Then the eruption of tears began. “I don’t know what you must think of me,” she said. “Oh wait. I know. You must be thinking, ‘What kind of girl would get herself involved with the same kind of trash, over and over … ?’”
Richard went to her and started to rub her back. “Believe me, Susannah,” he cooed. “I don’t think any of those things. I’ve heard far worse stories in my time.”
“None like this.” Susannah buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry…”
“Sorry? God, why are you sorry?”
“For me. For my past.”
Richard put down his drink and rested his hands on her shoulders.
Paul cleared his throat. “Go back for a moment. What happened after he hit you?”
“He took a shower.” Susannah sipped her drink. “Right then, as if nothing had happened. I couldn’t take that abuse anymore, boyfriend or not.”
“Then what did you do?”
Susannah paused. “I decided to run.”
“Go on, baby,” Richard said.
“I … I rushed out with all my things, but stopped at pile of his clothes, the ones he’d taken off before his shower. And I know I shouldn’t have, but I…”
“But you .. ?” Paul prompted.
Susannah’s eyes turned his way. “I took a pack of hotel matches and set his clothes on fire. He was always bragging about his stuff. He treated his goddamned shirts better than he treated me.”
Richard looked at her hard. “Which is how the room caught fire, right?”
“The room caught fire?” Paul asked.
“Yes,” Richard said. “That much, she’d told me. He died in a fire.”
“God as my witness, I didn’t know! I didn’t know!” she cried. “When I saw on the news later about the fire…” Susannah took another sip and stared off as if she was watching the broadcast again. “I knew he was dead.”
“So the guy who sent you the note can’t be your ex, can he?” Richard asked.
“He can’t be … but what if he is? Oh, God, Richard, this man is a murderer! He didn’t tell me he killed anyone until after we got to Europe! He said it was going to be our honeymoon!”
“Note?” Paul asked.
I wondered if this was how super-lawyer Richard Gard introduced exhibits in the courtroom. I knew who I wouldn’t be calling when it came time to bring down the Association in federal court.
Richard walked over to his briefcase and removed a thin sheet of paper from a manila folder. He handed it to Paul. It was incredibly flimsy and glossy—a photocopy.
L—
You’re dead.
All my love,
R
“This is not very specific,” Paul said. “Sure it’s not a prank?”
“No,” said Richard. “We’re not. But I’m not ready to take any chances.”
“Who’s ‘L’?” Paul asked.
“Me,” said Susannah.
“Oh. It’s Susannah with an L?”
She scowled. “No. It’s a stupid nickname he gave me—Lemondrop. My sweet and sour Lemondrop, he’d always say.” She looked away, covering her face with a tiny balled-up fist.
Richard walked over and sat down to hug her. “Don’t worry. Shhh. I’ll take care of everything.”
“He’s going to kill me, Richard.”
“No one’s going to kill you.”
Susannah broke the hug. “You don’t know. You don’t.”
“Shhh. Nothing’s going to happen to you.”
Susannah resumed the hug, and behind his back, with tears running down her face, smiled. “You’re too good to me, Richard.”
I couldn’t glom a vibe from Paul. He was trying too hard to be his noncommittal, professional self. But I did catch a glimmer of a thought: I can’t believe I’m watching this. Or it might have been: I can’t believe I’m involved in this. Or, quite possibly: I can’t believe a word of this.
“She’s lying, you know.”
I spun around. The Ghost of Fieldman had been standing in the Brain Hotel lobby, watching the scene with me. He had a Houdini-like knack for sudden appearances. I should have told him to go back to Vegas to start his own show.
“Which part?” I asked. “The rich inventor father? The Greenwich Village artist-rapist? The international hit man?”
“No man named “Winston” ever invented anything for any branch of United States military during the 20th century.”
“Maybe the government can keep a few secrets. Even from you.”
“Not likely. You want to know what is in the tap water in 1976? What the Air Force really found in Roswell, New Mexico? Why the United States Government invented static cling?”
“Stop,” I said. “Please. I’m only keeping an eye on Paul to make sure he knows what he’s doing, then I’m going back to work.”
“Ah, your quest for the Nevada crime syndicate. The entity you refer to as ‘The Association.’”
“That’s right. Aren’t you supposed to be helping me with my quest, Buddha man? Isn’t that what you told me back in Henderson?”
“Yes, I did say I was here to help, but not with that particular quest. You are wasting your days with that, Collective. The musical genre known as disco will outlive your ‘Association.’”
“Disco is all over the radio, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“I am absolutely amazed at how little you absorb, Collective. I’m not sure how your delicate sensibilities are going to survive the Sex Pistols.”
I’d had enough. “Stuff it, Fieldman. And stop calling me ‘Collective.’ You make me feel like an accountant.”
The Ghost of Fieldman shook his head and faded away.
I rejoined the conversation already in progress. Richard was back from refilling drinks. “Sweetheart, why don’t you fill in the gaps—you know, some physical description?”
Paul smiled. “Anything helps.”
Susannah caught herself staring at Paul, but recovered nicely. She started to plow through the information as if she were up all night practicing. “Roger is a short guy with a Napoleon complex. Last time I saw him—this was five years ago, now—he had short-cropped hair. Very Italian-looking. I used to go for that sort of thing when I was young.”
“Distinguishing features?”
“He had these deep-set eyes. Almost looked like they were black. A wide smile … and an awful limp.”
“A genetic marvel,” said Richard, chuckling.
“He was once shot in the knee cap.”
Paul asked, “Anything else?”
“He’s very nondescript. People used to say he looked like somebody they knew.”
Paul studied Susannah, who narrowed her eyes.
“So what can I expect from you, Mr. Paul After?”
“I find your man and have a nice chat with him. Maybe we’ll compare dossiers or talk about firearms.”
“And what if he doesn’t want to have a nice chat?”
“He won’t be able to chat with anyone,” Paul said. “Ever again.”
Uncomfortable pause. They all looked at each other. It was too much for Richard. He was probably imagining his disbarrment hearings.
“Pardon me,” he said. “I have to visit the boy’s room. Please make Paul at home, will you sweetheart?”
With that, Richard left. Susannah decided that making Paul at home entailed standing up, slinking across the carpet and taking a seat next to him.
“Have I ever seen you before, Mr. After?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“You look familiar.”
“I shouldn’t. I’m not from around here.”
“Neither am I.”
She took a drag from her cigarette, then blew smoke. “I suppose people tell you you look like somebody they know all the time.”
“Not usually.”
She paused. “You’re a hard one, aren’t you?”
Paul shrugged.
“I like that,” she said. “I honestly do.”
Susannah stared at Paul for a while, not sure of how to place him. I tell you, the man was a Grade-A professional. I’m not sure a usual member of Stan Wojciechowski’s crack detective team—namely, me—would have been able to face this task unmoved.
She tried a different approach: Big Boss Woman. “How many hours you going to devote to me?”
“As many as it takes.”
“That’s not an answer, Paul. I enjoy details.”
“I enjoy working alone.”
“I’ll need you whenever Richard’s not around. Days mostly, when he’s at the firm. And some nights.”
“What do you mean, need me?” Paul asked.
As if on cue, Richard returned from the bathroom. “Well, are we happy, Susannah?”
“I’ll need a schedule,” she said to him. “I need my freedom.”
“Of course,” Richard said. “Paul, you can start being Ms. Winston’s guardian angel tomorrow morning. I’ll send a car for you.”
“Whoah,” Paul said. “What is this? Some kind of fraternity prank? If you want a babysitter, I’ll give you the number of my eight-year-old niece in Toledo.”
Richard’s eyebrows lowered—undoubtedly, his patented kill-a-jury-with-my-sincerity look. “But Mr. After, this is the job. Until you find this madman, she’s going to need some protection. She’s quite safe here in the hotel—I’ve seen to that. But I need someone to be with her when she’s shopping, or having lunch out in the city, or even walking around Rittenhouse Square.”
“How many hours are we talking?” asked Paul, forcing every word out of his lips.
“As much as she needs,” he said.
Paul finished his drink then stood up. “I’ve heard enough.”
Damn! I ran over to the lobby microphone and nailed the button. Easy there, Paul. Take it easy.
“This is a bunch of crap,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but still audible.
“What?” barked Richard.
Hey! I yelled. What the hell are you doing?
Paul stood still for a moment, thinking it over. I’d like to think it was my stern voice that kept him from flipping Richard the bird and storming out of the room. But most likely, Paul realized that without this job, we would be homeless. Brain Hotel and all. He didn’t strike me as the type that enjoyed rooting through garbage cans for dinner.
“This tonic,” Paul said. “This tonic is crap.”
“But it’s Schweppes!” Susannah protested.
Richard ignored her. “Do we have an arrangement, Mr. After?”
“I suppose I’ll be seeing you tomorrow morning, Ms. Winston,” Paul said.
“As if it’s a bad thing?” Susannah asked. “Richard, I’ll show Mr. After to the door. Could you refresh my drink? No ice this time.”
“Sure, my peach.” He looked at Paul. “So we’re square?”
“As a box,” Paul said.
In the hallway, Susannah looked at Paul, then finally touched his cheek as if she were blind and trying to see with her fingertips.
Richard called from the other room: “You want ice, sweetheart?”
“No, I don’t, sweetheart,” she called back, rolling her eyes. She looked at Paul. “I think you’re going to like the time we spend together.”
Paul didn’t say anything.
“Did you ever meet anyone who reminded you of an ex-girlfriend, Paul?”
“Pardon?”
“And feel you want to fuck that person because they looked—perhaps even vaguely—like someone else?”
“No.”
Susannah smiled.
“See you tomorrow, Ms. Winston.”
Fourteen
Drinks at Tom’s Holiday
“My God, is she something,” I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. I must have scared Paul. On screen, the perspective snapped to the right.
What? Oh. You. Nice fucking job. I though you were a private detective, not a babysitter!
“Funny, it didn’t seem you minded the assignment too much a few seconds ago.”
Screw you. You saying I can’t handle her? Jesus Christ—I’m doing your job. Your incredibly pathetic job.
I waited a moment to let Paul realize how ridiculously he was acting. “Have you calmed down yet?”
Get out of my head, he said. He continued walking, then suddenly stopped and looked deep into the mirror. It gave the chilling effect of him looking directly at me, sitting in the Brain Hotel lobby. I wasn’t used to it.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Do you know this Susannah Winston from somewhere?
“No,” I said. “Not exactly my type. Like my women educated and truthful. Why do you ask?”
She said I looked familiar. Hence, you look familiar.
“But don’t forget, we’re wearing the face of a dead man. It’s highly unlikely my client ever met this fruitcake.”
I suppose, said Paul. God, everything’s so fuzzy. Sometimes I lose grip on who I am. You kept me in that room for so long I don’t know what’s up or down. I mean, I could have been married to that nightmare, for all I know.
“Not likely,” I said. “You’re an assassin from Las Vegas, remember? It doesn’t leave much time for a personal life.”
You know, you could let me out more often. I feel like I’m going crazy in here, sometimes.
“Welcome to life after death, Paul.”
Without warning, another voice spoke up. It was the Ghost of Fieldman. He was standing next to me in the lobby, worming his way into the silver mike.
“Paul,” he said, “it’s possible you’re experiencing a retroactive memory.”
“Stay out of this,” I warned.
The Ghost of Fieldman stuck his tongue out at me. “All of this time you’ve been with the Collective, you haven’t heard a rational explanation for your state, have you?”
Paul asked, I suppose you have one?
I couldn’t believe this. A mutiny, right in the middle of an assignment. “Do yourself a favor, Paul. Tell him to crawl up his own thumb.”
“The Collective here runs the show without the slightest inkling of his own internal workings,” said the Ghost. “I, however, know how it all works.”
You do? Paul asked.
The Ghost cleared his spectral throat. “All of us—that means you, me and Mr. Farmer here—are trapped in a soul nexus of the deep future. We’re not alive right now. We are simply recreations of our former selves, resurrected by computers from the far future. But our computer-generated simulations are blurring together by accident—I suspect we’re still in an experimental stage, and the thinkers who have brought us back are unable to give us proper boundaries.”
Paul nodded, as if he understood perfectly. Fieldman?
“Yes, Paul?”
Lay off the LSD. Paul turned his attention to me. Let’s go have a drink, Del. We’ve got some arrangements to make.
After laying my physical body down for a rest back at 1530 Spruce Street, we met at Old Tom’s. Paul and I walked into the bar, waved hello to Tom, and parked ourselves into one of the faux-leather-padded, oak-tabletop booths along the right wall. We both ordered a drink—Brain Chivas and a Schmidt’s chaser—then got down to business.
Paul wanted to lay down some ground rules; it was how he’d always worked, he said. He told me he could deal with existing in someone else’s body, and he could even deal with living a solitary life in his Brain Hotel room until needed. But one thing Paul could not deal with was being unable to control the assignment.
“You want me to do the best work possible?” he asked. “Fine. Let me do the work. I don’t need a straw boss. I don’t even need the occasional piece of advice. Let me do things my own way.”
A reasonable request. However, I had to lay down some ground rules of my own.
“One,” I said. “The Association investigation is top priority. If I need our body, Goddamnit, I’m taking our body.”
“Even at the risk of abandoning our one paying client?” Paul asked.
>
“Paying clients are good for one thing and one thing only: cash. If we’re forced to, we can find cash somewhere else. But a missed opportunity to collect evidence against the Association can never be regained. Every day that ticks by with the Association still in power is one less day the American public can feel safe.” Sure, I was laying it on thick, but the situation warranted exaggeration. I had to tame this hired gun before he did something regrettable.
“Two, you surrender the body when I say. No fights. It’s useless anyway, and it only pisses me off.”
I looked at Paul to gauge how pissed off he was getting. It didn’t seem to phase him. Maybe to him, this was merely a business conversation. I used the silence to take a sip of the Brain scotch. Much better than the stash I had in my office—after all, this was scotch how Old Tom remembered it, not me. God, to think of the years of sweet, drunken bliss that man had seen.
Paul interrupted my reveries. “I understand. And now I want you to promise me two things. One, when I ask you to tune out, you tune out and trust me. I promise not to compromise the investigation one bit. Hell, I want those pricks to pay for what they did to me as much as you do. But I can’t function knowing that you can storm in at any second. I’m a human being, man! I have things I need to take care of. There’s stuff in my brain I need to work out on my own. In the real world. Not in here. I have to know I still exist.”
Jesus. This was the closest thing to a buddy-buddy talk Paul and I had ever had. I wanted him to elaborate on the things he needed to “take care of.” I didn’t want to stop him when he was on a roll. I nodded.
“Okay. Secondly, when it comes time to take down the Man, you let me take my pound of flesh. I’ve been dreaming about it for a long time now. I wish I’d had the balls to do it before, when I had the chance.”
I didn’t know what “Man” Paul was referring to. But I played it cool, letting him think I did, and agreed to both his demands. Yes, I should have asked him, point blank, who the “Man” was and finally started to piece things together. Was “The Man” this J.P. Bafoures? What was his real name? Where did he operate in Vegas? But the moment I admitted I didn’t know much, I’d lose Paul’s respect. I’d lose him.
Secret Dead Men Page 10
