When Graveyards Yawn Page 11

  We got to Vicetown at around six-thirty. I'd spent a good part of the afternoon digging through the remaining newspapers--the Greasetown Gazette had few competitors--but found nothing about any other murders at the Morocco. Vicetown had looked much the same as I remembered it as we drove under its flashing welcome signs. The city held about a million-and-a-half inhabitants, alive and dead. Its buildings were unique in the way they marched away from the highway, precariously close to crumbling cliffs. All told, the city sprawled along ten miles of coast. Inland, I saw the great Ferris wheel flinging its passengers tantalizingly at the sky, before terrifying them with a reckless descent. As I understood it, since the Change, Ferris wheels had become extremely popular. In fact, most entertainment of this nature had--at least among the living. Once dead, an individual had to learn new rules of existence and acceptable risk.

  I had looked up the number for Alan Cotton in the latest phonebook, but found nothing. Some deeper research located him in a phonebook a decade old. I called, found his number had changed--was under his wife's maiden name, tried again, then reached his widow. She would be pleased to talk to me. I had her address, 333 Sea Heights. I told her it would be late in the day. She said that would be fine.

  The neon drives you crazy after a while. Vicetown at night is a menace to the light sensitive. A steady drizzle fell. I complimented Elmo on his good sense. He had found time to get the windshield replaced since my engagement in the landfill with Pigface. Mr. Loxley at the Bonny-Vu had made a few dollars from us playing mix and match with the parts and pieces he'd mined from his collection. Water still managed to dampen my right sleeve through holes in the passenger door, but we were fairly seaworthy. The streets of Vicetown, I'm told, are reminiscent of a pre-Change town named Las Vegas. I didn't know whether Las Vegas still existed, but if it was like Vicetown in the old days, I could well imagine what had happened to it after the Change. Vicetown was a place to go if you wanted to have things emptied: bank accounts, pockets, over-stimulated imaginations, you name it. I had come down for the latter, when deep in the intoxication of my first possession of Tommy. I could remember a dark woman named Lorna, who had a well-knit frame and plenty of energy.

  Those first days had been strange. I had pretty much awakened, fully sentient, whole without a past, floating over Tommy's head. I could remember the dizzying moments as I flinched mentally--expecting a fall. The following minutes were of extreme angst as I began to realize the unexplainable nature of my presence. I knew who I was, at least what I did, but I did not have a name. I had a sense of 'I', but I had no body. I knew that I existed, but I didn't know where I came from. This was incredibly depressing for a few weeks--I had begun to think I was in hell, following the clown from toilet to liquor store to toilet--then, the first possession happened. One day, I was floating over Tommy like a grumpy little rain cloud--he was cleaning his sinuses with his pinky finger--when he made a frantic phone call and ordered the car around front. We drove a few blocks before he told Elmo to stop the car and let him out.

  I remember Tommy running up a flight of steps and into a hotel very much like the Morocco--I remember the terrifying speed with which I was impelled after him. He passed up another flight of steps and then along a hallway to a door. It was open--cigarette smoke hung in the air--jazz music squawked sour in my ears. A heavy-set woman leaned against the frame with exaggerated and somewhat elephantine coquettishness. She batted large fake eyelashes at the clown. The dialogue was depressingly average.

  "How are you, big boy?" She ran her hands over her hips. The trip must have tired them out because they hung limp at her sides afterwards.

  "How is my little mama?" Tommy had said as he reached out and fondled her breasts.

  "Ooh," she cooed, pushing back against his hands. "Ooh!"

  Tommy shoved her into the room onto a bed about a foot wide. I think it was an army cot. I floated overhead watching as he clumsily disrobed her and then mounted. There must be something innately voyeuristic about the human species, because I had to admit that floating overhead while all this was going on was very exciting for me--even though I had no body of my own. Perhaps it excited latent memories. I don't know. I just remembered the moment I made the startling realization that I could see through Tommy's skull. Inside was some sort of electrical activity that drew me. The actual transition happened fast. The next thing I knew, I was lying over this woman's heaving body huffing and panting. I could remember the strangeness of the physical sensations: the half-pain, half-pleasure of the spent orgasm, the cloying musk of my partner, the little nervous aftershocks I was receiving, and even the sad, dead feeling of her over-conditioned hair. I went from that room into a binge of sensation, the Epicurean at large. I became a wandering Hedonist avatar, drunk on the tangible. I ended up in Vicetown with both my wallet and my seminal vesicles empty; or, rather both Tommy's respectively.

  "This h-here, Boss?" Elmo raised a thin arm to a road sign that said Sea Heights, and brought me from my reverie.

  "Look for 333," I said and then mused gloomily.

  Alan Cotton must have been doing a booming business selling cosmetics to the dead, because 333 Sea Heights was a sprawling white ranch house that perched incongruously on a tall narrow shelf of rock overlooking the sea. Incongruous, because the design of the building demanded acres of flat farmland around it, not a deep precipitous fall into the pounding surf on one side and a thick apple orchard on the other. Something with a crenellated tower would have fit the location better, and perhaps a low brownstone carriage house--even a second floor. As we drew near, I realized that what it lacked in height it made up for in width. Cotton's house must have been half a mile long. I pointed to a guesthouse, murmured something about guests then pointed to another. Cotton had done well.

  We pulled up to the front. An ornately gardened walkway led to a tall oak front door. A monstrous rosebush grew on either side in wood chips. The drizzle had tapered down a little as we pulled to a stop. I slipped my gun into the glove compartment, smiled at Elmo, and then climbed from the car. "Come on, Fatso." I sniffed the breeze--salty with a faint aroma of fish. What a strange yet refreshing breeze, I thought.

  Elmo busily straightened his suit--an interesting hound's-tooth number with dark slacks--then ran a comb through his thin hair. Poor bastard, I thought. Elmo had class; it was obvious. To have a boss that clomped around in army boots and greasepaint must have horrified him. But, he never complained. I walked up to the front door, rang the bell, a second passed and it opened.

  I could tell from the first glimpse that he was the butler. The jaundiced complexion and permanent sneer on the fellow behind the door also told me he was a snob. His eyes had an unfeeling metallic gleam. His tuxedo was covered in minute black and white checks, with a topcoat that stopped at the waist.

  "I'm sorry," he hissed. "We do not accept solicitations."

  "Oh good," I said. "Because I didn't bring any."

  "Well, sir," he continued, squeezing his eyes at me. "If you have business here, I suggest you use the servant's entrance and speak with the house manager."

  I smiled, clenched my fists, and then smiled again. "I'm here to see Mrs. Cotton. I suggest you fulfill your job specs, and see to our comfort..."

  "Now, I've had enough..."

  "Am I wrong," I cut him off. "Or is one of us here, a servant." I glared at him. "I'm Wildclown, a detective. I have an appointment with Mrs. Cotton." I held up my license.

  His eyebrows jumped to the top of his head when he looked at it, and then fell to a serious line over his eyes. "Mr. Wildclown, of course," his voice held a minute inflection of professional remorse. "Please come in." He swung the door back to reveal a long oak-paneled hallway that stretched away from us in three directions. Elmo and I entered.

  The butler gestured to a spread of leather chairs. "Here gentlemen. If you would please wait while I announce your arrival."

  "Thank you." I smiled. Everybody was happy again. I noticed the butler took the seaward hall. His
form became a bending rapier of shadow against the glare of polished wood.

  I looked at Elmo. "Nice place."

  "Like a shit house in heaven." I noticed Elmo's eyes searching over the lavish carving on the pillars and roof beams.

  "Yes, keep an eye peeled for Apostles." A sudden tock-tock-tock alerted me as a distant form appeared in the glare of the hall. The strangest thing about Mrs. Cotton was the fact that her perfume reached me a full minute before she did. Violets. Mrs. Cotton had somehow managed to make the scent aggressive. The second thing I noticed about her was the look of utter disbelief on her smooth features. Her long face was framed in platinum hair, and her body, to be kind, was thin. Mrs. Cotton in her expensive shimmery dress looked like a chicken-wing wrapped in silk.

  "Is this some kind of a joke?" She stopped a good ten feet from us. Her voice honked, goose-like, from her long neck. I winced when the light from the hallway cast her body into sharp relief against the fabric of her dress. I was reminded of coat hangers.

  "No, Mrs. Cotton." I climbed to my feet beside Elmo. "I'm Wildclown, a private detective. This is my partner, Elmo." He bowed nervously as though he had met the Virgin herself. "As I told you earlier on the phone, I'm working on a case. There was a murder that took place at the Morocco Hotel the same night that your husband met with misfortune. There may be a connection."

  Her eyes narrowed--looked me up and down. "This isn't a joke."

  "No, Mrs. Cotton. I'm here to ask you some very serious questions."

  "And the makeup?"

  I restrained Tommy. "Part of a disguise. Investigating murder can be a dangerous business." I gave her my 'I love danger' smile.

  "I see." Her expression told me she wasn't convinced. Her big eyes gave me the twice over. "Has the world gone mad then…" She shook her head, then tried a gracious smile. "Do come in for a drink. Excuse me if I ask your partner to wait here." She turned away and clattered down the hall she had just come up.

  I turned to Elmo. "That okay with you, Fatso?"

  "That's cool, Boss. This is g-good enough for me."

  I left him sitting on the couch, a beatific smile on his face as he studied the carvings overhead.

  Chapter 24

  I wrestled gravity. First I gripped my knees, found I sank too far--pulled myself forward again, locked wrists around them. I wanted a cigarette, couldn't smoke one this way so I let go and sprawled back into the overstuffed pillows on the couch. I tried to make the maneuver look natural so I dug into one of my pockets and produced a cigarette. I popped it into my mouth and then gazed across at the distant ashtray that taunted me from a heavy marble coffee table. I struggled out of the couch, and sat on the arm.

  I noticed Mrs. Cotton had been watching me. I smiled, offered a cigarette that she declined, and then lit my own. Two great triangular windows swept up the wall of the living room that faced the coast. They formed the broad wings of a sea bird that was worked into the stucco. Through these wings, I could see the world outside, gray and blurry in the wind-blown rain. Around me sprawled a number of similar man-eating couches and divans. Mrs. Cotton leaned against a mauve grand piano. We were waiting for our drinks. Neither of us had said anything for the last few minutes. The butler returned. I welcomed the warm presence of the scotch. Mrs. Cotton sipped a martini. The living room was kept well lit by many ceiling lamps. I could see Mrs. Cotton better in this light.

  She must have been pushing fifty before the Change, and the end of aging. She had fairly smooth skin, flawed by a slight bagginess over the cheekbones. It gave her eyes a protuberant, fish-like quality.

  "I suppose you're through sizing me up," she said coolly, using the paperback mystery jargon.

  "Nice place you have here." I walked over, flicked my cigarette at the ashtray, and then looked around and around. There was a picture on a side table of a man with a kind face and bulbous nose. He was dark haired, and dark eyed. Heavy rimmed glasses held up his thick lenses. "This Mr. Cotton?"

  A slight blush washed behind her features. "He hated that picture."

  I stifled an urge to agree with him. "Been here long?"

  "Alan purchased the house for us ten years ago--just after his promotion. It used to belong to a movie director."

  "What was the promotion to? Head of the sales team?" I stood about ten feet from her; drink in my left hand, cigarette in my right.

  She looked offended. "Don't be ridiculous."

  "I was told your husband sold cosmetic products for the dead." I sauntered over to the piano, resisted the urge to set my drink on it.

  "Now you are being ridiculous." She turned away from me displaying a featureless back. "He was nothing of the kind."

  "Really," I said, experiencing the kind of tight feeling I get in my stomach moments before life gets complicated. "What did he do exactly?"

  "Well, he was in the afterlife business; but nothing so inconsequential as cosmetics. Goodness, no. Alan was the inventor of new life Regenerics."

  Regenerics. The term rang a bell, but I couldn't place it. "Would you mind explaining Regenerics to me?"

  "You're quite a detective." She wandered over and placed her thin behind on the piano bench. "Regenerics is a relatively new field. Alan was the first to investigate it to any great degree. That's what gave him so much freedom."

  "Freedom?"

  "To move around. Write his own ticket--so he used to say." She paused. "He was quite sought after. Though he complained about the fleeting aspects of celebrity."

  "And this Regenerics--what is it a preservation technique?"

  "Nothing so superficial. Alan was involved in genetic...let me see--what did he call it--genetic revivification. He believed there was every possibility that the dead were not completely dead. Oh, I know they still walk around and everything, but Alan felt certain there was a way to restart their life processes. He said it would revolutionize the death industry. Can you imagine?"

  I could imagine. I tried to relay this with a knowing nod.

  "What was he doing up in Greasetown?"

  "When he died? He worked up there--spent most of his time in Greasetown. Something on business, rest assured. Though he was always secretive with me. He got the majority of his funding from King Industries. They supplied a laboratory for Alan."

  "He did all of his work in Greasetown?"

  "Oh, yes. He had an office here, but as he used to say, 'the body' of his work was in Greasetown. Authority has already been over the information he kept here--his office and files, I mean. They felt it necessary, considering the nature of his--demise. But, as I said, Alan spent the majority of his time at his lab working." Mrs. Cotton did the first truly human thing during our encounter. She leaned forward, pressed a hand to her throat and grimaced as though she was trying to swallow a pill. "He tried to make it home on weekends."

  I paused a second to hate my job. "I know this is difficult for you, but how did he die?"

  "You don't know?" She finished the last of her martini. "You are a detective." I wasn't going to miss Mrs. Cotton. She continued: "An accident at the lab, involving one of his experimental mixtures and some faulty machinery. The explosion was quite devastating I was told. There--there, wasn't much left." She fell silent and again rubbed her throat. "Really, Mr. Wildclown. Must this line of questioning be pursued any further?"

  "No, I'm sorry. I understand." My mind was already tossing these tidbits into the conspiracy I was cooking. Then I shook my head, and moved around the piano to stand in front of her. "Uh--no, I'm sorry, Mrs. Cotton. But there is something you should know. Your husband was murdered."

  Mrs. Cotton looked at me hard. "What?"

  "He was murdered. At the Morocco Hotel, Downings District in Greasetown. It's a bad part of town. It's a good place to go if you want to get killed, but what you've told me about your husband has me wondering what would have put him there. I have it on the word of a reporter for the Greasetown Gazette that she and her photographer discovered his body. I can't tell you any names, but Autho
rity immediately put a gag on the story."

  "This is impossible, Mr. Wildclown." Her hands clawed the air.

  "I'm afraid not. Mrs. Cotton, has anyone other than Authority been here to talk to you about your husband. You said Mr. Cotton was a leader in the study of Regenerics. Don't you think that someone would come to talk to you about him if there was nothing unusual going on." I cleared my throat, and leaned in toward her. "His colleagues, his employer, perhaps the newspaper or TV reporters."

  "There was no one, as I said, his celebrity was fleeting. He often complained about it. He knew everyone would...talk about him; know him, if his process worked. For the time being, he was not well-regarded by his peers." Her eyes dropped. "But it's early yet, I quite expect to hear from Mr. King, his patron, very soon--or some of his colleagues. I'm sure everyone is a little slow with the shock."

  "It's been almost two months. That's a lot of shock," I sighed. "No one will come. Not Mr. King. Not the newspapers. Authority is sitting on the story for some reason."

  "But why..." She gave the floor between my boots a searching glance. "Why would..."

  "I don't know, Mrs. Cotton, but I'd like to. I have a feeling that this is somehow wrapped up with another case I worked on. I want to know how." I rubbed my chin thoughtfully.

  "But, no. This is ridiculous." She shook her head, ran her eyes over me again. "You come in here, dressed as a-a clown of all things, and then begin to tell me this incredible story of Alan being murdered. I never should have let you in."

  "I understand your skepticism." I smiled weakly. "And to help get you over that, I'd like you to do this for me. If there is nothing unusual about the accident, Authority would be glad to help you out. Am I right?" I bent, placed my hands on my knees and leaned even closer. "I suggest you call them, and ask for a tour of your husband's lab. Tell them your doctor ordered it as part of the grieving process. Ask the investigating inspectors to take you to the place where Alan died. I'll bet they won't take you. I know what they'll try to do. Calm you down. Oh, you're upset. Poor widow. But, I'll tell you this. Authority won't take you because he didn't die in his lab."