To the best of my knowledge I was the only one of my kind. The only reason I believed this was that if there were others, one of them would have gone public by now. My old rule again, of believing in the inevitability of everything. If I was dissipating, what awaited me? Blacktime forever? That notion was less than inviting. The living worry about losing their bodies--hell, even the dead worry about the condition of their own. I had nothing left to lose but myself.
The universe would do the big Alzheimer's on me. Poof, you're nothing. A part of me had to ask the question. What's wrong with that? I couldn't answer it. I only knew that this was close to life, if it wasn't life, and I was determined to hang onto it, since I had no guarantee there was anything more. The prospect of nothingness loses its attraction the closer you get to it. No wonder so many suicides died screaming. I had to keep focused. I knew I had to finish this case. Even though Tommy's body was not mine I had a certain possessive nature towards it. The Handyman had been torturing me as much as my host. Someone had hired the Handyman. I wanted that someone on the loud end of my gun. Also, I wasn't sure why, but I wanted to see some sort of justice done. Someone had to pay. It was still wrong to murder.
Review the case. Yes, simple enough. So far I had done nothing but bungle my way from mistake to mistake. I had paid dearly for allowing myself to be led by the players in the play. It was a gamble that I had almost lost. And it seemed that Tommy was working on something now, something that ran on a parallel course to my own case. Parallel, yes, but not the same case. Some strange twist of life had intertwined two ugly stories. I had stumbled upon something, just as Adrian and Van Reydner had stumbled upon something at the Morocco. But what?
A real baby would be big business, and it was obvious from Skullface's discussion on Regenerics that Dr. Cotton would need a baby for his theories to work. The problem was, he wasn't the only one who would jump at the chance to claim one. Every crackpot in the world would herald it as a messiah, or the great evil one. A baby in a world that no longer had them would be priceless. But there were no such things as babies.
Even with my ego, I found it difficult to inflate my career with Tommy to date. A few missing persons. A burglary, a host of cheating spouses. Nothing but stiffs, cheap diamonds and stiffs. Why would Billings come to me? I remembered writing the name down, the same that both Harker and Mrs. Cotton had mentioned. Inspector Borden of Authority. Funny, Borden told Billings to talk to me. He told Mrs. Cotton to be a good girl and don't dig too deep into her husband's death. As Harker told me, he was also the Authority contact for the phantom baby reports. There was a theme beginning to take shape and it smelled of dirty diapers. A baby cried late one night at the Morocco Hotel, and everyone who heard it died or disappeared. Now this Owen Grey character. Who was he? Some washed-out detective looking for a missing person. What the hell interested him in the baby? Whatever his involvement, he was gone too.
I looked down at Tommy and noticed that the covers were forming a fair-sized circus tent below his midriff. With little effort, I stepped into his head. My first impulse was to cry out. Pain and pleasure momentarily vied for dominance. I was always amazed at how alike the two sensations were. Pain won out. I gritted my teeth and hissed into a sitting position. The priest's eyelids fluttered like doves. He looked at me with concern, and half-levered himself out of his chair.
"You shouldn't..."
"Let's not debate the right and wrong of it, Father." My shoulder throbbed, my head throbbed, my neck--I hurt all over.
"But..." The priest stepped over to the bed.
"But I'm not going to get any better moving around. Don't worry. I'll stay put. I just want to sit up." Fire lanced along my back as I pushed myself against the headboard.
"It's strange..." His eyes squinted at me.
"What's that?" I could barely hear over the jackhammer in my head.
"Oh, it's strange, something, something. Don't you mind just now! I'll get you food. You need food." He headed for the door. "You must be exhausted"
"I can wait. I just wanted to ask you a few questions first." I tried to smile, but it hurt its way into a grimace. Suddenly, I realized I was without makeup. I slid a hand over my chin. Lovely feeling.
"I'm curious about..." I started, then my mind blanked. "Oh damn, it was right there. What the hell was it?"
"You have had a lot of strain put upon you," the priest shook his head. "Rest, is what you need. Food, not questions."
"Sure..." I said, puzzled. The priest walked to the door, smiled, and left. I ran my hand over my face again and relished the sweet familiarity. Fine stubble grew there. It had always been a nightmare to shave regularly. I was due. I looked at my bare chest, felt the shallow depression of the scars. The door opened, and Elmo entered. He had a small case in one hand and a tall Styrofoam coffee cup in the other. He smiled shyly, like he was a girl at a sock hop and I was a boy. Then his eyes went wide.
"You okay, Boss?" He set the bag on the bed and the coffee on the bedside table. "Father says it's okay I come see you." He looked hesitant.
"Yeah, Fatso. Aces. Good job you got me here. Did you have any more trouble?" I lifted the plastic lid on the coffee. My stomach fluttered.
"No, I just drove around all n-night, then stepped into the office quick, this mornin'." He sat down in the chair by the bed. "The f-father said he's makin' you breakfast. Had to call somebody." Then he frowned.
"What is it Fatso?"
He rubbed his chin. "Must be cause I never seen you in some time without no…" Elmo gestured to his face. No makeup. "And them b-bruises…but…"
"What about it?"
"You look different, I guess." He rubbed his right forearm. I noticed the holes in his shirt. "I know you put on weight, but…"
"Christ, I almost forgot! You got shot last night. Are you all right? What happened?" I scanned my dead gunsel's chest.
Elmo pushed his jacket away from his left side, and then absentmindedly drilled a finger into one of the three bullet wounds in his chest. I heard a sickening fibrous sound like old burlap. "I was waitin' like you said, but then, I figured you was away for too long--and I thought anyway, I could check in with you and still cover your back, 'cause the elevator was broke--and, and trouble would come up the stairs." He shifted nervously. "I got up to the r-room, and you was--were gone. Then, I looked around and found a fire 'scape sign, and a door. The door was open, so I knew you was either wanderin' around outside, or there was some kinda trouble.
"I stepped quick out the door and saw two b-big fellas carryin' you down the stairs. There was this other guy too, and he had a gun. Shot me three times. Small bullets though, so I ain't too bad off. But I can feel them in there if I walk too fast. Need some duct tape is all." He smiled.
"Christ, Elmo. I guess you're lucky they didn't torch you or something worse."
"I guess they must'a figured I was a living p-person, 'cause they didn't check on me. I just got knocked down and I stayed down. Then, I followed them, when they forgot about me. They took you down to the basement through the service elevator. But a big guy, an Enforcer, he guarded the door. I had to sneak back up the stairs and find a way to the basement inside. I'm sorry I was kind of late."
"Don't worry about it, Elmo. An Enforcer?" My head was reeling. "Authority?"
"All rubber and steel, like." Elmo traced a large block shape with his hands.
"Then you started a diversion to give me escape time."
"No, Boss." Elmo rubbed a forearm again, abashed. "I kinda surprised another Enforcer by m-mistake. We shot it out. But I got away."
"Good work." I rubbed my chin, then noticed Elmo's mouth fall open--agog.
"Boss, things is looking different..."
"I know it's different." I was beginning to enjoy the sensation of a clean skin. I was also beginning to wonder why Tommy hadn't run for the makeup, or thrown me out as he had done on other occasions when I'd attempted to take the damn stuff off. Unless he was unaware. "You've got the makeup, Elmo?"
<
br /> "Yeah, yeah." He reached over and patted the case. "And clothes."
My mind suddenly clicked. I swung my legs off the bed. "You said the Father was going to make a call. Damn!" I winced as I struggled out of the bedding. "Elmo, he'll probably call Authority. 'I've got this poor abused guy at my church, see.' You just said there was an Enforcer involved last night. Quick! Give me my clothes!" I struggled into a fresh coverall. This one must have been Tommy's special occasion suit. It was slightly cleaner. The spots were very bright, red, blue, yellow. Lovely. I struggled into my boots, lashed my pink skipping rope belt about me.
I was up. My gun! Elmo read my thoughts. He shrugged two bony shoulders and handed me his .357 magnum. "I took it off the church steps last n-night," he said. I passed it back to him with a 'sh' sound on my lips and remembered the car.
"Fatso, did you empty the trunk?" He shook his head as I thought of the Monkey twins' guns: a couple of .9mm automatics and an auto-shotgun. Perfect.
"B-but, Boss?" Elmo shook his head. "I, we should wait for the Father. He's got food and you is--are sick."
"No time to explain, Elmo. Come on." I pushed past him and he followed, case in hand. We ran down the hallway, and out onto the steps before the church. The sky was gray and cloudy; a few damp spots remained on the concrete. I scanned the area.
"Come on!" I scrambled ahead of Elmo. He followed as quickly as he could. His legs moved jerkily. "Come on!" I shouted again. The car was sitting at the curb like a badly landed airplane. Bullet holes pocked its length. A great dark stain seeped from beneath it.
I ran to the trunk, and then waited an impatient second for Elmo to hobble up to me. He jangled the keys in the lock, and the trunk popped open. I snatched an automatic, checked the clip for bullets and slid it into my pink skipping rope belt.
"Come on, Elmo. Drive." I jumped into the passenger seat and pulled the door shut. I suppose I was so used to seeing a clown anytime I looked in a mirror that for once I noticed my reflection in the shattered rear view on my side. I looked determined--and then I was floating over Tommy's head. He was huddled over, covering his face with his arms.
"No! No!" He cried shrilly. "Oh, it's him. It's him!" Two great sobs were dragged out of him with chains. He balled up his fists and then smashed his face repeatedly.
Elmo sat beside him in wide-eyed terror. Boss was crazy again. This time, Elmo seemed to make the connection. He quickly opened the case and pushed the tin of white face at Tommy.
"Here it is, Boss. H-here it is!"
Tommy frantically rubbed the makeup into his cheeks. It resisted application where tears soaked the skin. I heard a door shut. I looked away from the beleaguered clown toward the sound. In front of the Chrysler was a long black sedan. Its doors were open. Two Authority Enforcers clomped toward us in steel and rubber boots. Auto-shotguns twitched nervously in their hands.
"Boss, Boss!" Elmo became frantic. He stabbed at the ignition with the keys, dropped them, then desperately struggled under the wheel to retrieve them. Tommy didn't even look up. He was busily rubbing makeup into his cheeks. I noticed he was ready to trace on his lips. He repeated over and over. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't a' dropped him. I'm sorry!" The clown struck his forehead against his knees.
The Enforcers spread out. They leveled their guns at Tommy and Elmo and approached the car from opposite sides. I made a desperate attempt to enter Tommy. He was closed to me. The last time I had tried to remove the makeup, I'd been shut out for two days.
One Enforcer, crouching, reached quickly into the car and snatched the gun from Tommy's belt with one deft motion. He thrust it through his own, then stood there for some moments either puzzled or amused. He signaled to his partner, who complied by lowering his gun; then the Enforcer did something I'd never seen an Enforcer do. He removed his helmet and facemask. Simple as that. My emotional roller coaster took another savage turn, when I saw the face beneath the helmet to be Douglas Willieboy's.
Part Three: That Sleep of Death
Chapter 43
What did Socrates say? Real wisdom is the property of god. Well, I had to agree with him. I liked to think that I had a fairly quick mind; in fact, I tried to make a living by it. But throughout this case or cases I had astounded myself with my lack of foresight. In my defense, I did have the handicap of being a person who couldn't remember his past, and therefore could hardly draw from it. But that's just an excuse, my weak justification. Even my system of 'believe in everything, expect it all,' didn't help.
Douglas Willieboy had long since slipped out of his armor. His partner waited outside. Elmo sat beside Tommy on a heavy brown vinyl couch. Willieboy paced, frustrated.
After removing his helmet on the street in front of the Mother of God Cathedral he had tried to talk to Tommy, but the clown was then as he was now, locked in an autistic trance. Willieboy was in a rush because after a quick signal to his partner, he climbed into the Chrysler, bulldozing Tommy into the middle. His partner ran ahead to the sedan, turned it around and headed downtown and on toward the docks.
Willieboy had gestured with Tommy's gun for Elmo to follow the sedan. Elmo did. Willieboy hissed at him to hurry--his eyes flashing side to side like wayward comets. Elmo hurried. I floated overhead, bemused. I had at this point abandoned trying to make sense of this mess. I made a couple of half-hearted attempts to possess Tommy. His mind was closed to me, so I gave up, and slipped into an empty somnolence--no, correction I sulked. Maybe not thinking would help. Maybe nothing would help. Maybe I didn't care if anything would help? Willieboy didn't care. He was silent for the remainder of the trip tapping his teeth with a fingertip.
We had followed the sedan along the river for some time until it quickly veered off onto a side street. Willieboy told Elmo to go straight on toward the harbor. We turned away at the docks, and roared along thin streets between great brick warehouses until we came to the Pangton Fisheries building. It was an enormous pile of bricks that ran on and on, away from us. In front of the Chrysler, a faded mural stretched across the wide loading bay doors. It depicted a smiling man in hip waders pulling mightily on a fishing rod that was bent like a question mark. A huge salmon with crazy eyes leapt from the water. I noticed that some conscientious graffiti artist had added body parts for anatomical correctness. It was obvious, in neon orange and blue, that both were well-endowed boys. I had studied the mural as a minute ticked by. Willieboy grunted impatiently, flashing his eyes at Tommy. Suddenly, the happy fisherman's stream parted like the Red Sea, the doors squealing on rusty tracks. Elmo drove through without prompting, and came to a halt beneath a vaulted archway of corroded girders. Willieboy signaled to his partner who was cranking the door shut. The other Enforcer had nodded back as Willieboy half-carried Tommy out of the car and up a creaking wooden stairway to an office.
Now over an hour had passed. Willieboy paced the room, ranting wildly. "God damn you, Wildclown. What the fuck is wrong with you? Is it Greaseasy, or what? Syncrak?" He looked desperately at Elmo, back to the clown. "I know you're pissed, you smell like a fucking whiskey barrel, but I can't believe anyone can get that fucked up on booze!"
Tommy mumbled something. It was almost a whine. He had drawn his knees up. A string of spittle connected his head to his belly button.
"Fucking loser!" Willieboy punched his fist into his palm. "Fuck!" He kicked a chair. It slid across the floor then dropped like a newborn lamb.
All this time Elmo sat fidgeting in his chair. He had smoked the last of his cigarettes long ago, as he silently endured his own interrogation, remaining the proper captured flyer throughout. Name, rank, and serial number--nothing more. It was soon obvious that Elmo awaited orders.
"What the fuck is wrong with your boss?" It was the umpteenth time the question had been asked. This time, it connected with Elmo. He was growing impatient too.
"He gets like that sometimes. All like his mind's gone or somethin'. I think it's how he does his detecting 'cause he comes out of it all kind of action. But he takes his own ti
me." He scratched his head, dubious for a moment. "Course I do remember him comin' round once, I mean comin' out'a it a lot quicker-like!"
"How?" Willieboy was open to suggestions.
"Well, it's kind'a embarrassin'. But, I s-suppose..." Elmo rubbed his thin forearm. "I was waitin' for him to come 'round once, and so I w-was just kind'a readin'. Well, it was one of them magazines with the naked people, doin' it...I guess." Elmo would have blushed if he were alive. "The phone rang and I sat the magazine down in front of him with this woman's big old, well 'you-know-what' stretched over the two pages. I talked on the phone about two s-seconds, and then the Boss just took it from my hand and started talking. Came right out of his c-condition, he did."
I remembered the time he was talking about. The picture had been of a large blonde woman straddling a camera lens. I had meant to tell Elmo to use that technique if I ever lapsed again. Another bit of quirky memory.
Willieboy smiled broadly then slapped his knee. "Of course! It makes sense with this sick clusterfuck!" He left the office. I listened to his boots on the stairs. Elmo did what he sometimes did when his boss was in a bad way. He reached out and laid his cold hand on Tommy's. "Wake up, Boss. Wake up now," he whispered it in a gentle voice like a mother waking her child for school. "I think we're in trouble."
Then Willieboy was back. He had a magazine under his arm. He dropped it on the table in front of Tommy. The cover bore a picture of a gorgeous young woman sucking on her index finger. The skin on the finger had been tattooed to resemble serpent's scales. Butt Violence was the title that ran across the top. Willieboy quickly tore the magazine open to a centerfold of two women wearing the kind of underwear that doesn't cover anything. They were both bent over in living color. The girls appeared to be blithe and uncaring as they played an impromptu game of hide the weasel.
The inevitably silly caption read:
Natalie knew that they were playing for keeps and called her pretty opponent's bluff. But Cindy was ready to meet the challenge and made the move to sweeten the pot.
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