Secret Dead Men

by Duane Swierczynski

  Paul walked into the hotel bar first. Slowly, as if he were too bored to be doing anything else. The bar was right off the side of the lobby; a dark, oaky-looking room. While I didn’t exactly know what Paul was thinking—it was more like I possessed deep intuition about Paul’s intentions rather than direct knowledge—I knew he was checking for signs of Gard. Why would Gard be here and not upstairs? Good question. It’s not one I would have immediately asked.

  Paul walked directly to the bar and took a seat. He looked at the bartender, then to the guy at his right. Sweaty, young, in a very fashionable tweed suit, though wrong for this time of year. Blonde hair falling in every direction but the correct one. He kept looking at the door, waiting for people to pass his line of vision.

  Finally, Paul tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Gard.”

  The man started, then wiped his brow with a cocktail napkin and recovered. “Mr. Wojciechowski.”

  “No,” said Paul, “I’m his senior associate. Paul After.”

  They shook hands. I received a sensory flash: sweaty palms. Ugh.

  “Mr. Wojciechowski is seeing to some urgent business in Nevada,” Paul explained. Good boy. Keep the famous Mr. W. shrouded in mystery. Clients loved that.

  “I understand.” Gard took a drink, then seemed as if a light bulb had gone off in his thick blonde skull. “How did you…”

  Paul finished the sentence. “Know you? Come, now. I assume you’re going to pay me a lot of money to predict what’s coming next.”

  Damn. Mr. Mofo Disco Detective.

  Gard seemed impressed, too. “Care for a drink?”

  “In a moment,” Paul said. “First, I’d like to know why you are down here, in this bar, instead of upstairs in the room number you supplied my associate. Seems like you’re up to more than sneaking a peek at the hired help.”

  “I admit, that was part of it. But there’s also bit of preface to your job. The clerk at the front desk was supposed to send you over.”

  “What preface?” Paul asked.

  “Before you meet Susie, I wanted to make this perfectly clear: no matter what I say upstairs, no matter how aloof I may seem, your loyalties will remain with me completely. You will run every single decision by me. You will not move a finger without my knowing about it. Everything begins and ends with me.”

  Paul nodded. Seemed fair to me, too. Gard was footing the bill.

  “Upstairs, you are going to meet a woman who is my mistress. I demand complete discretion as well as respect in this regard. She is going to ask for your assistance. You are going to give it. You are also going to give her the impression you are working for her, not me.”

  Paul smirked. “I am to win her confidence. And, of course, I am to report everything to you.”

  “You’re quick,” Gard said.

  And you’re a sweaty goofball.

  Paul glanced at himself in the mirror, as if he could hear me. Could he?

  “Now how about that drink, eh?” Gard asked. “Take a few minutes, then come upstairs as planned. I’ll introduce you and you can begin your assignment.” He placed a hand on Paul’s back. An uncomfortable jolt went through both of us. “Henry! Give this man whatever he likes.” A pug-nosed, white-haired man in a bow tie raised his head.

  “A Shirley Temple, please” Paul said.

  “A hard-boiled man like yourself?” Gard laughed.

  Paul didn’t answer the question. He told Henry not to forget the cherry. Gard shook his head.

  “Oh, by the way.” Gard fished a check out of his suit pocket and placed it on the bar. “For today’s meeting. I’ll mail a check for double that every week, as agreed.”

  Paul didn’t look at the check. I wanted him to, but I couldn’t exactly force his eyes down to the bar top. “Thanks.”

  Richard was left holding the conversational bag, so he decided to leave.

  There was a lot to learn from Paul.

  I tuned out while Paul was enjoying his Shirley Temple and wandered back to my office. I could have ported myself there, but that kind of thing became disorienting after a while. The more the Brain Hotel seemed like real life, the better.

  I poured myself a glass of Brain Chivas Regal and read through a notebook of some Association notes from last year. The notes were perfect; exactly as I’d recorded them months ago. But the Chivas was only as good as I remembered it.

  After a while, the notes all seemed to blur together. A lot of numbers, a lot of places, a lot of words and letters. It started to bore me.

  I made my way back down to the Hotel lobby in time for Paul to meet Gard’s mistress up on the screen. It was not unlike watching a movie, especially when our new client entered the scene.

  “Susannah Winston, Paul After.”

  There was a pause. A long, awkward pause. Hell, I was getting ready to say something when Susannah finally broke in.

  “After what, Paul?” she asked, smiling.

  “Charmed to meet you, Ms. Winston.”

  I noticed Paul’s hand lingering on Susannah’s. Mine would have too, believe me. I tossed back another gulp of Brain Chivas and took a closer look.

  Susannah Winston had chestnut hair, fashionably bobbed to a sharp point on both sides of her prettily squared jaw. Her nose was slightly upturned, as if to clear way for her lips—full and dark red. A man in his twenties would consider her the antidote to marriage: one single, sensuous reason to stay single forever. And a man in his thirties or forties would think of her as a luscious packet of instant infidelity. Richard Gard looked to be pushing forty.

  Susannah was much, much younger. Large round blue eyes and a mouth that curled upward like a smile, even when she wasn’t reacting to anything. Even doing something as mundane as lighting a cigarette. I could detail the physical attributes below her neck, but it would be redundant. I could see the death-drop curves beneath those polyester slacks as clearly as if she was wearing a bikini.

  “What can I do for you?” Paul asked.

  “I used to date the wrong kind of boy, and now one them wants to murder me,” she said, then wrapped her lips around her cigarette.

  Richard looked away, as if he didn’t hear. Instead, he asked, “Anybody up for a drink?”

  Susannah looked at Paul. “I’ll bet you’re a gin-and-tonic man, aren’t you?”

  “Just tonic,” Paul said. “No ice.”

  Good boy. I’d warned him about boozing it up on the job in the real world.

  Susannah waited until Richard had returned with the drinks—plain tonic for Paul, two gin-and-tonics for Richard and Susannah. Apparently, these people were big on gin. Me? I couldn’t stand the stuff—always gave me a wicked hangover the next day. Then again, this was probably because I only used to drink the cheap stuff.

  The three made their way to the living room and sat down—Paul in a plush loveseat, Susannah and Richard on a long, spare couch without any extra pillows.

  “I haven’t even told Richard the entire story, to be honest,” Susannah said. “I wanted both of you to hear everything. I’m sure it hurts him as much as it hurts me.”

  Richard heard that, all right. He glanced at Susannah, gave her a warm, large smile, then looked back down at his drink.

  “I’m from a small, yet substantially wealthy family from the suburbs of Boston,” she said. “My father made his fortune after World War II, when he invented a military tracking device that, to this day, is considered state of the art.”

  She let that sink in and continued, “I grew up in splendor, was sent to private academies. Smith College, eventually, where I majored in Victorian literature. A colossal waste of time. All of it. And I don’t say that lightly. All I wanted was a real education—one that would teach me the way the world really worked. That’s what I needed. Not emerald-studded bracelets and pretty pink dresses.

  “I received that education soon enough. The year after I graduated Smith, I spent a week in New York City with some of my classmates—courtesy of my father, of course. We stayed at the Royal
ton, had our pick of restaurants and Broadway shows, four-star everything. It was a perfectly miserable trip.”

  “Yeah, I hear The Wiz is a real nightmare,” Paul said.

  Richard’s eyes narrowed. “Now look here…”

  “No, it’s all right,” Susannah said. “I guess it does sound like a pathetic sob story. Poor little rich girl doesn’t get her way. But you haven’t heard the part that makes me cry, Mr. After. At least allow me that.”

  Paul nodded deferentially.

  “One night, my girlfriends and I decided to see the seamy parts of town, the kind we’d certainly never see at Smith. We took a cab down to the East Village and walked into a jazz club. I met a boy there—his name was Chris. He was skinny, his clothes were ten years out of style and his fingernails were dirty, but I let him buy me a drink. To be honest, it was exciting.”

  “And sure to anger your parents,” Paul said.

  Susannah looked down at her shoes. “Precisely. I was looking for a different kind of education, and here was a man who presented himself as the crash course. So I never went back to Boston. I moved in with Chris—who turned out to be a pot-dealer, a television repair shop janitor, and sometimes, when he was in the mood, a novelist. Of course, all I focused on was the novelist part—even though he never let me read a word. For a sheltered Smith girl, he was Jack Kerouac. Until he raped me.”

  I’m sure she had been saving this for the right moment. Both Paul and Richard did the exact same thing: lowered their drinks and averted their eyes, as if ashamed for the entire male sex.

  “Oh, he made such a fuss about apologizing, blaming the drink, his frustrations with being unknown. But nothing could explain away the act. The first chance I had, I ran to a nearby diner and called my father to beg his forgiveness and ask for train fare home. But my mother answered. It turned out I was too late.”

  “He came looking for you?” asked Richard.

  “No. He’d already dropped dead from a stroke.”

  Susannah took a sip of her drink. I noted how much care she took not to leave any of her lipstick on the glass. Must be hard to drink that way.

  “When I arrived home, I found my mother had pulled a Sylvia Plath.”

  Paul and Richard said nothing. They lowered their heads even further.

  “But then I discovered Dad had forgiven me, in his own way. Weeks after I’d told him I was staying in New York, he had his will changed, and I soon discovered I was a half-million dollars richer.”

  “That was all he had left?” Paul asked. “For an inventor of something as important as…” He faked a pause, as if struggling to remember. He was trying to make her give away an extra detail.

  It didn’t work. “No, that was all,” Susannah said, and took another clean sip from her glass. “The government basically stole the patent, and probably gave him a million to shut him up. Part of me didn’t even want to take the money—I didn’t enjoy earning it through my parents death, or for that matter, that my father had earned it inventing a tool that sent thousands to their deaths in Vietnam.”

  “The guilt must have been awful,” Richard said.

  Thank God I wasn’t the one conducting this case. I couldn’t imagine spending any more than 20 minutes with this drama queen.

  Paul said, “And you took the money.”

  Susannah shot him a pair of icy daggers. “Yes, I took the money. I had nothing. And I wasn’t going to refuse my late father’s apology.”

  “Was that necessary, Mr. After?” asked Richard.

  “I’m sorry if I offended either one of you,” Paul said. “I’m simply trying to establish motive.” He looked directly at Susannah. “Besides, I think I know where your story is headed. Out of the blue, your East Village friend catches wind of your windfall and takes the next cheap bus up to Boston to try for a second chance at love. With a fist or a pistol, if necessary.”

  “No,” said Susannah, looking pleased with herself. “I never saw the boy again.”

  “Then who’s after you?”

  “Oh,” she said, then laughed to herself. “You thought the man after me was … him? Please. No, no, Mr. After, I didn’t have Richard bring you all the way from Los Angeles to protect me from a scummy painter boy. We’ve hired you to protect me from a professional killer.”

  Boy, I thought. Professional killers were everywhere this time of year.

  “Come again?” Paul asked.

  “Of course, I didn’t know he was a pro at the time. He was all fancy French wines and exotic meals at first. He told me he was an international banker. Only later did I realize his most recent target was an international banker. That’s how he knew so much about the lifestyle. He was—is—a professional chameleon.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “The name he used? Roger Adams. I’m sure it’s fake.”

  Paul took the opportunity to stand up. I was suddenly thrown off by the sudden change of perspective. Even flashed up on the screen of the hotel lobby, sudden motion always gave me a touch of vertigo.

  “Ms. Winston, can you tell me anything about the daily schedule of this Adams? I happen to know a great deal about these types of men…”

  Understatement of the year!

  “…and it would help to understand his habits.”

  “I didn’t see him often enough to learn a routine. You see, I’ve been traveling for a while. I mean, was. Travel brought me to Philadelphia, and to Richard.”

  The sap smiled as if this was some sort of personal achievement.

  “Right after my parents died, I decided I wanted to see the world. I met Roger months later, in Paris, while I was staying in a small artists’ tenement. The rent was cheap, and the conversations—the ones I understood at least—were phenomenal. Everyone I met was either a novelist, or a painter, or graphic designer…”

  Was there a pistol in this hotel lobby? I asked myself. Can I put myself out of my misery now?

  She went on at length about the wonders of café life, and how she was completely bedazzled by the Great and Powerful Roger Adams, and what they ate for dinner (shark), and what they drank afterward (vodka gimlets), and what pretentious poetry they talked about (Auden)…. To his credit, Paul let her ramble. I guess he didn’t want to insult her again. Or maybe she lulled him to sleep. Her beloved Richard Gard, I noticed, was looking droopy around the eyes. Paul waited until she talked herself dry before nudging the conversation back towards the topic at hand.

  “And you saw him only once in Paris?”

  “Yes, but we met up many, many times after. He traveled a lot on business and I found myself tagging along. It was fun and it gave my traveling a kind of purpose. I felt alive again. Until reality reared its ugly head.”

  “When did you first realize?” Paul asked.

  “When I found the gun in his suitcase, and the dossier.”

  Ah. Now here’s where Ms. Winston was tripping herself up. And I didn’t need Paul’s expertise to know it. Pro killers didn’t carry a pistol, singular; they carried a portable arsenal. Knives, clips, guns, poisons, knucks, the works. And a dossier? Yeah. Unless it’s tattooed onto their lower intestine for emergency reference, all the pros I’ve encountered never kept written info on their person. It was memorized, or locked away in a safe location.

  Of course, Paul knew it too. I could sense him smirking. “A dossier?”

  “Yes. Photographs, addresses, social security records—everything.”

  Paul nodded. “Where were you when you made this discovery?”

  “In Dublin. I’d been dying to go ever since I read Portraits of the Artists as Young Men. I’ve long loved Joyce—and art history. Especially the chapter about Picasso.”

  “Ah, yes,” Paul said. “It’s a classic.”

  My God. Who the hell did she think she was fooling? One look at Richard Gard supplied my answer. Gard wouldn’t know James Joyce from a Rolls Royce.

  Then again, I wondered if Paul would.

  Susannah continued, “We stayed at the W
estbury, of course. Roger slipped out for a couple of paperbacks for the plane home, and I was bored sitting in the room all by myself. I let my eyes wander.”

  Richard Gard suddenly spoke up. He’d probably been dying to talk for the past ten minutes. “And that’s when you found the gun.”

  “And the dossier,” Paul added.

  “Yes.” Susannah paused for the requisite amount of time. “I didn’t know what to do. Part of me wanted to play the innocent, and ask Roger about the things I’d found when he returned. But then the sane part of me took over. I knew he’d kill me once I’d found out. Then I heard the room key turn in the lock.

  Richard actually winced.

  “It was Roger, of course. I slid the files back into his briefcase and nudged the briefcase off the side of the bed, praying it wouldn’t make too loud a noise, or flip over and spill its contents. But thankfully, it didn’t. Just one thump, which the sound of the door closing again completely covered.

  “I asked Roger if he’d found anything good. He told me, ‘Nothing.’ Then he asked me what I’d been up to. I said, ‘Nothing.’ There was an uncomfortable moment between us. I knew he sensed something, so I tried changing the topic. I told him I wanted to go downstairs for a drink, maybe buy a couple of magazines. He told me no. I said, ‘What do you mean, no?’ And he repeated himself. ‘You’re not going anywhere.’ So, like any sensible woman, I told him he could fuck off and I started to walk past him. He punched me in the face.”

  That seemed to impact Paul and Richard as well. As much as men didn’t like to be told stories about women being raped, they sure as hell didn’t like to hear about men slapping women around. It was an indictment of the whole gender. By mere virtue of having a penis, we belonged to the guilty party.

  “I was stunned. Before I could scream out or cry for help, he hit me again, slapping me hard across the face. I could hardly breathe. The next memory I have is of Roger pinning me to the bed, his thick monkey fingers wrapped around my throat, threatening to kill me if I ever walked out on him again.”