Secret Dead Men (13 page)

"Granted," I said, "it's a bit conservative. But do you think our client will give a shit?"

Paul stared at me.

"Okay, she probably will. But where are we going to find the money? Until our first paycheck clears..."

"Use the $200 we've got stashed away at Girard Bank."

"And in three days, when we're starved for a nice piece of meat, we won't have a coin to our name."

"The check will clear by then."

"I never trust banks."

Maybe I was worrying too much about the money, but I'd never dipped this low in my life. In Nevada, there'd always been a quickie nudie photo gig or an unpaid hotel bill to earn me enough cash for the week. Here in Philly, I didn't know a soul. I'd placed my entire financial future in a philandering lawyer.

Plus--and this is embarrassing to admit--I was hoping to spend some of my dwindling funds on a couple of new albums. I was tired of the music I'd already listened to over and over in my head. It was useless to count on the radio--it usually took a few repeated listenings for a tune to stick, and have you ever tried to break through those listener request lines? I'd have more luck taking down the Association with a weapon found in a Cracker Jack box. Music was one of my passions; work was bleak without it. But could I tell Paul that? No way. In the real world, a new suit mattered much more than a new Bread album.

Of course, it turned out not to matter. Paul went out and bought two suits for the bargain-basement price of $160. I don't know where he bought them--or if it was entirely legal--because I woke up from a nap and walked downstairs to the lobby to find Paul modeling one of them in a mirror. That is, watching myself on the Brain Hotel lobby screen, modeling one of them.

I ran to the silver microphone and pressed the button. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

I startled him, and it ruined his necktie knot.
Hey-whoah!
he shouted, and spun around, reaching for a gun on his hip that was not there.

"It's me. Inside."

Paul exhaled.
Damn it, I told you not to do that.

"Call it landlord's privilege. You and I need to talk."

"About what?"

"The threads."

Hey, I'm trying to do our job. I deposited Gard's check in our bank account, and went out and made a business purchase. You didn't expect me to go out and baby-sit our client dressed in one of your goofy numbers, did you? Dead or not, I've got a reputation to protect.

"How much money do we have?" I asked.

Seventeen bucks. And speaking of which, you shouldn't let our finances dip so much. It's bad for appearances. What if I need to buy our client a drink?

This was rich. Tough Boy here blew our last couple of Franklins on a new suit, and he was lecturing me on fiscal responsibility. I didn't know how to respond without losing my temper, so I didn't.

"I need the body back, Paul."

Right now?

"Yeah. I've got something important to do. You know I can kick you out in a heartbeat, but I prefer to be an adult about it."

Paul sighed and tightened our fists.
Fine.
He closed our eyes. I slid into the body and opened them. Immediately I felt the coffin-like suit envelop me. The image in the mirror didn't help, either. God, the lapels on that suit. Enough to rest a cup of coffee and a large Danish on. And these flared pant legs? I'd hate to have to chase somebody down in this thing. Awfully tight in the hips, too. This was why I stopped reading the fashion pages in Esquire back in 1968. Ever since I'd died, menswear had taken a definite turn for the strange.

I pulled the new suit off and changed back into a comfortable pair of slacks and a casual shirt. I combed my hair back down--Paul was forever combing it back in the mother of all pompadours--and checked my wallet, which was left on the desk. Sixteen bucks, the liar. I searched through the new pants pocket and found another dollar.

I left the apartment and bought a big fat Philadelphia-style hoagie--oil, mayo, proscuitto, provolone, onions, peppers, the works--as some weird form of revenge. Cost me $2.95, not counting tax. I should've had a Yoo-Hoo while I was at it.

If we were going to spend all of our money, I was going to enjoy some of it.

* * * *

Paul, the eager beaver, arrived early for his first day of work. He'd woken up earlier than I--even souls need rest--and as a result, I awoke to the dim awareness that my body was making a pot of coffee. I wandered down to the Brain Hotel lobby and watched Paul on the screen.

"Ugh," I said. "I hate coffee."

Good morning to you, too,
Paul said.
I hope I'm not being presumptuous, but I do have a client to start protecting this morning.

"Yeah, yeah. Some advance notice would have been helpful--you could have left a wake-up call at the front desk."

Sorry. I'll try to remember.

It didn't sound like he meant it.

"I'm not trying to be a hard-ass, Paul. I just don't like somebody else controlling my body while I'm not awake. First, you sneak off to buy a couple of suits, and now, you're waking up my body without me knowing it. I'd like you to ask first."

Oh, what a goose I've been.
Paul sneered at me in the reflection from the toaster. He buttered a piece of slightly-blackened toast.

"Go ahead. Crack wise. All I know is if we don't start making some cash, this operation is going under. Then who'll be buttering your burnt toast?"

Paul had no rebuttal. He ate three slices, half a grapefruit and an apple before buttoning his shirt and putting on his new jacket and leaving for work. I walked over to Old Tom's for a plate of Brain steak and eggs and a Brain Bloody Mary to fortify myself for a day of intense research into the Larsen Murders.

* * * *

I spent about ten minutes shuffling through some notes where I thought I remembered "Philadelphia" being mentioned. There were a billion avenues to explore: I could line up my Association organization chart again, and look for any Philly connections/birthplaces, and then check it against back notes. I could look for previous mentions of "Ray Loogan" or "Leah Farrell." I could sort through a filing cabinet notes I'd previously considered "irrelevant," hoping to glean a useable fact from the endless pages of black type. But to be honest, I found myself completely drained of ambition.

I was curious to see what was happening with Paul. It's odd--for the past eight months I wanted nothing more than to devote my waking hours to the Larsen murder investigation, to finally be done with it. The very moment it became a possibility, I found myself distracted by a meaningless babysitting case.

I walked down to the Brain Hotel lobby and stared up at the viewing screen. I was just in time to catch Paul walking into Susannah's hotel lobby. It was a weird effect--like one of those mirror image inside a mirror images.

* * * *

Paul started toward the elevators, then noticed our client was sitting at the bar. He looked at our watch: 8:15. A bit early to be tossing them back. And especially dumb to be tossing them back out in the open.

"Hello, Ms. Winston," Paul said, touching her shoulder. She flinched.

"Fuck!" She spun around. Her lipstick was smudged on a corner of her lower lip. There was also a small black pistol in her right hand.

This was another chance to see Paul operate like a pro. Without a word, he snatched the piece out of her grasp. I don't even think she knew what happened until she looked down at her hands. Paul took the seat next to her and slid the gun into his jacket pocket. "How's breakfast this morning?"

"Jesus ... don't do that!"

"Do what? My job?"

"I was having breakfast."

"You could be dead right now."

"It's only scrambled eggs."

"Funny. Can we go somewhere private?"

"I'd like to finish my meal, if you don't mind."

"I'll have room service send it along. With a couple of extra Bloody Marys." Paul put his hand on her back. "Come on. Let's go."

Amazingly, Susannah placed her fork on the plate full of eggs and stood up. Paul asked the bartender--"Satchmo," he called him--to send food and a pitcher of Bloodies up to Ms. Winston's room. I realized what he was doing. If he was forced to lead this lady around on a leash, now was the time to take up the slack.

She pouted the entire way to her room.

* * * *

Susannah and Paul reached her apartment. It was different than the one we'd all stood in yesterday. This was on a much higher floor, and was a fully-furnished apartment. Gard must have rented one of the basic, traveling executive rooms on the lower floors for the meeting in case I--or Paul, that is--turned out to be an unsavory character.

The apartment was different from anything I'd seen before. Down deep, it was a perfectly respectable, tasteful hotel suite. But it had been augmented in every imaginable way. For starters, clothes blanketed every available surface--skirts, frocks, blouses, stockings, even undergarments. The place was one big closet. The remaining spaces that weren't covered in expensive fabrics were occupied by a hospital library's worth of magazines--movie and celebrity type rags, as well as a bunch of paperback romances. One doorway was draped with a hanging bead door. There were two earth-green beanbags tucked away beneath the garments. I couldn't smell anything standing in the Brain Hotel lobby, but I'd bet the air was thick with stale incense.

Paul lit a cigarette for her. She scowled at him, then dipped her face toward the flame. Then she walked away and sunk herself into the hotel-supplied couch. I could tell it was the hotel's, because it was one solid color.

"Something wrong?" Paul asked.

She didn't say anything. They entered the living room. She closed the door behind him. "Go ahead. Make your speech."

"No speech. Just a few rules. For one, you tell me everything. Where you're going to be, how long you intend to be there."

"Even before I pee?"

"Even then."

"What if I can't predict how long it will take my urine to leave my body?

Paul ignored her. "Rule two. When I'm not with you, you stay inside this room."

"Or unless Richard takes me out to dinner."

"Obviously."

"Although," Susannah continued, "I'm not sure what he could do to protect me. I mean, he's not you."

Paul ignored that, too. After a few moments of heavy silence, Susannah asked, "That it? Two eensy-weensy rules?"

"That's it."

"Okay. I have a few eensy-weensy rules of my own. Whenever we're out, I'm going to introduce you as my cousin. No one needs to know anything; no one is to infer anything. I have a reputation to protect in this town. Understood?"

"I'm a professional, Ms. Winston."

She ignored him. "Is-that-un-der-stood?"

"Yes, my massah."

"Repeat it."

"It-is-un-der-stood." Paul stared off, out the window to the skyline. "You know, for a minute there last night, I thought we'd both get along."

Susannah looked at him coldly, then broke into a smile. "I like you Paul. However, image is very important."

"Oh. Am I the disreputable type?"

"That remains to be seen, young man." There was a hint of a smile on her face.

"I seem to make you nervous, Mrs. Robinson."

"Nothing makes me nervous, silly boy."

There was an uncomfortable pause. Again, I couldn't read Paul's mind, but I was sure he was waiting for Susannah to take the lead. I know I would. Maybe he could get away with earning a paycheck by hanging out in an air-conditioned hotel room all day, eating room service meals and swapping cheap paperback novels back and forth. Then again, I'm sure Paul doubted it could be that easy.

"So," said Susannah. "What should we do?"

"What do you normally do?"

"My every day routine you mean? Oh, nothing much. Eat breakfast, read the newspaper, shop, get high, polish my toenails and try to avoid death."

"Very funny."

"I'm sorry, Paul. I didn't plan any serious activities for us today."

"You don't have to entertain me."

"Still, I'm being a poor hostess."

My God, I thought. Was this an assignment, or a first date?

"Do you blow grass?" Susannah asked.

"Only when I'm cleaning my lawnmower."

Susannah laughed, and seemingly, let down her guard. Along with her polished Smith speaking voice. "Man, you're a trip. Hey--what do you say we get drunk?"

To my surprise, I heard Paul respond: "Sounds like a fine idea to me."

* * * *

Now this was real trouble. Let me take a moment to explain why.

Whenever I took my alcoholic pleasure inside the Brain Hotel, there were no worries. Inside, there was no such thing as a hangover. Unless, of course, you insisted on one, for reality's sake.

But whenever I (or, whoever happened to be in control of the body) drank real alcohol, all kinds of bad things started to happen. Brain plumbing started to go. Brain toilets backed up. Brain walls tremored, and sometimes, even disappeared. Some personal Brain affects would suddenly vanish, too. I've had problems with sensitive case files going missing. I'm not sure if was the impact of alcohol on the normal processes of my physical brain, or if it was completely psychological. Either way, it was a miserable experience for all involved.

What--you thought I drank Fresca for the taste?

This of course, I only heard second hand. I've never been inside the Brain Hotel when the physical brain became intoxicated. But I heard the complaints for weeks. I had to warn Paul.

* * * *

Paul called room service and ordered a bottle of Tangueray, a bottle of tonic, a bucket of ice, half a case of beer, a couple of bottles of soda water. I couldn't believe it until I saw it being delivered only minutes later, despite it being 9:30 in the morning.

"Paul," I said into the lobby mike. "I have to speak with you."

What can I mix you?
Susannah asked up on the screen, wheeling the cart into her living room.

"Right now," I insisted.

A scotch and water, please. Excuse me a minute, will you?