When Graveyards Yawn

by G. Wells Taylor

  "In the outer office, the waiting room." I gestured with my cigarette. Ash fell from it, powdered on the corner of the desk and sprinkled the floor. So much for the suave act. "There's an all night coffee shop down the street. It's late, so we'll be taking our chances with it, but they deliver anytime."

  "Everything is, these days." Her words were clipped.

  "Is what?"

  "Everything's open all night." She smiled through a cloud of smoke like a hungry demon. Her head tilted. "Why haven't I heard of you? Surely one of your cases has drawn enough attention to warrant a couple of lines in the Gazette."

  "Hot night, isn't it." I almost walked over to the window to open it. Instead, I slouched.

  "They say it's going to get hotter." Her smile was all teeth.

  "They say a lot of things." I grinned back at her.

  "They do." She crossed her legs, drew in on her cigarette.

  Elmo entered with a box containing six large Styrofoam cups. He set them on the desk. One day, I had to find the patience to use the coffeepot. We'd go broke entertaining this way.

  "I paid the man," Elmo said, scooping up one of the cups for himself, pulling the office door shut with his free hand. I knew he would take it back to his seat in the waiting room, drink it with abnormal speed and then continue to stare at the door. He might read one of his old newspapers.

  "Thanks," I said to his back. My eyes returned to Ms. Redding. "I don't trust Authority--never have. Most of my cases begin quiet and end quieter. I'm not in the habit of telling Authority anything. Money is my game, not headlines. Detectives who get famous tend to get dead."

  "How about justice, are you into that?" Her legs crossed again; I caught a flash of silvery silk. My heart did a back flip.

  "Yeah," I said, pulling out a drawer and dumping my heels into it. "I mean, all these people, all the buildings, there must be a scrap of it somewhere. I guess you could call me an optimist."

  "Is that why you paint your smile on?"

  My gut cramped around a mouthful of coffee. Tommy rattled awfully close to the surface. I must have let my guard down, because the lunatic managed enough control to curl my lip into a sneer. I fumbled for a cigarette to cover it.

  "I'm sorry." She climbed to her feet, grabbed a cup of coffee, and slid one round hip onto the desk to my left. "I didn't mean to upset you--but it's hard not to notice. What's a big lug like you have to hide from?"

  "Yeah," I said in explanation. She had shaved her legs today and she wasn't wearing nylons. "What did you want to talk about?"

  Her smile faded. "Ah," she said, dropping her eyes into my lap. "I thought we were going to be friends."

  "Why don't we ease into it over a few questions." If the erection thumping my chest said anything, Tommy was awake and listening and wanted to be friends. "How did you find out about Adrian tonight?"

  She sighed in a heart-melting way, and carried her coffee back to the company chair. After crushing her cigarette in the ashtray, she said. "I've got a friend in Authority who tips me off when there's action. He's kind of a clusterfuck..." She breathed more smoke. "He wants me. Naked."

  My eyes slid to her knees again. "It takes a long time to get good contacts in Authority. How long have you been with the Gazette?"

  She smiled. "Only about three months. Freelanced for years before that...but I was lucky, I guess. I met my contact when he tried to pick me up at a bar. I knew he was an asshole, but I was a reporter out of work, and you never know."

  "I guess hard work pays," I said, then changed the subject. "You were at the Morocco for the Billings murder, and you found Cotton. You are a lucky girl." I smiled this time.

  "Same guy called me then, as tonight. This friend called me and said there'd been a murder the night before at the Morocco Building--the Billings murder. I went, looked around, of course Billings was already down at HQ by then, when my fotog stumbled on Cotton's body. I picked up the story about drug dealing from the Inspectors. It never did sit well; but I decided to follow up the Billings story first. Since people always like to read what the victims have to say, and Cotton wasn't talking. It was easy to find Mr. Billings' address in the city registry, so I drove down to talk to him. He lived in New Garden, really nice neighborhood with an Enforcer on every street corner. Well that's where he was staying at the time I'm not sure where he ended up. The money down that end of town usually squeezes the dead people out. At the time I talked to him, he was still a little disoriented with the Blacktime and death, but he gave me a fairly detailed description of events."

  "I believe this is old news to me. Adrian did it."

  "Adrian? Interesting." She went on to describe the story Billings had told me. I puffed on two cigarettes during the narration.

  "Did he tell you why he got up that night?" I felt strange saying it, but a focused silence within told me that Tommy approved.

  "Oh that's the weird part of the story." Her eyes dropped to study her shoes. I watched the smooth skin on her hands. "He said he got up because he heard a baby crying--but you've got to remember the guy had just been murdered, and God only knows what happens to you in Blacktime."

  I remembered Adrian's face when I had visited him at his office, and Tommy had slipped that question out about the baby. I had seen a similar twinge of recognition in Cane's features. "It's the same thing he told me." I stood up, crossed to the front of the desk and leaned on it. "What do you think about it?"

  She smiled over the rim of her cup. "Come on, the Gazette isn't one of those papers--don't tell me you're one of those detectives."

  "Indulge my infantile curiosity in the unknown then, if you will. Let's say that as a boy I did a Bigfoot project at a science fair. Just give me your opinion."

  "We don't follow stories like that any more. Even though in these days, Elvis Presley being seen may be a little more believable." She smiled. "Don't tell me Elvis Presley's involved."

  It was my turn to smile. Partly because it hurt, partly because I wished I had said it. "That strip of cold cuts we saw tonight--Mr. Adrian--when I spoke to him, I happened to mention that a baby was heard crying at the Morocco and he got nervous. From reading the lumps on the back of my head, I came to the conclusion that he was at the Morocco the night of Billings' murder. He as much as confessed to me, and I believe that he heard it too--the baby." I lit a cigarette and looked at Ms. Redding.

  "Don't be insane." Her eyes pleaded, she pressed her palms together as though in prayer. "Please don't be insane. You seem like such a nice guy." She smirked and leaned back in her chair. "There are no such things as babies."

  "I know that. But, whatever it was, Billings heard it, Adrian heard it, and I'm wondering if Cotton heard it too."

  "What do you think it was?"

  "I don't know. I'm really not sure if it's anything. It could have been a television running an old movie--for all I knew…" Then my brain turned on. "What floor was Cotton on? What was his room number?"

  "The twelfth. Room 4. He had registered under W. Irving."

  "Right, and Billings was in--"

  "Room 6, on the twelfth. Shit!" Ms. Redding sighed. "Why didn't I put that together?"

  "Because the building was burned to the ground before anyone had time to link the cases." I stared blankly into the corner. "Something was going on up there that night. I know why Billings bought it. Adrian and the missing woman, Van Reydner, were in on a scam to collect bodies for their preservation treatments. But Cotton. What the hell was he up to?"

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about!" The line between Redding's eyes throbbed with barely restrained ire. "You conned me before. You weren't working on that case at all."

  "Sorry," I grumbled, frowning. "I have to get jobs somehow. Besides, we're both working for the same end. Whatever Authority is hiding, might be exposed. That must please you, and, I might add, without any risk to yourself."

  "It's not the risk. I just hate being had." I watched her face relax, and again become a mask of calm.

 
"So do I." I lit another cigarette. "Indulge me. It's probably a lot of nonsense, but I'd like to refresh my memory. You're a newshound, you must know more about the phantom baby than the average person." Urgency suddenly clenched my jaws. "Just a moment ago, you asked me if I was one of those detectives, what did you mean by that."

  She laughed outright. "I've heard about guys like that. You know, ghost hunters, all that shit..." She paused, stared hard. "So Adrian murdered Billings--it was the rumor, but they gagged that one too!"

  "Yes," I said, smiled again. I could see frustration cloud her vision. "You reporters have got to dig a little harder."

  "And you detectives have to be a little braver and tell the press about your cases." Chagrin settled in her eyes, but passed. "They told us it was a lover's quarrel. Said the murderer was at large. They never update us on these things."

  "God only knows what else they've been suppressing, but like it or not, everything's starting to slide out."

  "So, how big do you see this conspiracy?" Her cheeks flushed red with excitement.

  "Big. And dangerous. I've got a bad feeling about it all. There are two people I know were there that night besides Billings. The paté out on the eastbound highway, who is shall we say beyond questioning or the justice you mentioned earlier." Her expression was expectant. "And Van Reydner. That's what hurts. Van Reydner could clear up this whole mess in twenty minutes. Maybe. But if the recent demise of Mr. Adrian tells me anything, I'd say the best place to start looking for her would be the Landfill." I paused a second to look out the window. The streetlights gleamed like tin stars.

  Ms. Redding derailed my train of thought. "What's your theory?"

  "I don't have one." I cracked open a new coffee and burned my mouth with it. "I think it's a case of a couple of small-timers getting smashed in the wheels of a bigger machine. What do you know about Cotton?"

  Her eyebrows became a delicate arch. "Not much. After I talked to Billings about his murder, I called Authority to ask about the other murder, but the news gag was already going into effect. All I got was his ID read Alan Cotton. He had checked into the Morocco under the name of W. Irving. He was from Vicetown. Made a living selling makeup for the dead. You know, collagen creams, synthetic tans and the like."

  "Who gave you the bio on Cotton?"

  "Authority. An Inspector Cane." I could see doubt forming behind her features.

  Cane. I was starting to hate that guy. "What did Cane say?"

  "He said they found a big cache of Greaseasy and syncrak in a valise by the body, so Cane told us it was a drug-related murder. Then came the gag order. Under investigation. That type of thing."

  "Convenient," I said. "Would all of this be in your records?"

  "Probably, the Gazette has a huge library of old and related stories--we call it the morgue. Should be stuff in there about the baby, too. If you're serious." Her face was flushed.

  "Can I see your files?"

  "Sure, later." She got up, walked over to me, and passed one arm around my neck. She smiled.

  "What?" I said in my usually succinct manner.

  "I was going to ask if you had to wear the makeup, but decided to keep my mouth shut. It's kind of sexy and weird." Again her teeth flashed at me. "Do you have an apartment?"

  "No," I growled. "I sleep on the couch out..." I could feel her solid form pressed against me. Her other arm slid into the small of my back and pulled me closer. I had no doubt now, that she was a strong woman. If she had hugged any harder, we'd have passed through each other. Her breasts felt like armor-piercing shells.

  "Are you sure about this?" I gestured to my face.

  I counted the teeth she showed me in answer. "I don't care, Wildclown, it's not so bad I guess. Besides, it's hard to find a man in Greasetown who can spell justice let alone one who has a concept of it."

  "What time is it?" I asked, my nose tickling hers. She looked at her watch where it hung over my left ear.

  "Almost one-thirty," she whispered, and pressed closer. "Come to my place."

  "I've got to stay close to the phone. I'm open all night." I slashed out behind me at the papers on the desk. The phone fell with a thump and a ring. An ashtray cartwheeled across the floor and broke in the corner. I leaned back; Ms. Redding followed. Her solid form pressed down on me.

  "Don't come in, Elmo!" I shouted at the door. We froze for a moment--faces close and expectant. Then I kissed her. Our tongues met like hungry snakes. I felt Ms. Redding's hands like vices on my buttocks. As my hand took an enjoyable ride on a long zipper, I had the sense of being watched. Elmo would be down on one knee at the keyhole. Hell, who wouldn't?

  Chapter 34

  Ms. Redding left at around three-thirty. Apparently, she was unaccustomed to sleeping on desks. I saw her to the door then asked Elmo if he wouldn't mind reading in the office so I could use the couch. I had to give Tommy's body a rest. If I pushed too hard, I would end up wrestling his personality for control. Also, I had my own little hallucinogenic facsimile of sleep, and I thought better when disembodied. Mary Redding's Volkswagen exploded to life in the quiet street below. In minutes, Tommy was snoring beneath me on the couch.

  As I had feared, the sex and orgasms had quite exhausted my intellect. I felt all shocked and spread out--kind of drippy--like egg yolk sliding down a wall. I floated near the ceiling, my mind a flickering cloud of sexual echoes. Ms. Redding had been willing and able, and she had never met someone like Tommy. That was one thing about him I could accept. He had a libido that could sink a ship. Ms. Redding had staggered away finally, flushed and musky. "Save some, save some," she had said. It was true. Tommy's body responded to each atom of sexuality as though it would be the last he would ever encounter. I let the buzzing, chafing images huddle and squat on my mind for a few panting moments, and then I gave it all up to my own strange dreams.

  Transition.

  I was in a confined space. A line of Authority Enforcers sat across from me. They held auto-shotguns in their gloved hands. A red light overhead made them look like demons. I heard a grumble of gears. An engine groaned before the sensation of motion.

  Transition.

  I was outside all of the sudden, walking down a street that glistened wet from a new rain. My shoes dragged on the asphalt, and made a slushy scuffing sound. I could taste whiskey, cigarettes and sleep. I rubbed sand from my eyes. Suddenly, a baby's cry echoed up the street, bouncing between the buildings and rattling off the fenders of parked cars. I shook my head. A cat, probably--or cats making kittens.

  A form emerged from the mist beneath a streetlight. At the end of the block, at the corner, a clown in greasepaint swaggered through the puddles toward me. He wore tall hard boots of black, and red spotted coveralls. A .9mm automatic pistol jumped like a rabbit in his hand.

  I reached into my coat for my .44, but found my shoulder holster missing. A brilliant star blossomed at the end of the clown's gun. My chest erupted in red. Another star burst forth, then another. I dropped to my knees as holes appeared across my chest in bloody plumes. These shooting stars came plummeting, impacting into my chest. I fell forward. My hands were wooden paddles. I couldn't feel the street. The world weighed a billion tons--I tried to hold it away, strained to keep it off of me. My arms quivered. Blood poured out of my sleeves--puddles formed. The streetlights lit the growing red mirror. I could see my reflection. A clown laughed back at me. My mind raced.

  Transition.

  I marched toward the noises ahead. To the left and right of me, Authority Enforcers moved shoulder to shoulder in a line. They held tall plastic shields and clubs. So did I. Our boots crunched on the broken asphalt. Ahead of us came shouts of rage. A huge mob of the dead approached. They had guns, and clubs and rocks. A scream, and the shields clattered as rocks were thrown. I heard an order shouted, and a long blinding arc of flame leapt over our heads and landed on the mob. Another order, and we charged the burning figures.

  Transition.

  I was back in the waiting room outside my
office. A sucking dryness pulled at me. Below in Tommy's place a tall pale man in black and gray was stretched out. His lips were a sour pucker as though he held a skinned lemon between his teeth. His face was broad, his nose straight. A hat covered his head. From a closed eye, a tear trickled.

  Transition. I was back on the street. A burning corpse grabbed me. I saw its flaming eyes. Transition.

  Tommy was below me again. The waiting room was silent. The hallucination ceased. Moments passed silently. A fly's buzzing assault against the window was the only sound. A fly that carried eggs, that carried maggots, that carried rot. Rot that was the end for all animal, vegetable or mineral.

  Tommy screamed. He leapt from the couch, hands clawing for his gun; the gun I had put away in the desk.

  "Get away!" he shrieked, hands gripping the thick hair at his temples. "Get it off me!"

  He attacked the wall beside the door to the hallway with such fury and venom that he was dust-covered and through the slats in no time. I saw blood streaming from knuckles and forearms. Elmo entered the room. His eyes were wide with terror. His hands were outstretched. They worked an imaginary rope. "Boss! Boss!" He yelled, terrified.

  Tommy continued to pummel the wall in an effort to escape. He whirled around into a crouched position, and screamed into his hands like a man in quicksand. He bellowed mad, garbled words at Elmo--words that made no sense to the living or the dead, the words of the dream world. The dead man stood against the far wall bewildered. "Whiskey, Boss?" he mumbled impotently, like a man with new teeth, lips and tongue. "Just a dream, Boss. You want whiskey, that's all."

  Tommy was silent, thrashing his glance around the room. He laughed "Whiskey!" and gripped his gut. He rolled on the floor. "Yeah, and bring my gun, I want you to put a bullet between his eyes. Let's do it right this time!"

  Eyes wide, Elmo hurried from the room. Tommy rolled onto his back and stared into the space I occupied. "I hate him." The dark words fell from a slack mouth. His expression was cold, his eyes black.

  My mind still swam from my own experience. I was too disjointed and exposed to care. Below me the clown squinted, and smiled.