"Who killed Cotton?" I gave Willieboy my serious face.
"I don't know and he couldn't tell us. When we talked to Billings, he was no help because he was in Blacktime while Cotton was getting murdered. There was a lot of activity revolving around Billings so we couldn't give a real search for Cotton without attracting attention. We finally found what was left of him out back, but by then, all the groups were represented and we had to play by the rules or take the shadows."
I stared at Willieboy hard, trying to detect any subterfuge. I had to admit the scar over his lip was an imposing characteristic. That married to his black eyes made him unreadable.
"So, here we are."
"Here we are. And you're playing hero." Willieboy let out a cloud of smoke. "I just wanted to get hold of you and look you in the eyes while you can still look back. You've pissed off Inspector Cane. He's a bad fucker who will kill you if he takes it into his mind to do it. I don't know what his beef is, but he has an 'all points' out on you. He says detain at all costs. Which means he'll question you when you're dead if he has to. He's going ballistic, so he must have a pretty big gun to the back of his head. When we heard a call on the radio ordering five cars to the Mother of Christ Cathedral to apprehend a known felon we stepped in. Lucky we were there."
"You might take me for a sap, but I know you must have something to gain by this."
"Regenerics." Willieboy's face drew into a serious set of lines. "And listen, I'm the closest thing to justice there is in Greasetown. If you can trust anyone, it's me. I just want business-as-usual. People start getting cut up, and it's no fun anymore. I genuinely believe you're unconnected. Christ, the way you've bungled through all this attests to that. But since you're unconnected you're free to operate. I've still got to work with some of these boys so I don't want to push from my end...and as I said we stand to make loads of cash, if Cotton's Regenerics is real and it works. We tossed his room at the Morocco and came up empty. Whatever he needed protection for was gone. Someone has it."
"By what you say, no one in Authority does." I was still trying to read Willieboy.
"Van Reydner's the only person who was there that night who hasn't turned up dead. I figure the people that mangled Cotton were at the hotel to get the Regenerics secret, too. They must have been some pissed off when he didn't have it."
"And then Adrian suffers a similar fate to Cotton's. Look you want to help me, tell me who the King's men are. Who does Cane belong to?" I didn't want to give anything away.
"With the King's men, you never know. He's got people in so deep that you never recognize them till they're pulling your liver out. Just avoid the King if you can." Willieboy's eyes wavered. "And Cane, he's with Twelve Stars."
"Twelve Stars…" I echoed, then looked away. "You'll be watching me, won't you?"
"Oh yeah. But I'll be wearing a helmet. There's a Hell of a lot of attention coming your way and I don't want to catch any shrapnel." The scar across his cheeks blazed crimson. "See it doesn't kill you."
"Can I have my gun?" I held my hand out.
"Yeah. I'd sleep with the fucker if I were you." He retrieved it from the pile made by his armor. "I wouldn't go home. And I'd take that makeup off. Fuck, you stand out like a sore thumb."
"That's funny, did you make that up--that thing about the thumb?" I slipped the gun through my belt. "I'm not going home, but I'll be damned if I'll give you directions. We'll see if your operatives can keep up with me for a change. I don't want to make it too easy for you."
"You're an asshole!" Willieboy sneered.
"Yes." I gestured to Elmo and we left Willieboy in the office. His partner let us out and we drove down toward the dock. I watched for a tail. None. Of course, there had been no trace of them before.
"Where to, Boss?" Elmo worked the wheel.
"I feel crazy today, Fatso. Let's go buy ourselves a new car." I settled into my seat. I knew a couple of things. I had momentarily entertained the notion that Cotton had information to give out. But, by the sound of it, Regenerics was fairly common knowledge in the scientific community. The only reason I could figure they cut Cotton to pieces was to keep him quiet after the fact. Regenerics was already out of the bag, so whatever Cotton's secret was, it was related to but not the science. I sighed, and thought of Van Reydner's steamy eyes. I had to find her.
I stared blankly out the window at the passing buildings. I stopped blinking my eyes, and the city turned to a blur. I rubbed my chest feeling old and tired. That finger of doom had suddenly appeared and it was pointed right at me.
Chapter 46
I was in a hallway in a rundown building in Gritburg. Elmo waited outside in our new car. It was a rusty remake of the Chrysler 2000, long lost cousin to our deceased Newport; it was also a wreck but it had only cost two hundred dollars. I had to use up a good deal of my savings and got nothing on the trade in. The old car had been so riddled with bullet holes you could have used it to grate cheese. I was certain the new car was stolen. I had to call in an old debt to get one that Willieboy couldn't trace. I knew a back alley machinist who worked over boosted cars. Saul Wise. I had snapped pictures of his wife humping their dentist, doctor, and a young kid in an alleyway. Funny thing about Saul: he didn't get mad, just excited as he put the photos away for later viewing. He also didn't pay me all he owed. That was how I got a good deal on the car. Elmo finally shook anyone who might be tailing us with a white-knuckle turn on the far side of a streetcar. The new Chrysler performed well for a wreck.
Elmo was downstairs admiring it, while I waited inside for a blind superintendent to open the door to a room. I wore my clown outfit, but had managed to disguise myself somewhat with a compromise of fedora and a long gray overcoat that I had picked up at the Salvation Army. The time was about six o'clock. The streetlights had just buzzed to life. It was Friday. The weekend had arrived. Those who could afford it would be whisking away from town on bullet trains to their cottages in the north--all nine of them. Authority maintained special animal-free preserves for such purposes.
"Joost a minoot!" The little fat blind man said. He was bent over at the lock clicking his tongue and working his way through an enormous ring of keys. I looked down at the back of his head in an eerie half-light from a dim bulb over the stairs. His hair was slicked back with a concoction that smelled of axle grease, lard and rosehips. I tried breathing through my mouth but found I could taste it. "Der, der, der, der--ah!" That had become his mantra. He had only got my spirits up the first ten times he had said it. This was the fifteenth.
"Maybe you could put a light bulb out here," I said impatiently. "You may not be blind after all."
"Joost a minoot!" More jangling. "Der, der, der, der--ah!"
I steadied my temper by running a finger over the lettering on the door. It was painted in plain script in an arch. Owen Grey Private Investigations.
I'd found Grey's office number in a phone book at a drugstore where Elmo had dropped me off to eat. Simple as that. He worked at 299 Gritburg in the Horowitz building. I called the number. The phone rang and rang. I called the superintendent of the building, the same fellow who was saying, "Der, der, der, der--ah!" again. He had been all but unintelligible on the phone, but I did make out that an Owen Grey rented an office in the Horowitz building. I hadn't been able to find a place of residence for Grey. I'd have to take a trip to the hall of records when I decided it warranted the risk of being so exposed.
I'd gone into the superintendent's office and quickly bribed him with twenty dollars. When I told him I was a detective, he got all secret agent-like, lowered his head and hunched his shoulders. He slinked around the office. I half-expected him to turn his collar up. Apparently he observed some unwritten detective brotherhood because he seemed quite willing to help. Boredom probably and life after the Change made too many demands upon sanity to allow long periods of introspection. I assumed that the isolation had already pushed him over the edge. Judging from his demeanor and his appearance, I guessed he had not been visit
ed by a living human--or a dead one for that matter--for months, just renters, all business or avoidance. He had not laid eyes on Grey in two years.
"Der, der, der, der--Ah ha!" he cried, and the door swung open. He gestured with a broad hand. "Der, now as simple as dat! You take a look around, Mizter Wiltclown. I weel be beck at my offiss."
"Yeah, simple as that." I nodded my thanks, then entered. The waiting room stank of neglect. The carpet had that slightly sticky feel of one that had long gone without a cleaning. Mold and dust. A lengthy wooden bench stretched along one wall. A small coffee table stood in front of it with a number of old magazines. I glanced at their dates. Two years old--January of '48. Across from me was an inner door. I walked to it, grabbed the brass knob and entered.
I found a small office inside. Everything was covered with dust. Three black filing cabinets lined one wall like senators at a photo opportunity. A large desk sat before a window shuttered with blinds. An empty ashtray had been placed on it to the left beneath a lamp. I crossed to the desk and snapped the light on. Nothing. I grabbed the cord. It came free. I crawled behind the desk and jammed the plug in at an awkward angle. The light came on. I stood up. A large well-padded leather chair sat behind the desk. I ignored it and pulled on the first filing cabinet drawer I came to.
It was unlocked and empty. I tried the next drawer. Empty as well. I knew it would be. The fact that the lamp cord was pulled out told me that. No one in his right mind would plug the thing in more than once. The place had been frisked, that was obvious. And whoever had done it had said the hell with the lamp cord. Everything else had been put away nicely. The files were taken. That told me that whoever searched the room had done so without authorization from the higher-ups and had to do the methodical investigation of the case files somewhere else.
I tried the other drawers. Nothing. I sauntered over to the desk and dropped into the chair. The action was answered by a distinctive crushed clink of broken glass. I reached into the crack between the cushion and the arm with my right hand, and cut the first and second fingers. Someone hadn't cleaned up completely. Sucking blood from the wound, I detected the slightest smell of whiskey. The glass ground beneath me.
I pulled open the top drawer and found it empty. There was a deep, broad one on my right, I pulled that open. A dark brown bottle of whiskey rolled into the light. I smiled at it. Old friend. I grabbed it and set it on the desk in front of me. It was about quarter-full. I read Canadian Club beneath my bloody fingerprints. I took a handkerchief from my overcoat and bound it. Not a bad cut, but it would be messy for a while. I grabbed the bottle, twisted the top off, sniffed, then upended and drank half of it. The whiskey burned my throat, but I loved the sensation. I belched absentmindedly, then crossed and uncrossed my legs, rolling the bottle around in my lap.
I studied the office and wondered what had happened to Grey. There were no plaques or diplomas on the walls. The two pictures were of a mallard duck and the other a pair of Canada Geese. So he liked his wildfowl, maybe a hunter in the good old days when you could shoot a duck without being murdered by the flock. Then I had a strange sensation--a powerful feeling of familiarity. Things seemed a little pat, too predictable. Grey's was very much like my own office. But I was a detective. He was a detective. Our offices were decorated in Detective style. All function and mold.
I lifted the bottle and drained it. My belly started burning at the last gulp. I lowered the bottle, but noticed a silhouette of something through the brown glass. I peered in, then flipped the bottle. In the slight depression on the bottom, there was a small neatly folded envelope. It had been flattened thoroughly and taped into the recess. I suppressed a grin; I repressed a Eureka! I congratulated my boozehound's nose.
First I licked any remaining blood from my fingers and then dried them on the leg of my coverall. I flicked the tape loose with a fingernail and pulled the envelope free. I set the bottle down and moved my chair close under the light. Gingerly, I pulled the envelope apart. A key fell onto the desk blotter with a muffled rattle. I picked it up. It was a key to a locker. Someone had stamped 'Greasetown Transit' on it. The terminal was not far off. I would go there.
Chapter 47
A bus with a 'Dead Only' sign over its door roared away from the terminal. I saw a collection of dead faces looking out through the flyspecked windows. The air was thick with exhaust fumes, the smell of oil, and people. The great roofed-in departure area was sour with the scents of travel. I had no idea where a bus full of dead people would be going, but they still managed to conjure up the hopeful, worried, anxious expressions of travelers. Probably going down the coast to Vicetown: gambling, roller coasters and prostitutes. A huge carnival for the kids when there were kids.
A wheezing transit bus pulled up and disgorged its passengers onto the dirty cement ramp that ran around the terminal. A collection of bodies living and dead moved in a pulsing mass to the stairs and down toward the subway. The practical considerations of mass transit negated notions like prejudice and intolerance at least until everybody got home. I mused over the idea of a vacation as I walked into the main terminal. Heavy glass doors just managed to keep the air inside breathable. I headed toward a long bank of lockers, big and small. My key said A21. I found the group of lockers in the 'A' section. They were an enameled orange.
I rattled the doors with my fingertip as I walked along underlining the numbers: 18, 19, 20, and 21. The door was just like all the others. There was no X marked on it in red paint. The key fit perfectly. It was a little sticky but turned eventually. I paused, resisted the temptation to draw a hopeful breath then opened the door.
A musty scent. On the locker's one shelf was a book. A thin leather-backed journal. I snatched it up, shut the door and walked quickly back to the car. Elmo's eyes were hopeful.
"Back to Grey's office," I said, hugging the tome with all the answers to my chest.
Chapter 48
The superintendent had been obliging this second time. He only charged me ten bucks admission. I asked him who paid the rent for Grey. He said he assumed it was Grey since he had received a series of money orders in the mail without a return address--just a note saying Owen Grey's rent, but that it had been paid up for two years. He told me he didn't keep the notes before I could ask to see them. The rent was due, and the superintendent wondered when more money orders would arrive. He showed me a stack of flyers and bills that the post office had been delivering to Grey's office. I took a quick look through the envelopes, and found only creditors. A gun shop, a bill from a grocery store. I smiled at the superintendent and told him not to worry. I went up to the office. Elmo came with me this time. My dead gunsel looked around wide-eyed before remarking, "Just like home." I walked to the couch and lifted a cushion. A hide-a-bed. I pulled it out. Musty blankets and mattress. I turned down the covers and found a few dark spiral hairs, nothing more. I glanced at the coat rack. There were a handful of wire hangers empty. I surmised that Grey lived at the office. The fact that there were no clothes piled up anywhere gave me hope that he was still alive. He may have run. I asked Elmo to wait in the outer room and keep an eye open for trouble. He was engrossed in an old magazine when I left him.
I had a pint of whiskey, and a couple of sandwiches in front of me. I'd dusted off the ink blotter to use as a place mat then bent the lamp over and set the journal down in front of me. Biting into a sandwich I paused. Tommy hadn't protested at all. I had been in possession of his body for a full day and he had not complained. I shrugged, then yawned. It was about eight. I had to make sure he got some rest. The beating the Handyman had given me still told; but the absence of bacteria did wonders for my recovery time. It was another of the few benefits of the Change. The bacterial extinction centered on the types that caused infection and rot, while miraculously allowing the survival of species that produced alcohol. Maybe it was proof there was a God--if I were God I would have worked it that way. Regardless it left me mainly tight muscles and tenderness. I'm sure my shoulder could hav
e used a couple of stitches but I didn't have the time. And whoever had worked me over might be keeping tabs on Greasetown's hospitals.
To work. I opened the journal. The first page was covered with handwriting. It was in blue ink in a strong hand.
February nine, '48. Received phone call from Mr. Wilson and Mrs. Helen Hawksbridge. I talked to Mr. Hawksbridge. He sounded worried. Told me they had to see me. Needed my help. I told them to come over.
They arrived at ten p.m. Mr. Hawksbridge a real stuffed shirt. Mrs. Hawksbridge a fine looking piece of womanhood. Too young for the old guy. Might be plastic surgery. Both felt out of place in my neighborhood. Made sure I knew it.
They want me to look for their daughter: Julie Hawksbridge. She is 25 pre-Change age. Blonde hair, blue eyes. Disappeared two weeks ago. Authority won't take them seriously. She is old enough to get lost if she wants.
I take the job.
They went quiet. Then the woman spoke. She said Julie is pregnant. I try not to laugh.
I go along with them and ask about the father. She has boyfriend, Victor Davis. They gave me his phone number. 555-1536
She has been pregnant before. All miscarriages. They gave me photo of girl. Very pretty.
I dropped my sandwich and riffled through the journal's pages. No photo. I quickly realized Grey would have carried it with him if he were trying to identify her.
February 10, '48. Talked to Inspector Borden. He is uninterested in my questions. Says it's none of my business. Prick. He works in records at Authority HQ.
Same day. Try calling Victor Davis. Number disconnected. Nothing in phonebook or information.
Same day. Followed home. Dark car. Drove off when I approached it. Talked to John Harker. Reporter-Greasetown Gazette. Let me see files on phantom baby. A lot of wild rumor. Strange calls. Nothing specific on pregnant women.
Same day. Talked to Dr. Arthur Klingspon. I did double-check on baby problem. Assures me, many women have hysterical pregnancies. Knows of no genuine cases since the Great Stillbirth.
When Graveyards Yawn Page 22
