When Graveyards Yawn

by G. Wells Taylor

  "I don't know who you are, or the purpose behind that ridiculous makeup; but I've been in this business long enough to know a dead man when I see one. You're not dead and because you lied about that, I assume you're not really Mr. Gingold."

  "And you're not Simon," I said, trying to figure out how to play the scene. "Mind if I smoke? I couldn't help but notice the scent of your cigar. Expensive?" I lit a cigarette and watched its smoke dance on my hand like a cobra. It swayed slowly.

  "Not really, Dutch, Henry Winterman Cafe Cream Mild. I'm growing impatient." He seemed to have perfect control of his voice. He added just enough volume and emphasis to make it as much a threat as if he held a gun in his hand.

  "Wildclown," I drawled, slowly puffing smoke in an effort to seem in control. "I'm a private detective."

  "And the purpose behind that ludicrous outfit?"

  "Detective disguise number 118. The dead mime costume, I'm surprised no one has used it on you yet."

  "Don't be flippant, Mr. Wildclown. You'll find I'm not predisposed to humor. I have friends with certain authority." He smiled as he said "authority." I began to feel like a rat in a barbecue.

  "I'm not trying to be flippant. I'm trying to avoid being rude." I could feel Tommy's indignation growing within.

  "Certainly," Adrian breathed with a tangible change in tone before saying to himself. "Refinement before all else…" He looked at me evenly. "Would you like a drink?"

  "I never met one I didn't."

  "Scotch, isn't that the usual drink of detectives," he said scornfully as he ordered two gins neat from the intercom, and then leaned back in his enormous chair to study me. I met his gaze with as much fire as I could muster without letting Tommy out.

  A few moments of study passed before the silence was broken by the whoosh of a door opening, followed by an annoying tick-tock of footsteps. A secretary clacked in on high stiletto heels she would need a ladder to get into. She had our drinks, gave one to Mr. Adrian, one to me. A twinkle of light, and I noticed a strange black and bronze charm hung from a red chain at her wrist. It looked like a swastika set in the oval part of an Egyptian ankh. I couldn't place it. Her eyes were dark. Her lips puckered and red. I smiled. She wrinkled her nose at me and left.

  I looked at my drink, clinked the ice cubes a few times, and nonchalantly sniffed it. I couldn't smell any poison. It tasted like gin. I looked through the glass rim and saw Mr. Adrian looking back at me through his. I dropped ash on the floor, muttered an apology.

  "What do you want, Mr. Wildclown?"

  "Oh, you know, run of the mill kind of stuff. For instance, did you hear a baby cry last Thursday night at the Morocco Hotel?" His eyes flared white. I'm sure mine must have. I didn't ask the question. Tommy had slipped it through all my personal defenses and placed it on the tip of my tongue where it couldn't help but fall out. For a few moments I was aghast--afraid to speak. This had never happened before.

  "No," Adrian said, his quick recovery almost hiding the trace of fear in his voice. "Of course not! That's ridiculous. Everyone knows there are no such things as babies. Not since the Change." He drew in a deep breath, set his glass down. "I believe this interview is over."

  "That's okay," I said. I could feel Tommy clamoring for release. "That was just a test question. What I wanted to say was...ask you..." I paused for a second to recapture my hold on Tommy. Sweat burst out and slid through my greasepaint. My heart pounded. "I wanted to ask if you know a woman named Jan Van Reydner." My hand shook as I brought the glass to my lips. I saw the name register something in his eyes.

  When he started speaking his manner was granite.

  "Mr. Wildclown, I have already given you enough of my valuable time. I don't know who this person is, and if I did, I certainly wouldn't feel obliged to tell you."

  "Get off it!" I snarled. "You've already admitted as much. Why else would you allow a fictitious, dead mime to see you? Am I a fool or did you get all this wealth from being sloppy? You knew I knew something about something you're involved in and you wanted to know what I knew--know." I paused to check my syntax. "You know what I mean. Grow up, Mr. Adrian, the only reason you let me in is because I mentioned those magic names. I know you're Simon and that you hired Jan Van Reydner to kill Mr. Conrad Billings. I understand he's a new client of yours." Adrian was motionless. "And where's Van Reydner? Getting more business, or did you decide she wasn't useful to you any more?"

  "I don't know where Ms. Van Reydner is." Adrian dropped his gaze, picked up his drink and drank off the last of it. A childish slurp escaped him; he smirked, then leaned forward and ground his cigar flat. "She disappeared. Jan should have been in touch by now. I do hope she's well. We've been doing a booming business, she and I. She hasn't even been paid yet."

  I suddenly got a cold chill. If someone starts to confess...

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Wildclown, but I'm afraid I'm quite above any law, if in fact you represent anything resembling that. Mr. Billings is a new customer of ours, yes; and I assure you he is adjusting well to his situation," he said and paused. "Oh, have you had any luck finding Ms. Van Reydner?" He nodded and I was suckered. I actually disregarded his nod and started answering. I don't know how I could have missed it.

  An elephant sat on the back of my head. Tremendous pressure--just as my skull was about to explode a wave of black covered me.

  Chapter 16

  We were in the Chrysler. Tommy's head lolled drunkenly; spittle hung in a slender strand from his lip. It swung and bobbed like a rookie surveyor's plumb. He was jammed in between two big thugs in cheap suits. They looked like poorly trained apes doing gangster impressions.

  The Chrysler rocked and banged along an old road. The pavement was cracked and wrinkled like a bad tan-job. While the gangsters did their ugly best in the back seat, a round-gutted, pig-eyed dead man drove. He had a chest so deep it looked borrowed. A black leather cap with snap-up brim sat forward on his round head exposing a sweaty bald spot in back. Stubble, just short of a beard, colored his cheeks. He steered the Chrysler with skinny arms like stretched rubber bands.

  "Don't worry, you chicken shits!" He sneered through rat teeth. "We just give him enough shots in the head, he don't come back like, 'sides..." He paused a moment to steer over rocks that protruded from the road. "We got the chainsaw."

  One of the soldiers in the back seat nudged Tommy and grunted. "Yer fuckin' landfill now buddy." His friend seemed to enjoy the humor because he laughed around wide teeth in Paleolithic glee.

  I was busy playing the friendly little cloud again, blowing in and around their fuzzy scalps. My attempts to regain control of Tommy had been frustrated. When I was ambushed in Adrian's office, I experienced a few awkward moments of transition as I was ejected from Tommy's body. But from my new vantage point, I first saw the gangsters who now sat on either side of Tommy like Darwinian bookends. They had been lurking in the shadows during my interview and had stepped forward and nailed me on the back of the head with a sap. The big mug that hit me raised his arm to finish the job but was halted by Adrian, who seemed agitated by the thought of having brains on his carpet. He ordered them to drop Mr. Wildclown piece by piece in the Landfill. Regardless of his refinement, I didn't like Mr. Adrian.

  They carried Tommy to a service elevator, then down and along a winding poorly lit passageway. This finally opened into an underground parking garage that exited a hundred feet from where I had parked the Chrysler. They dragged Tommy to the car with me floating along overhead attached to the unconscious clown by invisible threads. The little pig-faced corpse had been waiting for them, all spit and menace. They frisked Tommy for keys, and then took the car south along the highway toward the nearest Authority Internment Facility turn off. When they reached the gate there was a slight argument as to how to open it. Pigface solved it with a few blasts of his auto-shotgun.

  I tried to possess Tommy throughout the ride without luck. When we pulled to a stop, I noticed that the clouds were fast turning a deep gray in color. Somewhere u
p there the sun was sliding out of the greasy brown sky. Night was falling. For a moment I mused over the last time I had seen stars. It was at Tommy's sanctuary--a patch of grass and moss that grew on the rooftop of a building in a cleft formed by two abandoned skyscrapers. Three short cedar trees had somehow managed to root themselves in the gravel and refuse, and it was among them that I spotted stars one night peeking out between the clouds like naughty children at the cracks of bedroom doors.

  The gangsters rubbed thick elbows in Tommy's guts bringing a groan from him. I tried once again to take him--but failed. He must have been hit worse than I thought. My sex pictures were not working. I couldn't get them over a jagged wall of pain.

  "We better be quick," grumbled the driver. "I don't want to use more light than we have to. The Landfillers come for lights."

  He looked at his accomplices' crestfallen faces. "You bitches aren't afraid of a few creepy crawlies are you? Just remember to use your sticks!" He gestured with a stout wooden cane. "Whack the fuckers!" The gangsters sat silent and grim until the driver rolled his eyes. "Shit, how'd I get stuck with you pansies? Call yourselves muscle? Bring him!" He shook his head and climbed from the Chrysler, his auto-shotgun tucked under one arm.

  The ape on Tommy's left grunted something in opposition, but opened his door and dragged the clown after him. His partner followed, eyes flashing with terror. I had to agree with them. I was not somewhere I ever wanted to feel comfortable. Strange twitching, rustling noises filled the dry brush that grew around the road. A mist-shrouded mountain of refuse and death rose darkly ten yards from the car. The gangsters dragged Tommy through the grass to the left of the road. I suddenly caught a whiff of his nerves firing. The clown quickly pulled his feet under him, then kicked the legs out from under the gangster on the right--who dropped immediately. Tommy collapsed with the other on top of him. He growled and spat. His teeth gnashed.

  The auto-shotgun roared and the head blew off the gangster on top of Tommy--then his chest exploded. Pigface had decided to resolve the dispute by dispatching everything within his range of fire. The gun butt was pressed against his dead hip. Evil malice shone in his lifeless face.

  Tommy got his feet against the other gangster's torso and strained against the embrace. Just in time, because the auto-shotgun roared, and his dancing partner's face turned to pulp. Tommy rolled out of the carnage. Pigface fired again. A good chunk of the Chrysler's rear left fender blew off as Tommy leapt for cover. He crouched momentarily by the right rear tire, his head snapping from left to right. I floated impotently over him. There was little chance of possession now. His heart was beating madly, his system flushed with adrenaline.

  The gun roared three times in succession, eating chunks out of the roof and door. The front window imploded in a shower. Pigface laughed like a machine gun. Saliva poured over his rotten teeth.

  My gun was in the glove compartment, but I was the only one who knew it. I saw something limp and pale move near Tommy's right hip. A severed hand, a woman's danced about in the confusion of flying glass. Tommy grabbed it and threw it over the car. The action was answered by a startled squawk. The clown felt around for another missile. From my position I watched Pigface moving slowly around the car. I tried another frantic possession, but was dunked in a smothering wash of white-hot panic. Tommy's breath came in gasps. He threw a rock into nearby brush. A tree was blasted to twigs.

  Suddenly, Tommy froze. He looked up. His eyes seemed unfocused, as though he were moving his attention from cloud to cloud. He stared directly into the space I occupied. Then he moved. He yanked open the passenger door. A quarter of it disappeared with a rattling roar. Pigface rounded the right front fender. Tommy dove into the car. In a motion, the glove compartment was open and the .44 automatic was in his hand.

  Slowly, Pigface's footsteps approached. Rubber and grass met with a terrifying rustle. He hissed. "Okay, fuck up, c'mon out for Uncle Death. It's Blacktime!" His face appeared pinched and oily in the fractured remains of the windshield. "Good night, sleep tight. Don't let the maggots..." Tommy fired. The automatic clattered, eating Pigface's head and one shoulder. Dark gobbets spattered against the Chrysler and rained on the grass. Pigface's auto-shotgun dropped useless in one hand. The body took a couple of hesitant steps backward--almost fell. Tommy leapt from the car and ripped the gun from its lifeless grasp. He kicked the corpse over with a boot to the chest. It scrabbled and clawed feebly in the dirt.

  Tommy returned to the car, tossed the auto-shotgun inside then circled the vehicle. The gangsters were both dead, deep in the sleep of Blacktime. Tommy took their guns, .9mm automatics, and checked their wallets. As an afterthought, he walked to where Pigface crawled in the grass. He kicked the grisly torso down and with a knee on its chest, frisked its pockets. This produced a wallet and a .357 magnum. More for the collection. Tommy pocketed both then let Pigface's body continue its crawl into oblivion.

  He walked over to the Chrysler and hopped behind the wheel with a crunch of shattered safety glass. He began laughing. "So, here I am in the fuckin' Landfill. What in the Christ?" He laughed until tears started from his eyes then he dug around under the seat like a cat after a ball of wool. His efforts procured him the remainder of my bottle. He drank desperately, then lit a cigarette.

  "Where's that fucking Elmo?" He glared absently at the shattered windshield. Sharp, angular reflections grinned back. He tittered wildly at the images--the thousand mad clowns. All the while the whiskey bottle moved slowly between his legs.

  I knew what was going to happen next, so I averted my gaze. All that violence was an aphrodisiac to the clown. I looked out the broken window. Pigface's body had regained its feet. It staggered blindly, whipped around quickly and flailed its remaining arm as though assailed by a flock of bats. I saw the bodies of the gangsters. They were lying peacefully amid the slaughter like they were made for the job. One even had an arm behind his shattered skull as if it were a sunny day, and a stream babbled nearby. His legs were crossed carelessly at the ankles.

  Beneath me, I could hear Tommy's wild breathing. He was reaching his peak. Taking over would be as easy as getting murdered in Greasetown.

  Chapter 17

  I left the car at the curb. It leaned battered and beaten at the base of a dim street lamp. A carload of Firebugs roared past moments before an ancient truck burst into yellow flames down the street. A dead wino looked at me with frightened eyes. I gave him a quarter and stumbled up crumbled steps under a neon sign that throbbed the word Berlinz.

  Shortly, I was curled around a pink marble bar. Some sex kitten purred in a voice of rustling bed sheets, a song about Stormy Weather. She seemed oblivious to the many blatant leers that dripped around the lips of foamy beer mugs. I leaned over my drink and slurped with a bruised pucker. My vision jumped like jacks as I waved for the bartender's attention and stabbed my empty glass.

  "You like that stuff, eh, Mr. Clown?" He was a small Latin fellow with thin black hair slicked over a tiny head. His skinny arms worked the bottle of Canadian Club over my glass. "You got a lot of blood on you there." He looked me up and down.

  "Just pour, Caesar. It isn't mine." I turned away absently. My head ached, my body shivered with pain, and my guts burned with each glass of whiskey. I was in a great mood--felt like sixty-six cents.

  I reached back, got my drink and concentrated on the singer. Her dress was slit to the crotch, and for a lascivious moment I distracted myself by playing peek-a-boo with a white silk bunny that flashed its cute little nose from time to time. When the singer jerked her hips in just such a way, her enormous augmented breasts heaved provocatively against the tight silk dress. I lit a cigarette, drained my glass and put my injured brain to work.

  Pigface and the monkey-twins were obviously in Mr. Adrian's employ. One might ask the question, why does Mr. Adrian hire gentlemen of questionable heredity when he's just a nice old taxpaying businessman. The dead men's wallets had provided little more than a few small bills in way of information; in fac
t, they were buying me a round. I hadn't expected to find anything. Nobody carried identification any more. Regardless, Mr. Adrian called the shots. He would soon know that I had escaped because his boys wouldn't be home tonight. I decided not to worry about what he would do--he would do it anyway.

  I was curious about Tommy. He had never intruded when I was taking my kick at the cat before, so why now? During my past possessions there had been a few odd Tourette-like explosions, but never awareness. He usually just picked up and went along his demented way when I was through with him. But now, he knew about the interview with the lawyer, he'd given that away when he was talking to Inspector Cane. The phantom baby case. Now out came his damn voice when I was talking to Mr. Adrian. Again, the phantom baby. And I couldn't forget the other new twist--my fall from the Morocco--I'd been knocked unconscious for the first time since I'd become what I am. Whatever that is…

  A voice intruded into my thoughts.

  "Hey, what's with the makeup, Mac?"

  I turned with my lips folded for an 'f' sound and looked into a face without a nose. I stopped.

  "How are you, Pogo?" I really didn't care. I was surprised at how much I didn't care.

  "Fine, you monkey fucker!" He hopped onto the stool beside me. "What brings you out on a day like this?"

  "If I didn't go out on days like this, I'd never go out." The whiskey was starting to take the edge off. I'd known Pogo for about a year and a half. We frequented the same damp places on the underbelly of the world.

  Pogo laughed in his peculiar wet way. He once told me he was a full-blood Apache Indian. Of course, it explained the brilliant war bonnet he wore to cap off his expensive suit. The subject of his heritage had come up once when we watched a documentary on the TV over the bar. Apparently terrified by the ramifications of the Change, large numbers of people had forsaken the godless life of the cities to return to nature. Some of the old tribes were letting them in too. Pogo laughed at the whole process but said he could never go back. "They ain't got no video, no nothing in nature. Who the fuck needs that?" Later, he had had his nose cut off when he'd fallen into the hands of the Brotherhood of White Order. But he took the facial redecoration in stride. Pogo spent his afterlife as a pimp and dealer in exotic entertainment. He felt the new look terrified debtors and creditors alike. I added these facts to the list of things I didn't care about.