When Graveyards Yawn ta-1

by G. Wells Taylor

  I was drunk-ripped. Tommy had polished off a bottle of whiskey in an effort to find sleep. Not wishing to miss a day's work, I had taken over before he passed out. There had been no struggle for control that time. I could sense his relief when I entered. Of course, it meant I had to deal with a zero to ninety sensation of complete sobriety to rip-roaring drunkenness. My guts rumbled. I didn't want to throw up, but Tommy's body didn't want cold coffee. I felt bile rise; doubling over I painted the inside of the wastepaper basket. I stared at it, wondering who the idiot was that thought wicker was a suitable material to build them out of. I came to the conclusion that he had never been sick in one. I felt better, but I knew that feeling would pass. I was full of poison.

  I decided sorting through the case might sober me up. All that would come to me was Cane's strange behavior. "Who was he?" I thought, and then, "I wonder if I have a new girlfriend?" My hands trembled as they lit a cigarette. The smoke was dry and acrid, and caught at the back of my throat like plastic. I put it out. Too hot. Water. I needed water. My lips felt heavy with vomit. The phone rang. I nearly dislocated my shoulder when I swung a dead arm at it.

  "Good morning, Mr. Wildclown." It was Mary Redding. "I trust you're as well this morning as you were hung last night." Her voice was so perky and cheerful I wanted to shoot her.

  "Yeah, not bad-and you?" I was stalling for time. My tongue was behaving like a strip of leather. I had to get my act together. "Are you at the office?" I asked absently. My brain was a toaster that wouldn't pop up, it was set on high, and the toast was burning, burning, burning.

  "Yes, tired as hell, but here. How about you, are you coming down?"

  "Yeah, in about an hour." I felt my whole body turn to about eighteen per cent liquid. My bowel rippled with explosive pain. "Maybe an hour and a half. What time is it now?"

  "It's about ten, but let's not run any races. You sound like shit. Make it one o'clock; just ask for me at reception. They'll show you to the newsroom."

  "Okay, thanks." I said good-bye, hung up. Elmo brought in the coffee. Distaste wrinkled his face when he saw the wastebasket.

  "Boss, you should sleep," he said finally.

  "Supermen don't need sleep. You never read comics, Elmo?" I was trying to engage my mind, to push past the nausea. I had done it before. Push hard enough and the poison could still work for me.

  "Sure." He cracked a puzzled grin as recollection crossed his features. "Back before the end happened. When I was a boy."

  He set the coffee on the desk, crossed to the window, opened it, and sat down. There must have been a miraculous clearing because the early morning light was intense enough to push through the blinds and softly divide him into fuzzy lines of light and dark. Of course, everything was pretty intense. My optic nerves were howling. I could hear the coffee cups settling on the desk. I noticed Elmo's skin held an oily sheen. "Some type of leather polish," I thought, then wrestled my guts. I reached out, tasted the hot coffee. It almost didn't go down. The brew brushed the tongue like rusted metal, but I welcomed its warmth.

  "Trouble, Boss?" Elmo asked. I realized he had been studying my features.

  "Yeah, it's just too fucking hard to be a detective this way. In and out of reality. I can't take it." A cool breeze finally made its way across the room. It was lukewarm when I got it.

  His face went blank. "What's that, Boss?"

  "Nothing, Elmo. I just hate the world sometimes. It's such a garbage pail. Why does the human race have to be this pack of greedy, evil pigs slashing and chewing at each other in a thoughtless rush for the trough? Shit, there's only slop and garbage in there anyway! What the hell's wrong with us? Why can't we just sit back and enjoy this immortality we've found ourselves with? No, we're never happy unless we can tear into each other. What makes me tick? Why don't you slash open my guts and look for meaning in my intestines. Har-haru-what did they call it? Haruspices or something, yeah, the meaning of life in a pile of guts. We haven't changed. We haven't. Not since the Romans. God, probably before that.

  "Look at it, Elmo. We stopped aging, we stopped dying and staying dead. But what do we do? We figure out ways to make a buck off it. We slash, burn and rape everything before we know what it is. It's like the way they made hamburger out of Adrian. People don't go into the ground when they die, so hey, let's find a way to make eternal life worse than death." I stopped. I realized I was talking to two Elmos. I breathed deeply until the double vision disappeared. "Sorry, Fatso." The image of Adrian's slithering corpse coagulated in my mind. "I'm just sobering up. Gotta clean out all the poison."

  "Yeah, Boss," he said, nodding sadly. "You had a couple."

  I opened the top drawer to the desk, pulled out the mirror and started to reapply my makeup. First, I rubbed off as much of the old stuff as I could, without having Tommy expel me. He was sleeping deep though. As soon as I could feel his spirit start to quiver, I stopped.

  I saw a plain, wide face in the mirror. Fortyish, it was pale in the smeared greasepaint, and hollow around the eyes. The chin was trowel-shaped; the nose was long and aquiline. The dark blue-green eyes stared back, ringed with care, worry and self-hate. I wondered for a moment, as I reapplied my smile and goggling eyes, what could chase a good looking boy like Tommy, hound him so, that he had to hide behind this insane persona. It was not the first or last time I posed the question.

  I looked up at Elmo. "How long have you known Tommy, er-me?" Now, if your partner of a number of years said this in all earnestness it might phase you. Elmo only smiled.

  "I've worked for you, or known you, for fourteen years now. Course, there were the times you disappeared. But about two straight now, years that is. No interruptions. And two straight now, when you has been wearin'…" Elmo moved a hand in a delicate caressing motion over his face. He was referring to the makeup. "And of course, we ain't always been in business, like this." He gestured to the office. "But I like things fine like this, Boss. No interruptions, just w-work. Is there a p-problem?"

  He had referred to the early days, when Tommy would disappear on gargantuan drinking binges for months at a time. Elmo found him on numerous occasions-drunk and down and out with some group of fellow alley rats in the worst section of Downings. Not that Elmo had looked for him. That was another one of his rules. If the Boss wants to be alone, he's alone. He had only stumbled upon him. "From time to time." Elmo had also informed me that when Tommy used to go without makeup-and he did so frequently-he had gone by the name of JJ. Elmo had been unable to explain the initials, only that during those times, Tommy had been up to activities of questionable legality.

  "I appreciate that. If I didn't tell you… Those times you picked me up." It was Tommy whom he had rescued, but I knew Tommy would never thank him.

  Elmo only nodded and looked shy. "It's been good workin' for you. Always interesting. If you don't m-mind m-my saying, you're a changing man, Boss, and these times n-need that."

  I stood up. The room broke into separate images for a moment, and then resolved into one. I was feeling numb, and sick, but better. I knew that in about an hour I would be chain-smoking again. "I've gotta take a shower. Let's go down to the bath house shall we."

  Before I left, I deposited the wastebasket in the Dumpster in front of the building where I knew it would be next year, if I needed it.

  Chapter 36

  The Greasetown Gazette was published in a huge building of the Gothic persuasion. I immediately imagined its designer to be a hunchback with a penchant for swinging from the many gargoyles that leered from flying buttresses above. Towering sheets of masonry thrust up into the clouds with dizzying speed, or were they descending. I could never tell. There were places in town where pollution and constant rain had expunged all color, where on particular days it was difficult to distinguish the buildings from the sky. This building, it had been white marble, bore the ugly smoke swirls of car exhaust and industrial byproduct. Slowly, it was fading to gray. It would disappear too, given time. When I first saw it I thought of a cathe
dral in Hell where it perched halfway along Main Street thrusting its spires upward over the rooftops of the fading post office and a decaying apartment building. The mud-colored sky was absorbing everything.

  I walked through an enormous revolving door that elephants could have used in twos. Inside, the lobby was anything but gothic. Fluorescent lights turned a pink and purple color scheme into a pansy's dream. A dual stairway circled up and around both sides of a diminutive reception desk at the far wall. I could just make out the shape of someone behind it. The bright white light flashed off a pair of glasses. My boots knocked hollowly on the marble floor, sending an army of echoes charging into the heights above. I realized the size of the lobby had distorted my sense of scale when I reached the reception desk; it wasn't small at all. It could have reached up and pinched my nipples without standing on tiptoes.

  "Hello." My voice echoed as if I had hollered. The receptionist's features were strained, but pretty, beneath light brown hair. The thin face held the worn and bitter hollowness of self-hatred. Her eyes pleaded for help but refused to say what kind. A release perhaps or surcease. A common condition in Greasetown. I don't think she would have cared one way or another, if I shot her or married her. She dressed in the type of black suit she might wear to her own funeral.

  "Mr. Wildclown?" Her voice held a brittle lid on a hair-pulling screech of nails on steel.

  "Yes," I said, unwilling to go through the obvious discussion about how she knew me. "I'm here to see Ms. Redding."

  "Take the elevator at the top of the stair to the fifth floor. Newsroom's on the left." The words rattled out of her mouth like the mechanical taps of a telegraph machine.

  "I'm curious," I said in an effort to be amiable. It seldom worked. Especially when my eyes were blood red and I reeked like an open cask of whiskey. But I made the effort. "What in hell else do you do in this building? I mean, this is a big building." I gestured to the high marble walls.

  "Advertising," she said curtly before repeating vaguely. "Advertising."

  "Oh," I said, joining her in the fun. "Oh."

  I walked to the stairs and up. The warm marble banister spoke to me about power and cooperation with power. The stone had an oily sheen of twisted ethic and pandering. Power was not cheap in Greasetown-the electrical kind. There were blackouts every other day. But this place was lit up like Heaven. I kept expecting to see the good Lord himself-bed hair sticking straight up, pink terrycloth bathrobe tucked tight under his beard, tooth brush and spit cup in hand-step out of the elevator on his way to the bathroom. The elevator doors slid seductively apart when I pushed the button. No emerging gods. Inside, the moving closet sang songs to me from a half-forgotten age. Whoever the fool was who enjoyed singing in the rain would definitely love Greasetown.

  I got off on the fifth floor as some melancholy drill sergeant droned into a marching song about New York City-the only thing that could make it there now were tuna fish. A sign marked 'Newsroom' pointed to the left. I followed through ankle deep carpet that sucked at my boots. I'd forgotten what it was like when people had money and wanted you to know it. The sound of Photostat machines greeted me. A thin balding man, reading a coil of paper that streamed out behind him like a cape, thumped into my shoulder. He looked at me over semi-circular glasses. I could see the lower half of my face maniacally reflected in them. His eyes blinked, widened.

  "Who…" he muttered.

  "Who?" I echoed, still speaking receptionese. "I'm from Ringling Brothers Cosmetics. Here to see Ms. Redding."

  His little beak of a nose wrinkled. "You're drunk-I'll call security."

  "Only if they bring their own whiskey, boy. I'm not here to be sneered at. Where's Ms. Redding?" I was edgy, and in the middle of a cold sweat from detoxifying. If this little bird didn't want me washing my cheeks in his blood, he'd have to stand down on the 'holier than thou' attitude.

  "Ms. Who?" He was taking us back to the beginning again.

  "Redding," I said, putting my chest into it.

  "Oh." He looked hurt or suspicious. I couldn't be sure. My intuition was still drying out. "Over there." He pointed with a rattle of paper. My musky cigarettes and whiskey detox scent must have frightened him. A shower can only clean the skin. My pores were pumping out the poisons like so many little factories. "Nine-nine, over there," he stammered; his neck bent back like a swan's as we looked down a division in a labyrinth of dividers.

  "Thanks," I said and left him to his owlish blinking. My boots clomped over a well-stained strip of carpet. Coffee, mustard, relish, cigarette ash, all pounded, pounded, pounded, into what had once been a deep pile rug. It resembled a dirt path now. I stopped at red dividers, peered over the top.

  Mary Redding looked up at me over her glasses. Her desk was covered with paper, held a typewriter and an overflowing ashtray. She studied my face, then smiled nervously. "I still can't believe last night."

  I smiled. "I can. That's what makes my life so interesting. I believe in everything. There's nothing that will surprise me. I could open a fortune-telling booth-tell people exactly what they want to hear. Doesn't matter how weird or strange the idea is, I expect someone to bring it into reality. It's true. People will say, 'I'd never do that!' But, watch. Sooner or later you'll catch them at it. Most of the human race is in full denial. They're still trying to leave instinct in the animal world."

  "Snarly today, are we, Mr. Wildclown?" She stood up, reached out a hand. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings."

  "Oh, these aren't my feelings, they're borrowed." I clasped her soft hand in a shake. A memory of the night before caused Tommy to stir where he likes to stir the most. I dropped her hand and patted my pockets until I found a cigarette. There was a time before the Change when smoking was not allowed in public workplaces, but there had been hope back then. People actually wanted to live forever. I lit one and gave her the once over. Ms. Redding was wearing a crisp, gray and black pinstripe suit. I saw her strong calves jutting knee-down from the close fitting skirt. Black pumps cupped her broad feet. I swung my eyes up. Hers were blue and expectant. The cleft between them quivered for recognition.

  "Can I look at your records?"

  She smiled. "Sure, Mr. Business." Her teeth momentarily resembled a shark's. "Come with me."

  Ms. Redding walked along the space between some thirty cubicles toward a room at the back. I ignored the astonished looks of the reporters who coughed on their coffee as I passed. They were so many strange angular shards of faces stealing quick peeks over the edges and around the corners of their multicolored office dividers.

  Mary turned and with a sweep of one hand bowed. "The Library, Mr. Business. Or more affectionately, the Morgue."

  Behind her, the wall opposite me was layered with many wide trays, about twelve feet across. An old coot with a poker visor and a tan suede vest looked up from a file he was perusing. He looked at me with astonishment, and then cast a glance at Ms. Redding. I smiled. He snatched at his bottom lip. I almost laughed when I looked down and saw his tartan slippers.

  "Oh, Ms., Ms., Ms., uh, Redding. I'm sorry! Here, you can take over. There we are." He began to tidy up his files. There was a strange urgency to his manner.

  "Hey, Morris, relax. There's no hurry." Mary walked over, placed a hand on his shoulder. "Take your time."

  "Oh, yes, certainly, Ms. Redding." He looked at me. "I was just leaving." He tucked the files under his arms and left.

  "What got his goat? He afraid of clowns?" I watched Mary shake her head. "Christ, you pack a wallop, Mary. You said you've been here three months. You don't waste time."

  Mary smiled and ran a hand down my arm. "He's just an oldster we have working here. He wanted to help, so we let him. I think he suffers from the volunteer skitters. He's sure he'll be in the way and that we'll ask him to leave."

  "Oh, bad luck for Morris." I looked at the broad trays again. Two green buttons stood out of the wall to the left of them. Mary walked up and held a hand over the buttons.

  "Our hard
copy files-there's microfilm too…at the back." She pushed the top button. The wide trays groaned downward on a simple chain and gear apparatus. "Thank god for hardcopy! The damned computers are worthless. The geniuses at Microsoft keep saying they'll figure out the bug, but it's been fifty years and they're only getting worse," she sighed. "The other button brings them up."

  "Thanks," I said walking to the wall files. "I prefer something I can get my hands on." I tested the bottom button-the trays moved up.

  "And what hands!" Ms. Redding stepped forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. She came away with whitened nose, chin and lips. "I'll never get used to that," she said as she wiped at it with her hands.

  "You may not have to," I said cryptically as she winked and left the room. I watched her go. There was nothing like wide hips on a woman who was built for them.

  I turned my attention to the files and found that if I rotated the trays too quickly, my head would start to swim. I soon located the file on the phantom baby calls. The Gazette, going along with the Authority edict, had adopted a new dating system. Some lobby group for historical respect and perspective finally got the A.D. officially changed to N.A. for New Age. It was positive, vague and friendly-exactly what a race of responsibility dodgers and public relations men would feel comfortable with.