, succubus, every temptress ever devised. 36C, just the way I like them.
Forbidden fruit.

I reached for
her,
leaned over the bed, fell toward the steaming flesh, heedless of the burning I might receive.

I bounced naked off cold sheets. Her laughter purred from every corner of the room. Her voice came as if from a distant elevator shaft: "I wonder what Lee would think."

Diana had won this round. And she'd sapped my batteries. I could only lie there in my self-disgust and wonder if death really changed anything, if all grabs for redemption were futile, if we were destined to repeat the same mistakes on every spin of the karmic wheel. Could I succeed at anything besides failure?

I must have fallen asleep again, because I dreamed that I gave up. I took the elevator to the top of my building,
skinnied
up the little ladder to the roof access, and looked down on all the lights. The city was like a giant Christmas tree, blinking red and green and silver. And that expanse of sky, the buildings stretching to the Pacific, the rounded and sandy hills, the tangle of highways, all left me feeling lost and small.

Through the smog I could see a cluster of dim stars. Those stars were forlorn and so far away, adding to my sense of insignificance. Why should I solve my own murder when I would be dead either way? Why did I matter at all, when I was nothing but a few wisps of mist, a
palmful
of dust, and a random scattering of thoughts?
A memory to only a handful, a memory that would die along with those few people.

I was so depressed that I took the only possible exit: I jumped.

I'd never thought much of suicides, especially after Diana turned her little trick. I thought even less of those who tried it over and over again. My definition of a loser was somebody so miserable they even failed at the final failure. And there I
was,
a leaper, an airborne idiot. Even as the wind whistled past my head, I was thinking how impossible this was. How could you kill yourself when you were already dead? And my second thought was "Why am I not drifting?" even as the concrete rushed up to meet me.

And then all thought was lost as my mystical bones ground to powder and I found myself back in the Waiting Room.

This time a well-dressed woman in white sat beside me. "Hi, stranger," she said, and held out her hand.

The hand flopped downward, and I got a glimpse of the long red gash in her wrist.

She caught me staring. "Oh, that."

I looked away, patted my suit, checked to see if any bones were out of place. The bullet holes were still there, but now the fabric was scuffed, too. I was looking more like a rumpled, low-rent detective than ever.

"Got a smoke, sailor?" the woman said. She looked somewhere between thirty and three hundred, and I wondered how many rounds she had made through the Waiting Room.

I pointed to the "No Smoking" sign and shrugged.
"Rules."

"Tell me about it.
Rules, rules, rules.
You can't get away from them, no matter where you go."

"Been dead long?"

She must have taken it as a come-on line, because she tilted her face down and batted her eyelashes.
"Long enough to know better but not long enough to be bored with it yet."

Before I could translate the dame-speak into English, the speaker kicked on with a hiss of static. The voice was my caseworker's, Miss Titanic, and she was joyously annoyed. "Steele. Get your sorry rump in here, right this second."

I nodded to my self-loathing seatmate and headed down the hall. I was barely through the office door when I got the treatment with both barrels.

"Richard Stanley Steele.
I was hoping to God I'd never set eyes on you again. I gave you the pep talk and laid everything out for you plain as day, showed you right up front the benefits of sacrifice and faith, and still you come crawling back through a door that's only supposed to swing one way."

If anything, the stacks of paper around her had grown even higher. She had to stand to peer over them at me. I hunched in the chair like a tardy third grader.

"It's bad enough to get murdered," she continued, and she punctuated her next words by slapping papers against her desk. "But—when—you—
kill
—yourself…"

Lee. What would Lee think, if she ever found out I was too much of a coward to stand up and keep fighting? Or that I'd suffered a moment of weakness with the person I hated more than anyone? Never mind that I hadn't actually tasted the apple. I'd still climbed the tree.

My caseworker must have read the expression on my face. "Yeah, that's right. You don't know a damned thing about sacrifice. You're nothing but a self-centered pile of—"

She stopped herself and made a quick hand gesture of penance that may have been from some obscure Eastern religion.

I no longer feared an eternity spent with Diana, an endless circle of apologies and blame. I was more afraid Hell was just an endlessly unsolved missing-persons case concerning a person who had never existed and a merry-go-round of guilt. "Sorry," I whispered.