‘Oh goody, goody chief. If I had hands to rub in glee, a rubbing of them I would be.’
‘Nice couplet, Barry. You got real class.’
‘More than can be said for you, you big girl’s blouse.’
‘What’s that, Barry?’
‘Nothing, chief.’
The cab came to a halt. The traffic tailed back. Sirens shrieked and coloured beacons went round and round the way some of them do. ‘We’ll walk from here,’ said Rex. ‘You want I should wait, bruv?’
“That would be just fine. Don’t forget to keep the meter running.’
‘Oh, I won’t, never fear.’
Around the Tomorrowman Tavern there was all that pushing and shoving, toing and froing, shouting and swearing, flashbulb clicking and general mayhem that ever there was. Rex put on his sunglasses and elbowed his way into the crowd to gawp along with the rest.
Within the police cordon, ambulances stood, rear doors yawning. Body bags were being zipped and trolleys shuttled back and forth. Rex spied out Sam Maggott hollering at all and sundry and making good use of his over-sized red gingham handkerchief. He also spied out the Tomorrowman’s barman. He had a strip of bandage tied around his head, a small dot of blood showing romantically above the right eye. He was sporting a Clark Gable moustache and being terribly brave about it all.
Laura tugged at Rex’s arm. ‘This way.’
They skirted the crowd and slipped away into the network of side alleys. ‘Just along here, third turning on the left.’
‘You know these alleyways well then, Laura?’
‘Intimately. I once earned a thirty-six-inch George III mahogany tea table in the manner of Thomas Chippendale, behind those trash cans over there.’
“Thank you,’ said Rex. ‘I don’t wish to know that.’ They reached the third turning on the left. ‘Sssh. There’s someone there.’ Rex pushed Laura against the wall and craned his neck to see what was what.
And what was most certainly what. The Repo Man stood, battle-scarred, speechless and stock still. But around it, clustered a group of men, smartly clad, verbose and seriously agitated. Three wore the white coats of the back-room boffin, the fourth was diminutive, little more than a boy. But he was clearly giving the orders. He wore a natty black business suit and a pair of sunglasses just like Rex’s.
‘Oh no.’ Rex turned his face away and covered it with his hands. ‘It’s him.’
‘Him, who? Rex, look at me. Who is it?’
‘A very bad memory. Does the name Jonathan Crawford mean anything to you?’
‘Stick ‘em up,’ said I, spinning around the corner and thrusting the snout of the trusty Smith and Western Railway right up the unsuspecting hooter of Johnny Dee esquire.
‘Shit,’ said Johnny, doing a reasonable impression of a Dalek.
‘I got you fellas banged to rights. You’re nicked.’
‘You’re nicked?’ Ed made the kind of face I usually keep for Tuesdays. ‘Very New York private eye, that. You’ll be taking our dabs and turning over our drums next.’
‘Don’t worry about the vernacularisms.’ I waggled my piece in his crony’s snoz. ‘I got a big score to settle with you two.’
‘Ah,’ said Ed. ‘You mean the matter of us costing you your wife, your job at the department, a dog named Blue and six months in intensive care?’
‘Yeah, and that. I was thinking more about the unkind remarks you made about my trenchcoat.’
‘We were just kidding around. It’s a real nice trench-coat. Although I notice extensive second-degree smutting and several blots of what appears to be some kind of industrial lubricant. You should dab those with lemon juice before they sink right in.’
‘Don’t try to smooth-talk me. You were going to saw off my head.’
‘Ah,’ said Ed once more. ‘Then I suppose a formal apology, couched in ingratiating terms, wouldn’t exactly fit the bill at this particular time.’
‘Damn right. I’m taking the two of you in.’
‘We can’t do that right now, chief.’
‘Who said that?’ Ed looked hotter under the collar than a Tina Turner dress shield.
‘Never you mind. .If I can’t bring you in, then I’m just going to have to make a citizen’s execution.’ I withdrew the muzzle of the trusty Smith and Waistcoat from Johnny’s nose and pointed it at his forehead. ‘There has been no hint so far of that trail of corpses which generally grace the pages of a Lazlo Woodbine Thriller.’
‘Hold hard,’ said Ed, raising his hands and shaking his head. ‘You can’t shoot us. If you do you’ll never recover the Presley hoard.’
‘Don’t bet on it. Offer your apologies to the deity, fellas. You and he are about to move mouth.’
‘Is there nothing we can say to make you change your mind?’
‘Nothing. Your time has come.’ I had that flinty look in my eyes that told Ed all he needed to know.
‘All right then.’ Ed shrugged. ‘That’s the way of it, I suppose. We’ve had a good innings. I can accept my fate. How about you, Johnny?’
‘Oh yes. I can accept it also. I have my regrets of course. But there you are. I only wish . . .’
‘What do you wish, Johnny?’
‘Oh nothing. A dying man’s last request. Nothing to bother our flinty-eyed Nemesis with.’
‘Come on now, Johnny. Certainly Mr Woodbine is a hard-boiled, tough as they come, lantern-jawed harbinger of our certain doom. But he is also an American and before he guns you down in cold blood, in the manner you so justly deserve I might add, I’m sure he will see his way clear to giving you a dying request.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Why not ask him yourself?’
‘Oh, I couldn’t. It’s too embarrassing.’
‘Go on,’ said I, stroking my lantern jaw. ‘It can’t hurt to ask.’
‘Well... it’s just that I always wanted to die clutching something that was near to the earth. A flower perhaps.’
‘Touching, Johnny.’ Ed patted his chum. ‘I can appreciate that. One should be near to the natural world when one meets with an unnatural death.’
‘Well put, Ed. But where would we find a flower around here? Or even a vegetable if it comes to that?’
‘Even a vegetable, yes. To touch a vegetable, clasp it in your hands when you met with what fate had to offer. What a joy. But it would take a pretty exceptional executioner to come up with a vegetable on the spur of the moment. Mr Woodbine’s hardly going to be carrying around a vegetable in his pocket, now is he?’
‘Oh yeah?’ said I, plucking Barry from my top pocket. ‘Well, check this out.’
‘A miracle,’ cried Johnny. ‘The man is a saint.’
‘Saint I may be but schmuck I ain’t. What do you guys take me for? You really think I was going to fall for a line like that and hand Barry over to you?’
Johnny nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ said he, ‘I did, as it happens.’
‘So did I,’ said Ed.
‘Well fair enough then. I just wanted to be sure you weren’t trying to pull a fast one on me.’ I tossed Barry over to Johnny Dee. ‘Ain’t gonna do you the slightest good any which way. Barry’s banjoed and you’ve got An Appointment With Death (A Lazlo Woodbine thriller).’
‘Chief. You’re on a wrong’n. Take me back.’
‘Let the man have his dying request, Barry. Don’t be stingy. I’ll catch you when he hits the dirt.’
‘But chief . . .’
‘Bye, fellas.’ I pointed my piece at Johnny and squeezed on the trigger. There was a pretty pathetic little click, it being out of bullets and everything. But suddenly there was something of a puff of smoke and I found myself standing all alone in the alleyway with what might well be metaphorical egg all over my kisser.
‘Barry?’ said I.
‘You bloody fool, chief,’ echoed a little green voice.
‘What’s that, Barry?’
‘Nothing, chief.’
Rex took out Laura’s pistol and peered al
ong the barrel. ‘What exactly does this do?’ he asked. ‘What is its range and what are its capabilities? Please be specific. An opportunity like this mightn’t present itself again.’
‘You are going to kill this Jonathan Crawford then?’
‘I truly feel it would be for the best.’
‘Have you ever killed anyone before?’
‘No. Not as such.’
‘Then let me do it.’
‘Certainly not. What does this gun do?’
‘It fires an explosive acid cap. Doesn’t matter where you hit someone. Contact is always lethal.’
‘Ideal for home defence, I have no doubt.’ Rex took the gun in both hands. Both hands were trembling.
‘He’s evil.’ Rex bit his lip. ‘Very evil. About as evil as it is possible to get.’
‘Then shoot him. Don’t think about it. Do it quickly.’
Don’t think about it. Rex took a deep breath, sprang out from hiding and drew down upon the boy in the business suit.
‘Jonathan,’ he shouted. ‘Over here.’
The boy turned. ‘Rex,’ said he. ‘Well, well, well.’
‘I’m sorry, Jonathan.’ Rex squeezed the trigger. Jonathan pulled one of the back-room boffin types into the line of fire. The bullet struck the white-clothed back. There was a muffled report, the man rose upon tiptoe but he didn’t fall. His body seemed to swell and distort but he just stood there. Screaming and screaming. Rex turned his face away. Covered his ears. But the cries of agony went on and on.
‘He’s dead, Rex. He’s dead.’ Laura pulled his hands from his head and shouted into his face. ‘Stop screaming.’
Rex tore himself away from her. ‘Screaming?’
‘He’s dead. Look for yourself,’
Rex looked for himself. The body lay twisted at impossible angles. Jonathan had gone. The Repo Man had gone.
Rex turned away and was violently sick.
11
25. And thus did the big tour continue. And Elvis spake unto his people regarding such matters as crude oil, gasoline and stretch Cadillacs.
26. And the children of Elvis did hang on his every word. And when he had spoken they did hasten unto Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Texas, saying, ‘These also are the promised lands.’
The Suburban Book of the Dead
This was just great. Dee and Kelley had done the now legendary vanishing act and they’d taken Barry along with them. I wasn’t a little nonplussed.
I never had a fear of going it alone, don’t get me wrong. I’ve gone it alone more times than a hermit with attitude. But it was going to be a real bummer not having the little guy around to chat with while I single-handedly solved my cases.
I refilled my piece. I had just about run myself dry of duff funnies regarding the trusty Smith and Whatsaname. Right now I had a job to do. Recover the Presley hoard and save civilization as we would know it. Because, as you may, or may not have realized, this is one big number. I wasn’t being paid $500,000 a day to sit on my butt and watch Blue Peter. In fact, without Barry I wasn’t going to get paid $500,000 at all. In fact without Barry I was possibly in the deep brown stuff up neck-aways.
I looked up at the building. Biggest damn thing I ever saw. And somewhere inside it, was the Presley hoard, or was going to be real shortly. I straightened my shoulders, choked back a small tear for the loss of a good buddy and turned up the collar of my trenchcoat.
‘Okay,’ said I with more determination than a sybarite in a sacristy. ‘Now’s the time to nail my colours to the mast, throw away the scabbard, buckle to, go the whole hog, cross the Rubicon, grab the bull by the horns, put my shoulder to the wheel and leave a note out for the milkman.’
I wasn’t looking for trouble. But if trouble came looking for me I wasn’t going to be hard to find. Only a dog dies in Brooklyn when Frank Sinatra’s in the witness box. If you know what I mean. And I’m sure that you do-be-do-be-do.
‘I don’t know what to say, Rex.’ Laura held Rex in her arms. They were back in her apartment. Bill had dropped them off and was lurking outside. ‘You’re feeling pretty bad, I can see that.’
‘Bad? Laura, I shot a man in the back. I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t do that kind of thing. I get into impossible scrapes but win through in the end. I can’t live with this. A man’s death on my conscience.’ Rex covered his face and sobbed.
‘He was one of the bad guys.’
‘That doesn’t matter. I don’t even know his name. I killed him. One moment he was alive, then. . .
‘You did what you thought was right. It was an accident.’
‘I took a man’s life. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?’
Laura shrugged. ‘He was only a Repo Man. I can’t see what you’re making such a fuss about.’
‘A Repo Man?’ Rex was aghast.
‘Sure. I saw all the sparks when he went down.’
‘Saw the sparks? Laura, you let me throw up all over the alley, all over Bill’s cab. Cry my eyes out, make an absolute wally of myself and now you tell me he was a Repo Man.’
‘I thought you knew.’
‘Laura,’ said Rex, ‘kindly take off all your clothes.’
‘How did you do that? I didn’t do that . . .’ Barry was boggled. He had just materialized in a certain top-secret room in the bad company of Dee and Kelley.
‘The transperambulation of pseudo-cosmic anti-matter,’ John Dee explained. ‘Surely you know all about the cross-polarization of negatively-charged beta particles.’
‘Am I a sprout, or what?’
‘You certainly are. And a very special one.’
‘Well, thanks. But listen, chief. That was a pretty sneaky stroke you pulled on Laz back there. Him and me work as a team, you know, I don’t do any freelance jobs, especially not with a pair of low-down-’
‘Low-down?’ Johnny Dee gave Barry a nasty tweak.
‘Nothing, chief. So what’s all this about, then?’
Dee smiled upon the sprout and patted him kindly.
‘Turn me up the right way, chief. I hate having my bum patted.’
‘My apologies. It’s just that we have a little surprise for you and we didn’t want Mr Woodentop spoiling it.’
“That’s nice. I think.’
‘There’s someone we want you to meet,’ said Ed. ‘Close your eyes for a moment. You do have eyes, don’t you?’
‘I can’t recall any mention of them, but I suppose I must have or I wouldn’t be able to see anything, would I? Unless of course I have derma-optical perception. I do possess some pretty awesome powers, as you may well be aware.’
‘Oh we are, we are. Now shut your eyes or whatever it is you do.’
‘You won’t do anything unpleasant to me, will you, chief?’
‘Trust us.’
‘Like shit.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Nothing, chief. They’re closed.’
‘All right. Now keep them closed.’ Barry heard a door open and footsteps coming in his direction. He was able to calculate that these were made by a man in his twenties, approximately six feet tall, weighing a little over eleven stone. Which was a little bit awesome, but not very. ‘Open your eyes,’ cried Johnny Dee.
Barry opened them up. Ed and Johnny were sporting foolish party hat and blowing those paper things that uncurl like a chameleon’s tongue and go baarrrp. And standing between them was . . .
‘Rex!’ Barry boggled anew. ‘Rex Mundi, as I live and osmose.’
‘Barry,’ the other Rex replied. ‘I can’t tell you how pleased this makes me.’
Rex lay on the bed smiling wistfully at the ceiling. “That was wonderful,’ he said.
Laura made a face. ‘What a cop-out. I just knew the horny sex wouldn’t get a mention. And if it didn’t get a mention, then we didn’t actually do it,’
Rex turned her a surprised stare. ‘What do you mean? We’ve been humping away for a whole two and a half pages. Look at these saddle sores. And all the sandpaper I’ve used up,’
‘So you say,’
Rex flipped back. ‘There’s just half a blank page,’ he said.
‘Told you,’ said Laura.
‘Well,’ said Rex. ‘Well, I never did.’
‘Evidently not. Shall I now wrap myself in the duvet and slip into the shower for a misty out-of-focus silhouette?’
‘No,’ Rex put his arm around her shoulder. ‘Speak to me. There is a great deal I need to know if I’m going to do anything about it,’
‘All right. Where do you want me to start?’
‘Tell me about Elvis,’
“The Living God?’
‘God? The King perhaps, but God? What is all this?’
‘Elvis the Ever-living,’ Laura spat in a most unladylike fashion. ‘That to him.’
‘Quite.’ Rex wiped his eye.
‘Sorry, Rex,’
‘Don’t mention it. But tell me about Elvis,’
‘You really don’t know, do you? Where are you from, Rex? How did you get here? You’re with us, aren’t you?’
‘One thing at a time. Just tell me about Elvis,’
‘It’s all in here,’ Laura reached over to the bedside table, a Sheraton satinwood cabinet, with cross-banded doors flanked by pilasters inlaid with husk chains. She brought to light a slim black volume and tossed it to Rex.
Rex turned it to face him and read the title. “THE SUBURBAN BOOK OF THE DEAD’ it said in nice big letters. ‘What?’ Rex leafed through the pages. “This isn’t my book. The book I had all those years ago. This is . . .’
‘It’s a bible,’ sneered Laura. The bible of the false messiah.’
‘Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.’ Rex made a major sigh. ‘I think I’d better give this a bit of a read. Would you mind terribly if I did this on my own?’
‘Would you chaps mind terribly if Barry and I were left alone?’ the other Rex asked. ‘We have so very much to talk about.’
‘No sweat, excellency - I mean, Rex.’ Johnny Dee winked lewdly, and he and Kelley shuffled backwards through the doorway and were gone.
The Suburban Book of the Dead: Armageddon III: The Remake Page 12