When Graveyards Yawn

by G. Wells Taylor

  I stared at him. "Nothing, he just disappeared."

  "Poof." Harker made a disappearing cloud motion with his hands.

  "And he never gave you a contact number, an address where he worked? You were a reporter, you must have kept a notebook."

  "You don't keep a notebook that long. Christ, you go through a hundred a year. Couldn't tell you a number. Sorry." He paused, scratched his head. "Gritburg comes to mind. But that's a guess."

  I gave him one of my cards. "Thanks," I said, and spun on my heel to leave--then stopped. I threw an eye over my shoulder. "You said Grey sure as hell wasn't Authority anymore. I suppose that was based on the poor sap's wardrobe?"

  "No, Grey was a good dresser, plain but good. I just knew he wasn't from Authority, because I only talked to one guy at Authority about the phantom baby."

  I felt sweat soak my back. "Who?"

  "Inspector Borden. Called him every time we got anything on it."

  My jaw died. Then I managed, "I suppose they're still doing it, at the Gazette." I continued to stare over my left shoulder. "Calling."

  "Hey, it was one of those things. You do what Authority wants." He couldn't hide the wounded pride in his voice.

  "Thanks." I left, and in seconds found myself in the street. My brain was aching with all the little cogwheels turning at once. My stomach was a block of ice as I drove back to the office.

  Chapter 38

  In the hallway, it was dark. Somewhere ahead of us came the mad pleasure-pain shriek and giggle of a woman. After it, a man laughed frenetically--donkey-like. That came from the accountants who rented offices down the hall from me. I didn't like them. They had too much dirt under their fingernails for accountants. I unlocked the office door pushed it open and heard a rustling sound. I pulled my gun free and shoved the door with it. The inner office was dark, but enough light slipped past the blinds to expose the corners in bars of gray. Nothing. I looked down. An envelope lay crumpled at my feet. I bent, picked it up. Elmo was a shadow behind me. We had stepped out for a late supper after I returned from Crisco's. I needed the fuel. All that detox and running around, and sleeplessness. Elmo came for company. He hadn't said a word. It was perfect. We had pulled up to the front of the building at about eleven-thirty.

  "Come on, Fatty." I crossed the carpet, opened the inner office door, flicked on the desk lamp and dropped into my chair. I flipped the envelope over, ran a thumbnail under the flap, and tore it open. Inside was a message hastily written in pencil on foolscap. It read:

  "Mr. Wildclown. Please come. Arizona Hotel. Have something you want. Under Nancy Smith."

  Well, I wanted a lot of things. I wanted my own body, I wanted more money, and I wanted a drink--a lot of things. I wanted a cabin with a stream nearby, where I could take my nephew fishing. We could catch a big one, shellac it, and nail it to the wall. I wanted a nephew. I wanted to be under Nancy Smith. I especially wanted to find the person who had written the message. I also wanted to know how she knew me. A strong female hand had written Jan Van Reydner between the blue lines at the bottom of the page.

  "What time is it, Fatso?" I asked, peeking through the blinds.

  "Just past eleven-thirty." His voice was matter-of-fact.

  "Not too late to call on a lady."

  "Best time to," Elmo said and brought his face to life with a grin.

  "You better pack a heater," I said, as I checked the action of my gun. "I'm not sure what kind of reception we're going to get."

  Elmo smiled. He liked packing a heater. Dead people weren't supposed to.

  Chapter 39

  I looked up at the sign. The letters comprising 'Arizona' were painted to resemble something soft left too long in the sun. They melted and dribbled in yellow trickles over the word 'hotel.' A bright sun hung in the top right corner of the sign. Sweat was jumping from it in big fat drops.

  One look at the Arizona Hotel and I was reminded of the Morocco--minus the Arab dome. In place of that, a rickety yellow and brown awning covered the walkway that led to the entrance. The fabric was torn in many places and the whole thing groaned so much in the breeze that I had to imagine the howl it would make in a windstorm. The building itself was run down, dirty, and the windows had been replaced by cardboard in places. We were in Downings again. No Queens this time. Elmo and I climbed the front steps, entered. We walked across threadbare carpet and up to an equally dilapidated front desk. A small East Indian man perched behind it. He didn't notice us for a second or two, long enough for me to see the title of the book he was reading. Radio Planet. It was a cheap paperback with a tiny man about to battle a gigantic ant on the cover. For some reason the little fellow was wearing panty hose. Maybe that was the best gear to fight giant ants in.

  "Ahem!" I cleared my throat. The clerk jumped. "Don't worry, I'm not a giant ant, you're safe." Embarrassed, he threw the novel into a desk drawer and leapt to his feet looking flustered.

  "Yes, how can I help you?" He made nervous birds with his hands. They fluttered up and down the front of his red blazer.

  "This your first job, man?" I replied glibly.

  Suddenly, his eyes registered what he was talking to--a big clown. They squeezed tight as Venus flytraps. "What, who--"

  "Where, when and why," I said and smiled. "But I'll ask the questions. I'm a detective. Wildclown. I was told to meet someone under Nancy Smith here." I grinned. "The name...Nancy Smith. I know it's late, but we're members of an insomniacs anonymous group. What's her room number?"

  "Oh, er, certainly, just a moment." He gave me the 'I've seen everything now' look, then almost ran back to a wall of wooden cubbyholes. His head swayed back and forth like a viper and then a hand lashed out. "Number 602, Nancy Smith." He looked back and smiled.

  "Thank you, a job well done. Uh, would you mind if my friend here waited over on one of the couches." I gestured to a cheap-looking reception area beside a fireplace that had fake logs burning with sixty watts of light. "I'll just be a minute."

  "Certainly." Then he cautioned. "But those magazines are for all our guests…"

  We left him. I whispered to Elmo. "You keep an eye open for strange people, anybody we know...anything. I'm in 602 so ring it up at the first sign of trouble. I'll play this alone."

  "Sure, Boss," he winked; patted Pigface's .357 magnum nestled in his left armpit, and then sauntered over to the fake warmth of the fire. I noticed that he sauntered very well himself.

  I called to the clerk. "Elevator's out, right?"

  He jumped to his feet again, dropped his book. "Yes sir, you'll have to take the stairs."

  I knew I'd have to take the stairs. It seemed that whatever had changed the world had evaporated all of the elevator repairmen. Sixth floor. I lit a cigarette and began my climb. I wondered what awaited me. Inside I could feel Tommy's quiet anticipation. I was asking for it in a way, but my gamble had paid off. I was being led now, that was a certainty. First Cane, now Van Reydner. Of course, there was no way of knowing that Van Reydner had actually sent the message. It could have been the bastards who had butchered Adrian. It could have been anybody with a sharp knife and time on his hands. They could all be waiting up there under Nancy Smith. My mind paused mid-stride when I realized that I hadn't had a serious drink in about four hours. I immediately made a mental note to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

  The lights flickered. I crouched instinctively--my gun out. The fake brass lamps along the stairway gave off a muddy brown light for a few seconds, then grew in intensity. Another brownout--more and more these days. One day the power wouldn't return. I slid the gun back through my pink skipping rope belt.

  The top of the stairs revealed a long hallway that stretched out in both directions, punctuated with many doors. I read the numbers on the closest. The room would be to my left. I moved cautiously down the hall watching the doors as I passed. I kept close to the wall as I walked and soon stood beside 602. Dim light colored the carpet at my feet. I grabbed my gun and quietly knocked with it. No answer.
I knocked again and thought about loose ends as I awaited a reply. Nothing.

  I remained jammed against the wall, then pushed the door with the gun barrel. It swung inward with an asthmatic creak onto a wide white room. Against one wall was a long couch with wooden scrollwork on its back. A matching chair with red felt cushions sat tight against the end of a big bed with rumpled sheets. Beside the bed was a night table bearing a lamp and a phone. A closet door was open. Hangers were strewn across the floor. I spotted the shriveled snakeskin of a stocking. Red or purple. Somebody had left in a hurry.

  I pushed the door flat against the inner wall. No thugs hiding behind it. I took a cautious step into the room. No trapdoor no knives whistling from the assassin's hand. I crossed to the bed and immediately recognized the smell of baby oil--the same I had smelled in Van Reydner's room at the Morocco. If she was as involved as Adrian had been, it was unlikely she would open up shop again in Greasetown. She'd have heard about his murder by now and if she hadn't been involved with it herself--then she'd be in as much danger as he had. Two months had passed since she disappeared. Had she been in contact with Adrian? The fact that she knew about me encouraged me to believe it. If she knew about Adrian did she know who killed him? Maybe she was part of it. All of these ideas kept me sharp, and nervous. Sweat hung in heavy bands under my arms.

  Suddenly, I was floating over Tommy's head, and he was walking toward the washroom. His eyes darted back and forth. His breath came in ragged sobs. I didn't have time to think about how easily he had expelled me.

  "Babies are slippery," he said to himself. "They're like rubber monkeys to hold." His head snapped to the left and the right. He paused and took a tremendous nose-full of air. "They're loose, they're twitchy. They're even stinky." Once inside the washroom he dropped to one knee and scanned the floorboards. "Nobody has a baby that can keep a bathroom clean. Don't leave them unattended now. Bathe them, and clothe them, and change them, and feed them. Don't drop them!" He laughed to himself then gagged out a sob. I tried to take possession, but found a bulletproof wall of purpose. The back of his head was an impervious barrier. Tommy jammed an arm under the sink. He chuckled when his hand came up clutching a badly deteriorated rubber nipple. Using the nipple as a start, I hit Tommy with sex images. I pictured enormous breasts in sheer black silk--burning aureole rising over dark lace like twin suns. His spirit was passive--like he'd finished a task, and was now content to rest. He snatched greedily at the images.

  I was suddenly on one knee holding the top of a baby bottle. It was an antique--the nipple looked old, but inside it, I felt a pale dampness. Then, quite by surprise, an elephant sat on the back of my head again. A hot, black blanket covered me. I'm not sure if it was me, the darkness or the elephant that roared. I was swallowed by something.

  Chapter 40

  Another odd thing happened. I woke up with blood in my eyes. By all rights, I should have been floating over Tommy's body while he woke up with blood in his eyes. Just another strange development that I really didn't have time for. The only good thing to come of this was that I also had hair in my eyes. This was good because it hid the fact that I was awake and being surprised and realizing things. My arms were tied behind my back to the wooden rungs of a straight-back chair. I was sprawled forward; my hands were asleep. My gun was gone. A lamp overhead bathed me in a cone of light. I smelled cigarette smoke and heard the little puff sounds of lips drawing on a filter. A voice said, "Wake the bastard up."

  Five gallons of ice water were poured over me. Gasping, I swung my head to clear my eyes of blood, hair and water. I caught the edge of a large shape disappearing into the darkness outside the cone of light.

  "Good morning, Mr. Wildclown."

  "Morning," I said squinting into the darkness ahead of me. A cigarette glowed; its tip was dimly reflected in a pair of glasses.

  "I hope you are well." The voice came from behind me and to the left.

  "Never felt better." I tried to smile, but didn't have the energy.

  "Suppose you tell us what you were doing at the Arizona Hotel."

  "Suppose you tell me why I should tell you a goddamned thing." I don't know why I said those things. I was angry, and a little frustrated I guess.

  Pain blinded me momentarily when a gorilla pinched me on the back of the head. Pliers crashed to the floor at my feet, a lock of dark hair was crushed in the steel teeth.

  The voice. "Forgive me, Mr. Wildclown. I'm really quite a handyman, and can never resist using my tools. I've got the whole set with me. Even the power tools."

  "Lucky me," I grunted.

  "What were you doing at the Arizona?"

  "Are you Authority?"

  Another storm of pain, this time from my right shoulder. A screwdriver fell--it rolled across the floor scrawling a bloody trail.

  "Answer the questions, Wildclown."

  "Why can't I stay mad at you?" No new pain.

  "Why were you at the Arizona?"

  "I was looking for someone. Jeeze, I guess the hero cracked pretty quickly." I had to play for time.

  "Who?"

  "I really, sincerely, wish I could tell you."

  "Who?" Following the word, I flinched. My coveralls were pulled roughly from my shoulders. Then, I felt the sharp teeth of a handsaw lightly prick my left shoulder. The saw rocked back and forth on the stiff muscle there, inches from my neck. "Who?"

  "Richard Adrian, I'm trying to find him for an old girlfriend!" I shrieked. Three quick strokes of the saw and blood spattered my chest. Numbness rushed over my scalp and set fire to my mind. I screamed, twisted away from the blade--knocked the chair over. I landed cat-like, on my face. I held my breath against the pain. It was an angry presence gathering force in my shoulder--winding up like a clock spring. I knew it would just get worse and worse. My contortions had dropped me out of the cone of light. The cool darkness drew me in.

  No time for sleep. The saw was thrown to the floor with a clang. I felt strong hands on me yanking the chair upright. New pain leapt from my shoulder and head. I leaned over--tried to hide between my knees. A large hand reached around and grabbed the hair at my forehead. As he grunted against the full strength of my belly muscles, I felt an odd tickling at the hairline. Inches from my face dangled an ankh with a swastika set in its oval. It hung from a chain around a thick wrist.

  I was jerked upright. On impulse I spat at the cigarette that glowed in the shadow. I must have caught the Handyman by surprise because unprepared, he used a boring old fist on my jaw. I struggled against the ropes and pushed off with my toes. He punched me again. My fillings rattled. I got a mouthful of his shirt and kicked out. We sprawled in a heap. The Handyman leapt to his feet and started wiping the toes of his boots on my stomach.

  "Enough!" A voice hissed.

  "Yes." The Handyman called off his attack like a good soldier. For a moment there it had become personal for him. I felt a large boot press against the back of my neck. "We'll let you rest, Mr. Wildclown. I've got to make sure I brought a long enough extension cord."

  I heard his heavy feet cross the floor--a door opened. A flash of light struck me. I turned my head but only made out two silhouettes--one tall, one short. I shut my eyes for a minute and tried to remember why I liked being a detective.

  The room was too dark for me to get any clue to where I was. There were no background noises so I ruled out the Arizona. No signs saying: "You are here." Not many people had the balls to torture someone in a hotel, even in these strange days. What could have happened to Elmo? He wouldn't run. I had heard no gun-battle, so my torturers must have entered the building another way. More likely, they had been waiting. That left me with the faint hope that Elmo might come to the rescue. Of course, they would leave the same way so Elmo was probably still sitting in front of the fake fireplace wondering why his boss was taking so damned long.

  So, it was up to me, as simple as that. Luckily I was bleeding, dizzy and tied to a chair. Anything else wouldn't have been worth the effort. My hands were b
ound with a plastic cord--tight; they were turning into brass monkey's paws. Blood streaked my cheek and oozed from my shoulder. "Shit," I told the darkness. I tried the army crawl, more like the worm crawl, and discovered I could make it to the door in about an hour. The chair gave me the agility of a tortoise. I struggled until my breath came in hot gulps.

  The door opened. The new light blinded me. I was swung upright, placed under the lamp again.

  "How've you been?" the Handyman asked.

  "Go to Hell," I growled. A fist smashed into the back of my head, and I was suddenly floating over Tommy; echoes of the blow tore up and down the halls of my consciousness like students on frat night. I tried to possess Tommy again. We'd have to act fast in the next few minutes if we wanted to survive. Tommy was awake below me, and angry.

  "Where am I? You dirt fucking, sons of bitches, I'll kill you all!" Saliva rained from his lips.

  "Oh, your spirit has returned!" the Handyman laughed. "It makes my contract so much more worthwhile if the courage has to be broken."

  I watched as his shadowy form moved to a large tool chest. He picked up a heavy-looking instrument. He fiddled with a cord in the darkness. A high-speed electric motor whined.

  Tommy laughed. The Handyman laughed.

  "Who were you looking for at the Arizona?" the Handyman repeated.

  "I was looking for the spoils of war, you decimated rat-sphincter." Tommy laughed at his own wit unaware of the danger.

  "There is spirit, and there is stupidity." The Handyman pressed the bit against Tommy's right shoulder. "I wonder if this bit could drill through your shoulder bone." He gunned the motor. The sharp bit only twisted the skin.

  "That's a drill?" Tommy chuckled. "I thought it was your dick and you were going to fuck one of my pimple craters."

  Tommy screamed at about the same pitch as the drill. The Handyman put his weight against it. Blood poured from the wound. I was sickened by the gristly sound as the drill bit chewed muscle and scored bone. If I had had a stomach of my own I would have emptied it. The Handyman stopped.