“I wish I hadn’t asked,” Peg-leg said.
We were now halfway across the street carrying the body between us.
Peg-leg opened up the trunk of his car and we put the body in. He closed the lid and handed me the keys.
“Hey, what about my gun?” Peg-leg said. “When are you going to return it? With body thieves running all over the God-damn place, present company included, I need my cannon. I don’t know what in the hell is going to happen in there next.” He motioned with his head toward the morgue that was running out of bodies at a very fast clip.
“The gun’s part of the two hundred,” I said. “I’ll return it tomorrow with your car.”
“You strike a hard bargain,” Peg-leg said.
“Do you want your body back?” I said.
“Nope.”
“You always were a fickle one with the ladies,” I said. “Are you sure you don’t want her back?”
“She’s yours,” Peg-leg said. “I’ll take the two hundred and buy a piece of ass from a live one.” He started back across the street, then he stopped in his tracks, one of which was wooden. “Hey,” he said. “You forgot to hit me on the jaw. My alibi. Remember?”
“Sure,” I said. “Bring your jaw back here.”
I hit him on the jaw.
His head snapped back four inches.
“Does that do it?” I said.
Peg-leg was rubbing his jaw.
“Yeah, that does it. Thanks, ‘Eye.’ ”
“Don’t mention it.”
He pegged back into the morgue.
Warner Brothers
I got into the front seat of the car and put the key into the ignition. All I had to do now was drive around for a few hours and kill some time until 1 A.M. and body-delivery time at Holy Rest Cemetery.
Before I could get the car started, another car pulled up opposite me and two guys got out. They looked very angry. They seemed familiar. Then I recognized them. They were the same guys who had stolen the body of the divorcée a little while ago.
They were really pissed off.
There was a third guy in the driver’s seat.
When they got out of the car, he drove off.
The guys walked very business-like, as if they were characters in a Warner Brothers’ gangster movie, into the morgue. They weren’t fooling around.
One of the guys was very large with a square build.
He looked like a ham with legs
Peg-leg was really going to earn his two hundred and fifty dollars.
I drove off.
The Babylon-Orion
Express
A morgue scene would be a very good one to include in Smith Smith Versus the Shadow Robots, I thought as I drove down Columbus Avenue with the girl’s body safely in the trunk.
I envisioned Nana-dirat and I going into the city morgue of Babylon to identify a body. It was night and foggy in Babylon as we walked down the street to the morgue. We were a block away.
“You don’t have to do this,” I said. “It might be a little grizzly. The guy was hit by a train. There’s very little left to identify. You might want to wait outside for me.”
“No,” she said. “I want to go with you. l don’t like to have you out of my sight if I can help it. You know how stuck on you I am. You’re my guy, you big lug. I don’t care if that guy was hit by three Babylon-Orion Expresses.”
Nana-dirat really had a crush on me.
“OK,” I said. “But remember I warned you.”
“Make that six Babylon-Orion Expresses,” Nana-dirat said.
What a gal!
A private eye couldn’t have a better secretary in Babylon.
Partners in Mayhem
Ah, shit… good-bye, Babylon.
I turned the car around at Union Street and drove back to the morgue. Try as I could, I just couldn’t leave old Peg-leg to provide amusement for those goons.
Peg-leg’s parking place was available right across the street from the morgue, so I pulled in there. I looked around for the goons’ car but it was nowhere in sight. I slipped out of the car like the shadow of a banana peeling and walked quickly but almost anonymously into the morgue.
I had my hand in my coat pocket, fingering the loaded pistol. I was ready for business and I wanted some answers to why in the hell these guys were stealing bodies from the morgue. I was going to find out what was happening.
That’s what private detectives are supposed to do and if I had to get a little rough it was totally acceptable in the tradition.
I was halfway down the hall toward the autopsy room when I heard a crash and a moan. Those bastards were already working poor Peg-leg over.
They would pay for it.
I stood outside the closed door with the gun in my hand, ready to spring inside and give those guys quite a surprise. I heard another moan and then another crash. There was silence for a few seconds and then a horrible scream—
AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
A sound from hell was the cue to my grand entrance. I sprung into the autopsy room and there was quite a sight waiting for me like some kind of strange greeting card. First of all, Peg-leg was sitting at his desk with a cup of coffee in his hand. He was as relaxed and cool as a cucumber. He wasn’t even startled as I flew into the room.
“Welcome to the party,” he said like a host, motioning toward the activities that were going on in the room. There was another blood-curdling scream, “AAAHHHHHHHHHHHH! Don’t put me back in here! For God’s sake! AAAHHHHHHHHHHH! AAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
In the corner of the autopsy room was the body of one of the hoods. He was very unconscious. He looked as if he were going to hibernate for the winter.
Sergeant Rink was standing beside the open door of one of the death icebox trays. The second hood was lying handcuffed on the tray. He was the one who was doing all the screaming. He had been pushed about ninety percent of the way into the refrigerator for dead people and he didn’t care for that at all. All you could see of him was his face that was totally terrified to the point of almost going mad.
“AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” he screamed.
“One more time,” Sergeant Rink said. “What in the fuck are you up to going around stealing dead bodies and trying to beat up morgue attendants who happen to be my friends?”
“I’ll tell you anything just don’t put me in here with the dead people,” the hood said. He had a good point. It was not a pleasant place to be. I certainly would not have wanted to be in his shoes which were now growing cold.
Sergeant Rink pulled him out a ways, so that you could see his belt buckle.
“Is that better?” he said to the hood.
“Yes, thank you,” the goon responded with a sudden, joyous look of relief on his face.
“OK, insect, spill it.”
Sergeant Rink had a reputation of being a very tough cop and it was a reputation that he lived up to 100%. I really had to admire him. Too bad Babylon had gotten the best of me when I was going to the police academy with him. We might have turned out to be partners together. I liked that idea a lot.
Oh, well, I also liked Babylon a lot, too. Even though things had been a bit hard, I had no regrets about dreaming of Babylon all the time.
Sergeant Rink had been so involved with interrogating the goon that he hadn’t responded to me running into the autopsy room with a gun in my hand or he had recognized that it was me and I didn’t require that much immediate attention.
But now he was looking at me.
He had diverted his attention from the gorilla who had just become a canary.
“I was hired—” the goon started to say.
“Shut up, roach,” Sergeant Rink said, diverting his attention to me. The “roach” shut up. He didn’t want to spend the night in the freezer with what few bodies were left in the morgue that somehow had avoided being stolen that night.
“Hi, Card,” Rink said. “Why the pistola? and what in the hell are you doing here, anyway?”
“I came to visi
t Peg-leg and I heard some loud activity going on in here,” I said. “I knew that something had to be up because they keep dead people in here and they aren’t famous for causing a commotion, so I came in prepared for action. What’s up?” I said, praying to God that Peg-leg hadn’t spilled the beans on me being one of the people who had taken a fresh body from the place and happily put it in the trunk of a car.
“Caught some ghouls here,” Sergeant Rink said. “They stole two bodies from Peg-leg and then they came back and tried to work him over while they stole some more. Sons-of-bitches. I’ve been giving them a little lesson in crime doesn’t pay.”
He casually pushed the hood back into the refrigerator until only his eyes were staring out at us.
“AAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” the hood responded to being pushed back into the refrigerator.
“See, crime doesn’t pay,” Rink said to the hood as he pushed the tray all the way in and then closed the door. We could hear the muffled screams of the man coming from the refrigerator.
“aaahhhhhhhhhhhh… aaahhhhhhhhh… aaahhhhhhhhhhh…”
Sergeant Rink walked over and poured himself a cup of morgue coffee. “I’ll leave him in there for a little while. Let him cool his heels. He won’t be stealing any more bodies when I’m through with that bastard.”
Rink took a sip of coffee.
He didn’t even grimace.
He was one hell-of-a tough cop.
Muffled screams kept coming from the freezer.
“aaahhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”
…on and on.
It didn’t seem to bother Peg-leg or Rink, so I didn’t let it bother me.
Today
Is My Lucky Day
I got a cup and joined Peg-leg and Sergeant Rink in sonic coffee while the goon continued screaming, tucked away on his tray in the city refrigerator.
“I told Sergeant Rink just before you jumped in here, ‘Eye,’ which I appreciate a lot, shit, if the sergeant hadn’t come along you’d be my hero, that these guys stole two bodies from me today,” Peg-leg said. “I don’t know what in the hell they wanted two bodies for. They were just getting ready to work me over again when the sergeant came by. What a break. Today is my lucky day.”
Peg-leg was looking directly into my eyes when he said, “Lucky day.” I appreciated it. Of course two hundred and fifty bucks in your pocket isn’t exactly a horse laugh.
“I’ll find out why these guys stole those bodies,” Sergeant Rink said. “I’ll let our friend stay in the cooler until we finish our coffee. He’ll be ready to talk by then and I don’t think he’ll want to steal any more bodies. He’ll be reformed, the fucking desecrater.”
His screams continued to work their way out of the cooler. They never stopped. The guy sounded as if he were going insane in there.
“You have no idea why these guys wanted to steal those bodies, huh?” Sergeant Rink said to Peg-leg.
“None,” Peg-leg said. “I think they’re just a pair of fucking ghouls. Bela Lugosi would be proud to know these jerks.”
“What bodies did they take?” Rink said.
“Two women,” Peg-leg said. “A suicide divorcée, no loss, and the body of that murdered whore you brought in earlier.”
“Her, huh?” the sergeant said. “She was a good-looking woman. Too bad. So those creeps stole her body. This is getting a little more interesting.”
The ghoul hood continued screaming from the icebox.
“I think he’s almost ready,” Rink said. “I don’t think I’m going to have any trouble getting the truth out of him.”
The other hood continued to hibernate on the floor in the corner. He sure was unconscious. When Rink puts them out, they stay out.
“aaahhhhhhhhhh… aaahhhhhhhhh… aaahhhhhhhh”
…continued to come from the refrigerator.
Sergeant Rink took another sip of coffee.
The Sahara Desert
Just about that time the third hood came strolling into the autopsy room, looking for his amigos in body theft. He was greeted by the sight of one of his buddies lying in a very unconscious heap in the corner and he could hear the muffled screams of his other partner coming from the icebox.
The hood turned white as a sheet.
“Wrong room,” he said. The words were very dry when they came out of his mouth. He sounded like the Sahara Desert talking.
“Excuse me,” he said, turning around with great difficulty and heading unevenly toward the sanctuary of the door which must have seemed like a million miles away to him. He had just been turned from a living, breathing hood to a cardboard cutout of a hood.
“Wait a minute, citizen,” Sergeant Rink said, and then took a casual sip of his coffee. “Where in the fuck do you think you’re going?”
The hood stopped dead in his tracks which was very appropriate for the place that he was at.
“I’ve got the wrong address,” he said, Sahara-ily.
Sergeant Rink shook his head very slowly.
“Do you mean this is the right address?” the hood said, not knowing what he was saying, his brain hypnotized by fear.
Sergeant Rink nodded his head, yes, this was the right place.
“Sit down, fuckball,” the sergeant said, motioning toward a chair on the far side of the room right beside the body of the sleeping bear-like hood.
“Fuckball” started to say something but Sergeant Rink shook his head, no. The hood let out a huge sigh that could have filled a clipper sail. He started walking very unsure of himself as if on a stormy deck toward the chair.
The screams continued coming from the refrigerator.
“aaahhhhhhhhhhhh… aaahhhhhhhh… aaahhhhhhhhh”
“Wait a minute,” Rink said to the hood. “Do you have a heater?”
The hood stopped in his tracks and stood there as if he were frozen. He was staring at the icebox where the screams were coming from. He looked as if he were in a dream. He slowly nodded his head that he had a gun.
“That’s not a nice boy,” Sergeant Rink said fatherly, but he sounded like a father whose business was a pitchfork factory in hell. “I bet you don’t have a permit either.”
The gunsel shook his head that he didn’t have a permit. Then he spoke with great difficulty. “Why’s he in there?” he said.
“Do you want to join him?”
“NO!” the crook yelled.
He was very emphatic about not wanting to get into the refrigerator with his comrade.
“Then be a good boy and I won’t put you in with the dead people.”
The hood nodded his head very emphatically that he wanted to be a good boy.
“Take the gun slowly out of your pocket and don’t point it at anybody. Guns sometimes go off accidentally and we wouldn’t want that to happen because somebody might get hurt and then somebody would spend their school vacation in the refrigerator with the dead people.”
The crook took a .45 so slowly out of his pocket that he reminded me of trying to get very cold maple syrup out of a bottle.
The sergeant just sat there with the cup of coffee in his hand. He was a very cool customer and I could have been his partner if Babylon hadn’t gotten the best of me.
“Bring the gun over here,” the sergeant said.
The crook brought the gun over to the sergeant.
He was carrying the .45 as if he were a girl scout with a box of cookies in his hand.
“Hand me the gun.”
He handed the gun to the sergeant.
“Now go put your ass down on that chair and I don’t want to hear anything out of you,” Rink said. “I want you to become a statue. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
It was a yes that sounded as if it really wanted to go and sit down and become a living statue.
The hood took the yes over to the chair beside his sleeping chum and sat down. He did just what the sergeant said and became a statue of failed criminality. He had pointed himself marbly in the direction of the icebox. He sat there staring at it and li
stening to the screams coming from it.
“aaahhhh ! ! ! aaahhhhh ! ! ! aaahhhhh ! ! ! aaahhhh!!!”
…coming now in short gasps.
“Just like the Shadow says,” Sergeant Rink said. “ ‘Crime doesn’t pay.’ ”
“aaahhhh ! ! ! aaahhhh ! ! ! ahhhh ! ! ! aaahhhh ! ! !”
“I think this fucker is ready to sing now,” Rink said. “I’m going to get to the bottom of this. Morgues shouldn’t be this exciting. The city of San Francisco can’t afford to have its corpses pickpocketed. It gives the town a bad reputation among dead people.”
“aaahhhh ! ! ! aaahhhh ! ! ! aaahhhh ! ! ! aaahhhh !!!”
…continuing to come from the refrigerator.
“Any operas you guys want to hear?” the sergeant said.
“La Traviata,” I said.
“Madam Butterfly,” Peg-leg said.
“Coming up,” Rink said.
The Edgar Allan Poe
Hotfoot
There are no words to describe the expression on the hood’s face when Sergeant Rink pulled him out of the refrigerator. He opened it up just a crack at first. You could only see the guy’s eyes. They looked as if Edgar Allan Poe had given them both hotfoots.
He was screaming as the tray was slowly pulled out.
“AAAHHHHHHH! AAAHHHHHHH! AAAHHHHHH! AAAHHHHHHHH!”
…with those eyes looking wildly at us.
“Shut up,” Rink said.
“AAAH—” The hood shut totally up as if an invisible Mount Everest had been dropped on his mouth.
The expression in his eyes changed from Poe-esque terror to an unbelievable dimension of silent pleading. He looked as if he were asking the Pope for a miracle.
“Would you like to come out a little further into the world of the living?” Rink said.
Dreaming of Babylon Page 9
