When Graveyards Yawn Page 12

  "I have been curious about this. I just assumed that these things take time." She held her face with broad, red hands.

  "Another thing, ask them about a rumor. Tell them you heard that Alan was murdered at the Morocco Hotel. Don't mention me, that would just tie my hands or kill me." I straightened, but didn't move back. "I know how Authority works. They're a big powerful body. So why would they hide the truth? Well, they would only hide something that would damage them."

  "Why are you--did you, come here." Tears glimmered in her eyes.

  "I like the truth. And, to be honest, I need work. If, after you speak to Authority, you feel confident that your husband died in an accident at his lab--fine. I'll be gone, and out of your hair. But, if the conversation raises the smallest doubt, I suggest you hire me to find the truth. I'm not expensive and I'm house broken." I released a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry, I just can't stand extended periods of seriousness."

  My joke went unheard. Mrs. Cotton's forehead had become a farmer's field of furrows. She rubbed her teeth lightly with a knuckle.

  "I'll make a call." She looked at me. "It must have been the shock. I should have found out more about it anyway. I guess it was just so unexpected. Maybe I've been denying it. The insurance money was paid--and they always investigate…I was in shock!"

  "It's understandable." I moved over, leaned against the piano.

  "Funny," Mrs. Cotton said, lost in thought. "I remember the day he left for Greasetown. He would usually stay away for a week at a time. I remember the last day. I asked him what he was working on. He said, 'You know I don't like to talk about my babies. Especially this one.' He always called his projects 'babies.' I always thought that was silly, really. Anyway, there was something about his expression that day..." She fell silent. "Well, I intend to make that call, Mr. Wildclown."

  "Remember. Don't mention me, yet." She nodded. I continued. "While I wait, would it be possible for me to view his office. I know Authority is thorough, but there is always the possibility..."

  She tilted her head at me. "They took his files, but I don't see why you shouldn't see his office."

  "Edward!" She called down the hallway. A familiar waspish form moved toward us.

  "Yes, Madam." The butler bowed stiffly.

  "Take Mr. Wildclown to Alan's office. Allow him to look around. I don't know why..." She searched my eyes with hers, "but I trust him and I really have no reason to." She giggled.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Cotton." I felt a little guilty. Sensitivity was something suppressed by life in Greasetown.

  "What makes you so sure he was murdered and that Authority is somehow involved?" She watched me earnestly.

  "Certain actions, facts and behaviors. To be honest I don't have much more than hearsay. No evidence. Just a feeling. Something unexplainable--like you trusting me."

  She smiled with real humor. "Thank you, Mr. Wildclown. Your efforts will be appreciated."

  I nodded, and followed Edward along the hallway. There was a major cover-up going on, I knew that much. But how hard should I push? It was very easy to disappear in my neighborhood. I had heard of other detectives that dug too deep and struck lava. And here I was investigating the death of man whose murderers had almost liquefied his body. Greasetown wouldn't miss me any more than I would miss Greasetown.

  I didn't want to be a story in the Murder and Death section: Some nobody's mangled remains were found...

  Chapter 25

  The search through Alan Cotton's office had turned up nothing. Edward had been an annoyance throughout the inspection--humming distractedly as he checked the top surfaces of furniture for dust. The office itself was a large one--room enough for a long couch and easy chair around a low coffee table. At one wall by a bay window, the prerequisite desk, chair and filing cabinets. It was one of those kinder, gentler offices--all fuchsia and pastel--that prompted an urge in me to butt my cigarette on the carpet. Authority had been thorough all right. I tried to turn the computer on but it blinked and beeped like it was short-circuiting then quietly died. Edward assured me that Mr. Cotton did not use or trust computers, but kept this one in the hope that scientists could find a way to repair them one day. I dug around, but there was nothing left in the way of records except for a scratch pad. I tried the old detective pencil shading over paper trick to reveal any impress from former notes, but even that had come up blank. I left the office, rejoined Elmo in the foyer, and was met there by Mrs. Cotton. Her protuberant eyes were red. She dabbed at them intermittently with a silk handkerchief.

  "You were right, Mr. Wildclown. I had a difficult time finding someone who would talk to me about it. Finally, they gave me to an Inspector Borden. He told me to calm down. When I pushed him, he said the lab had been badly damaged and there would be no point in viewing it. He said I could see it if I had to, but he thought it might be dangerous considering some of the chemicals Alan used in his experiments. He felt it was an unnecessary risk.

  "When I asked him if he knew of a rumor about Alan being murdered at the Morocco Hotel, he became very interested. He wanted to know where I had heard it; in fact, he became very insistent on the point. I told him a servant had heard something of it on a trip into Greasetown. He wanted to know who the servant was. I said I couldn't be sure because I was already quite distraught when I was told, and I have many servants. I told him I would try to remember.

  "This Inspector Borden told me that around every death, rumors are bound to spring up. He said it had to do with the people's morbid curiosity. He then assured me that Alan died in an accident, and then offered me an Authority Psychologist. He said it might do me good to talk. I just told him I had my own psychologist, and could look after myself. He said that if I must see the lab, I would have to give him some notice."

  Mrs. Cotton's expression changed from the blank aspect of the storyteller to a rigid look of determination. "I'd like to hire you, Mr. Wildclown. I didn't get this far in life without learning to recognize the run around when it's given me. I don't care about the cost."

  Chapter 26

  It was about eight-fifteen when we hit the highway north. Road signs appeared in our headlights like yellow ghosts. I was employed again--the same deal I gave Billings. I now had more intrigue than I wanted. Mr. Adrian was missing. Jan Van Reydner was missing. The lawyer Conrad Billings was dead. Alan Cotton was dead. He was not a 'cosmetics for the dead' salesman at all. He was a scientist working on Regenerics. Why would he turn up dead at the Morocco when he could afford a better hotel? Why would Authority try to cover up Mr. Cotton's true history? I knew how they could. Authority just had to threaten the right individuals, but why? Unless Cotton was more important in all of this than just another murder. What was he doing at the Morocco Hotel? Did he stumble on Adrian and Van Reydner as they were working on Billings? Who turned him into blood pudding? It was obviously an organized bit of work. The type of job that was done on his body led me to believe organized crime was involved, but why would Authority cover for them? Like them or not, Authority still represented the law--even if it was a somewhat rabid law. Then, a name came to me: Mr. King of King Industries: Former Senator William King, the King of the Dead as the media called him. The King made billions from his preservative treatments for the dead. Did he actually contemplate selling them life with Regenerics? Too many questions and not enough answers. I looked at Elmo. His face was strange and inhuman in the glow from the dashboard.

  "Elmo, this is a stupid question, but: if there was a way for you to be alive again, would you try it? Even if there were risks."

  Elmo looked at me incredulously. "I'd d-do anything to be alive again."

  "I thought so." I lit a cigarette. I was certain that this would be the attitude of all dead people. If so: what if Regenerics worked? Any dead man with the slightest amount of pull would do everything in his power to obtain a new life. But, I couldn't forget Adrian. Regenerics would destroy him. So he would want Cotton dead. But he was missing? Did he step on someone else's toes? He obviously wan
ted me out of the picture. So he had his goons try to finish me off. But what happened to him while I was out in the Landfill waltzing with the monkey-twins?

  "Pull over at the next filling station, Elmo," I said. In about thirty minutes we found one. I dropped a dime in the slot of the pay phone. A bit of verbal fencing with the butler, then...

  "Hello, Mrs. Cotton. It's Wildclown, I don't want to upset you again, but could you answer one question for me?"

  I heard a muffled affirmative.

  "What was the name of the Authority inspector who claimed Alan's files?"

  "Oh, let me see. Yes, a surly little fellow. Mr. Crane, no Cane. Inspector Cane."

  I thanked her, hung up and got back in the car. "Cane," I said absentmindedly. "Cane."

  "What's that, Boss?" Elmo looked over as we pulled out onto the highway.

  "Nothing, Fatso. Let's get home. I could sleep for a week."

  The bars in the broken centerline passed like images in a dream.

  Chapter 27

  Life is but a dream, and like in every dream the images flicker fast. The pictures change, dissolve and strangely intertwine. Nothing's what it seems. Clocks tick faster, slower, there seem to be recurring themes of the tightening noose, the enemy draws near, he shoots, you die. I had the same feeling about this case. Strange New World aside, things were slipping slowly into the madness of nightmare--far off I heard the click of the heel, the impatient step of doom.

  After returning to my office I sat quietly, my mind perusing abstractions for a time. It was about ten-thirty, and a bad time to do official detective research. I wanted to have a look at Cotton's lab, but had no idea where it was. The time told me that most reputable scientists were fast asleep with visions of atom bombs going off in their heads--or deep in thought in secret laboratories of their own. I had heard that people were afraid of the dark before the Change--living in a world with walking dead while perpetual cloud cover hung overhead had intensified the paranoia to dangerous proportions. The Change had pushed the majority over the edge. You could see madness in the faces on the street--people adapted as best they could, but nothing had prepared them for what the world had become. The hints were there, the cracks in the human spirit evident in the clothing frayed at the edges, the smeared lipstick, or the bus driver's tears. And so people did not open their doors after dark. And the thought of me showing up unannounced dressed as I was, made the notion as ludicrous as it was dangerous. Then, a name came to my mind. I snatched the phone up, and rummaged in the desk for my address book. I made a call.

  "Hello, Pogo," I said with false charm. "Oh, well, I'm Wildclown, a private detective, I'd like to speak to Pogo. Not there? Have him call me, it's important and may benefit us both." I gave my number and hung up. Pogo knew just about everybody in Greasetown. Pogo did more than pimp. The fact that he boosted his profits by trafficking drugs like Greaseasy, and syncrak, told me that he had the acquaintance of a few chemists, to say the least. I remembered Pogo telling me once that he had people working for him that were trying to develop new 'chemical entertainment' as he called it. If you can't talk to a reputable scientist, try a disreputable one.

  Elmo came in. He was carrying three tall Styrofoam coffee cups on a cardboard tray. I took one of them and poured three steaming ounces into a dirty glass that had stood for months on the filing cabinet beside my desk. I replaced the coffee with three ounces of Canadian Club to cool it down, took a taste, and then smiled around a cigarette.

  "Excellent work, Elmo." I smiled at the comforting sting of the whiskey and then kicked my boots onto the desk to think. I pushed back until the chair was tipped enough to give me a precipitant weightless sensation. Elmo sat opposite me with a cigarette and coffee of his own. He could become silence, at such times. That was one of the great things about a partner like Elmo: he could sit quietly for hours. He didn't feel a need to clutter the air with pleasant conversation just to pass the time. I could think. I'd often fix my eyes on Elmo and let them glaze over. He didn't seem to mind. A half-hour slipped by. The phone rang.

  "Wildclown Investigations." I had almost upset my chair answering.

  "Wildclown, you crazy monkeyfucker. It's me, Pogo." The voice was charged with adrenaline.

  "Pogo, my friend. How are you this evening?" I could tell he was a little paranoid himself.

  "Ah…" Pogo's voice dropped. "It's been bad, real bad. Almost caught one of those bastards that cut me. He lit out on a motorbike before I could lay a knife in him!"

  "That is bad." The Brotherhood of White Order had become Pogo's white whale. And with good reason too. He took his disfigurement in stride, but he had vowed revenge. "But you've still taken three of them out."

  "Yeah." Pogo seemed to catch his breath. "But he was close." A coughing fit struck him before he continued. "So, what you want?"

  "Pogo, we have known each other a while, am I right?"

  "Yes, yes, you could call it a while--a year or so." The voice continued with strain. "You could call it that."

  "Pogo, I need some information about science, scientists, and laboratories. Not the developing, procuring or trafficking of illegal substances, but about science--genetics, microbiology, that type of thing. I believe you may have people in your employ that could answer a few questions. Or failing that, may have a direction in which to point me." Pogo knew my feelings about drugs. The Pandora's box was open. I would be there to count survivors, if the whiskey didn't get me first.

  "This ain't no Authority fuckover?" It was a rhetorical question. Pogo knew I had no allegiance with any authority. "What's in it for me, Wildclown?"

  "You could add to the betterment of mankind. Failing that, you could help me put the screws to some local nasties." Local nasties was a term I used specifically to set Pogo off. He always talked of competing local nasties when he was ripe and paranoid with the effects of his own products.

  "Local nasties! Oh, fuck, sure Wildclown." He fell silent for a moment, but in the background I could hear the persistent car-start sounds of giggling.

  "Can I talk to someone tonight? What is it, eleven--a little after?"

  "Oh sure, we're open twenty-four hours…" Again the giggling. "But I got to straighten up first." There followed a lot of coughing and the sounds of partial regurgitation. "Yeah, Wildclown. I'll, I'll send a runner over. He'll take you to my scientists..." More giggling and coughing.

  "I appreciate it..."

  "Don't worry about it, Wildclown. You've been good shit to me, even if you are one crazy monkeyfucker!" Giggling ensued. "Besides, if you can take down a local nasty. Hey, fuck I'll help put the boots to him. Just don't push my scientist around or anything. He'll help--no shit. I'll ask around--microbiology, ge-genetics--try to find out who to send you to." Pogo laughed spasmodically. "Hey, you ain't thinking of cloning yourself are you? I couldn't take that." I made sure I laughed patronizingly that time. Finally he chuckled. "Give me some time."

  I thanked Pogo and hung up. I looked at Elmo. "I believe the ball is rolling again."

  Chapter 28

  The runner was a lean whippet of a dead man. He wore a tight-fitting suit covered by a long, loose trench coat of the same dark purple. A broad-brimmed hat sat low over his eyes. I could tell by the unbalanced way he walked that he carried a cannon in his left armpit. He had a dark Spanish complexion that, despite his dead state, still added a sultry carnality to the set of his liquid eyes and leering thick-lipped mouth. He introduced himself as Moreau. Moreau was a runner. A runner was someone who carried money or drugs. Moreau looked capable of taking care of himself.

  "Come on, Dick." He used the nickname. "We gotta meet our fella real soon. It's awful late to need a scientist, ain't it? You need an abortion or something? Haw! Haw!" He smiled carnivorously then looked at his watch. I knew if it were accurate, the big hand would be pointing at the twelve and the small hand at the one.

  "My personal vibrator broke down," I grumbled glibly. I knew that runners did not trust anybody. It was their job. I
guess a detective still represented some kind of law to them. He would have to get to know me.

  "Haw, haw," he laughed. "Personal vibrator--you ain't taking some sort a stab at me there, are you, Dick?" He drew near me, a menacing angular shadow. His long thin fingers worked like pliers.

  "Just making light, Mr. Moreau. It keeps my spirits up, this late at night." I showed him the palms of my hands, shrugged.

  "Oh, haw, haw! Try coffee, Dick! It's safer…" He gestured to Elmo. "The nigger coming?"

  I looked at Elmo. I had forgotten he was black. "My partner's coming." Elmo appeared unperturbed by the racial epithet. He was used to prejudice based on the fact that he was dead. Race had all but slipped into the background. Maybe Moreau was nostalgic. I gestured. He followed.

  The runner led us down the stair and out. "Where's your car?" The Chrysler leaned wearily against the curb like it was dying. I gestured to it. Moreau stifled a chuckle as he opened its bullet-riddled passenger door. "This ain't no fucking car. This is a traffic accident!" He insisted on sitting in the back seat. I took the front passenger, but sat sideways with my hand near my gun. Elmo drove.

  "Waterfront," Moreau hissed. "A boat. The Clementine. Pier 74."

  Elmo nodded absently and gunned the car ahead.

  "So, how's business?" I watched the dead man in the shadow. I wanted to keep an eye on him. "Good?"

  "Hey, I don't talk about fucking business!" Moreau shouted. He talked with both hands and I could see the thick butt of a .45 caliber revolver echo his movements through his coat. "No fucking business. I told Pogo, I don't talk about business!"

  "No problem." I shrugged. "I just get tired of talking about the weather. You know, rain, rain, rain, rain..."

  We contented ourselves with staring at each other for the rest of the trip. Moreau would flare his eyes; I would flare mine. I realized we were a pair of local nasties.