“Their victims, my friend
They’re swinging in the wind
Their victims are swinging in the wind.”
Useless!
Fredric, soul #11, was not much better. He’d been a bookie when he was alive, and stole money from a couple of his clients to pay for his girlfriend’s Tijuana abortion. Somebody caught him, and chopped off his arms. Inside the Brain Hotel, he replaced them with a set of ripping, hairy guns capable of tearing a Manhattan phone book in half. But he never used them, except to hoist a mug of Brain beer at Tom’s.
Fredric claimed to know something about the Larsen murders. “You might want to watch the Bicentennial,” he’d said, then clammed up when I pressed him on it. Watch the Bicentennial. Great. That was about as useful to me as “Remember the Bastille.”
On the useful side was soul #12: Lynda, a dead hooker I’d picked up in Laughlin. To tell you the truth, I’m not sure she was killed by the Association. She could have been one of those random dead hookers you run across from time to time.
But she did have an important piece of info: the name of the Larsens’ killer. “Oh, that would be Ray,” Lynda said. “Ray Loogan. He was braggin’ about it. Couldn’t have been more than 24 or 25. He didn’t seem to ever have to shave. Guy got iced ‘round Labor Day, you said? Had to have been Ray.”
I was surprised. This Loogan punk sounded like someone you sent to dislocate somebody’s grandmother’s shoulder, not take out a government witness five states away. But he must have impressed somebody higher up. This was a great gig for a guy his age—especially if he pulled it off.
Since I had the victim’s soul in my head, I can only confirm Ray had been successful.
Lynda went on to tell me that Loogan’s bosses had sent along a babysitter named Leah Farrell to keep an eye on him; she had to bail him out of a mess somewhere along the line. (Killer Number Two, no doubt.) But Lynda couldn’t tell me exactly what the mess was, or if Loogan had been penalized (read: whacked) for it. She only heard Farrell had been out of Vegas for months, helping Loogan with unfinished business.
The luckiest acquisition was #13, a soul named Paul After. He was a hired gun who’d been double-crossed and decided to turn state’s evidence. The evidence? Nothing as good as what Brad Larsen had, apparently. Just some tax nonsense. Paul thought he could use the cooked books to bargain for higher rates. The negotiations ended when Paul’s employer sent a lawyer to the meeting with a semi-automatic pistol. Blammo. That was the end of Paul. And the beginning of our relationship.
So naturally, Paul had good reasons to want to work with me. He wanted his bosses—who I assumed to be the Association—burnt like toast. He was also Grade A professional muscle, unlike the rest of the B-List schlubs I’d been collecting.
Mind you, these five souls and the tiny bit of information they supplied were the net result of eight months’ work. Why so long? I couldn’t very well waltz back into Vegas wearing Brad Larsen’s face. Once I switched to Larsen’s face, my own—that is, the face of Agent Kevin Kennedy—was lost forever. How was I to know Brad was going to hold out on me? To recopy, I would have needed a photograph of Kennedy, and I made it a point of destroying all pictures of myself. Or any of the selves I’ve been. Not that I was eager to endure the special hell of face-changing again.
So I hung on the outskirts—shit towns like Laughlin, Cooper’s Mill and Hagertown. I crept back into Henderson for my personal belongings one night in October, and kept them in the trunk of my car. I switched cars three times on the trip back from Illinois; Doug really came through for me. I ended up with a used ‘72 blue Datsun, purchased legit from a dealer in Flagstaff.
I made it a point never to stay in one place too long. I left a trail only the most dedicated schizophrenic could follow. I even spent a couple of uncomfortable nights in the backseat of the Datsun, in the middle of the cold desert, to stay loose. Okay, maybe I spent those nights in my plush (and seldom-used) king-sized bed in the Brain Hotel while I had other souls baby-sit my physical body. But I woke up with the cramps and kinks. I think I can claim the hardship.
Why so paranoid? Three letters: F, B and I. They weren’t amused to discover Agent Kevin Kennedy had been scamming the Las Vegas office for months. I didn’t realize how easy it was to make the Bureau’s “Ten Most Wanted” list. I was slightly comforted by the fact that I was wearing a different face; the likelihood of the Feds figuring it out was next to nil. Yet, paranoia still got the best of me. Every time I relaxed with a can of Fresca and a corned beef sandwich, I’d be struck with the horrid feeling that a rogue FBI sniper was yards away, lining up a shot. My cleaned-out skull would be quite a prize in Dean Nevins’ office. KEVIN KENNEDY, the faux-gold etching would read. THOUGHT HE COULD SCREW WITH ME, SEPTEMBER 1975.
Meanwhile, the soul of the real Kevin Kennedy, inside the Brain Hotel, never forgave me for ruining his professional reputation. How dare I corrupt his office? How dare I soil the Kennedy name? (I figured it was a cheap shot to bring up Chapaquiddick.)
To further complicate matters, I caught the mother of all stomach bugs in February. Knocked me right out for two weeks straight. It took everything I had to suck down chicken bullion and stale crackers. I was off real food and drink for another two weeks after, and I still can’t look a boiled hot dog and beans the same way again. Solve a murder case? Heck, I couldn’t even solve the problem of how to keep solid food down. There went a month and change.
Brad was becoming increasingly pissed that I was taking so long to track down his killers. When I asked him for the tiniest morsel of Association skinny to speed my search, he refused. “A deal’s a deal,” he said. “And nothing I know will help you find my killers any faster. Believe me. If I did, I’d do it myself.”
So, all told, the hunt for the Larsens’ killers was turning out to be quite pathetic, considering a.) I knew the killers’ names, and b.) I had one of the victim’s souls absorbed into my own brain.
Plus, I was running out of money.
Nine
Sherman Oaks Gold
Despite the amazing powers my brain seems to possess—the ability to change my face, collect a soul, inventory and sustain countless unique intellects—I still have trouble managing a dime. To properly conduct an investigation of this magnitude, you need thousands of dollars. Right now, I had a little over $900 in my checking account. My MasterCard was nearing its limit, and this was my 5th card. Not everyone I collected had proper credit. If I wasn’t careful, I would have a collector after me.
So, sometime around June, I came to the realization that I had to accept some freelance work. Good thing a couple of years ago I’d hung out my own P.I. shingle under the name “Stan Wojciechowski” (about as far from “Del Farmer” as you can get) in a variety of outlets—from racing newspapers to legal journals, and eventually, as a backup vendor for the internationally-renowned Brown Agency in L.A. That was a real coup, considering this P.I. stuff was only a sideline. I’ve met guys who would sell their left lung to be on Brown’s backup list.
No matter the outlet, each call is flipped over to an answering service in Sherman Oaks, California. I called the service every three days to skim through requests—mostly to decline, sometimes to keep certain contacts alive. This time, though, I actually needed something. I had been staying in yet another Henderson fleabag motel, and was getting tired of the scenery. I cracked open my last can of Fresca and dialed the phone. The gravelly-voiced girl on the other end of the line answered.
“Hey … Mr. Mojo Wojo! How are you, my man?”
“Uh,” I said. “I’m fine. I’d like you to list my telephone calls—service requests only, please.”
She ran through the job prospects and locations. Between each she paused to audibly pop her gum. I stopped her on the sixth.
“Where was that last one?”
“Philly, Mr. Wojo. This one was passed down from Brown yesterday. An attorney named Richard Gard called asking if you could fly out there later this week.”
<
br /> I remembered my earlier clue, from Fredric: You might want to watch the Bicentennial. Something about it felt right. Could Loogan and Farrell have some Philly scam that had kept them there all this time?
“Did he mention the particulars?” I asked.
“Just that it’s a security consult.”
Easy stuff. Lawyers needed muscle every so often. Nothing too strenuous, to be sure. It would give me time to check the city for signs of Loogan, while rebuilding my bank account. “Phone Mr. Gard and tell him I’ll be on the next available flight.”
“You got it, handsome. Hey—you ever going to take a job out here in L.A.? I’m dying to meet you in person.” She was forever flirting with me, this Sherman Oaks girl. I didn’t understand it. She’d never seen me before.
“You never know,” I said.
There wasn’t much to pack—I kept my personal belongings to a minimum. I could fit everything I owned into two cardboard boxes and a large lawn-sized green plastic trash bag. The bag was for my clothes—one gray suit, three pairs of trousers, one pair of denim jeans, four button-down dress shirts, two ties and enough underwear and socks for nearly two weeks. In one box I kept a Swiss army knife, two pistols, ammunition, a magnifying glass, a lighter, one 4-ounce drinking glass, a wood backscratcher and other assorted tools of the trade. In the other I kept clippings and notes, as well as a couple dozen favorite albums. The record player was a separate unit with its own cover and handle.
I stored everything else in my Brain library. I knew someday I would have to present evidence to a judge in a court of law, and it bothered me that I couldn’t crack open my brain for everyone to read. But I guess when the time came, I could always rent a Dictaphone and hire a stenographer. Maybe even the Sherman Oaks girl would lend a hand. I’d take her out to a beef and beer dance to celebrate.
I chuckled at the thought, then sealed both boxes with large strips of masking tape. I stuffed a stray pair of black dress socks in my trash bag, then spun the bag and twist-tied it. There. Packed.
All that remained was to slip the front desk a final payment, another call to the Sherman Oaks girl to let her know I’d be travelling, a walk to my nearby travel agent to retrieve my tickets, and … Oh, yeah. The important business of taking everything else—random notes here and there, doodles, old clothes—out to my Datsun and blowing the thing to smithereens.
Paul After, soul #13, had shown me a neat variation on the Molotov cocktail a few weeks back. Even though I eventually built the thing, I didn’t know how it worked. Paul had guided me through, piece by piece, using ordinary items available from any decent hardware store.
It was a flashy way to make an exit, but necessary. This way there would be no trace of me. No trail for anyone to follow. Not the FBI, not the Association, not even my mother, God rest her soul. Everything I owned would go with me to Philadelphia.
I collected a trash bag full of the things I was torching and stuffed it in the trunk of the Datsun. I grabbed my trash bag wardrobe and a box of possessions and hauled them through my motel door.
On this second trip, somebody was waiting on the landing, and it didn’t look as if he was there to help with the luggage.
“Hold it right there,” he said, leveling a .45 at my chest.
I didn’t recognize him at first. He was a lean guy; dark hair, neatly parted to the right, strong jaw, mirrored sunglasses. He wore jeans and a brown button-down with goofy gumdrop designs on it. The shirt almost negated the gun.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” he said, “don’t.”
“I’m not thinking anything.” Actually, I was thinking about hurling my bag full of clothes at him, but what would that do? Mess up his hair part?
“Good,” he said.
“Can I ask one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Who are you?”
The man half-smiled—that is, one corner of his mouth curled up, while the other stayed put. “Funny. I was going to ask you the same question.”
“Look—”
“What I mean to say is,” the man continued, “I believe we’ve already met, but I’m not entirely sure. We’re going to go back into your room there and talk about it.”
“Where did we supposedly meet?”
“Woody Creek, Illinois.”
Finally, it clicked. Special Agent Fieldman. Eight months had aged the guy. Last time I’d seen him he was clipboard boy to Dean Nevins. Now he looked and talked like Lee Marvin’s younger brother.
“Hands on your head, and step back into your room,” Fieldman said. “Now.”
“I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” I said. “I’m just a traveling man.” I’d meant to say “traveling salesman,” but I got the Ricky Nelson song in my head by mistake.
He ignored me. “Both hands, on your head.”
This was not good. Fieldman was wearing those ridiculous sunglasses, so I couldn’t use my trusty yank-his-soul-out-of-his-body trick. For some reason, eye-to-eye contact is necessary for soul collection. I’d always wanted to ask Robert about that. Does this mean we could never collect Stevie Wonder? Not that it would be likely to come up, but it would be good to know.
I was forced into my standard fall-back position: surrender consciousness, transport myself to the Brain Hotel, and regroup. Back in reality, my physical body would collapse, and be at the total mercy of Agent Fieldman. But it would give me some time to think. It was a chance I had to take.
“I don’t feel too hot,” I said, taking a few wild steps backwards and mumbling something else about a lousy open-faced roast beef sandwich.
Fieldman must have smelled a rat, because he stepped back, too, and took better aim. That was the last thing I saw before my vision went woozy and I snapped awake inside the Brain Hotel.
The lobby was deserted, which was not unusual. None of the souls drifted down here unless something interesting was happening in the real world: a soul collection, a fist fight, or a good movie. Especially movies. Last summer, a few of the souls—Doug, Old Tom and Genevieve—made me sit through Jaws four times.
I walked over to the lobby desk and picked up the black courtesy telephone, which sat next to the huge silver microphone. This was my polite way of summoning the souls, you see. I could bark commands like an angry god, but they wouldn’t appreciate it. I know I wouldn’t.
I dialed an imaginary number for Paul After, happy I had finally collected somebody who could handle this kind of thing. Doug was fine if you were shoplifting or breaking into a car. Harlan was great if you needed someone to eat a large sandwich. But Paul … Paul was the real deal.
He answered on the second ring. “Yes, Del?”
“How did you—”
“Who else would it be? Avon?”
“Listen,” I said. “I could use your expertise. I’ve got a real world situation I’d like you to handle. Come down to the lobby, and I’ll give you control of my body.”
Paul cleared his throat. “Tempting offer, but you’re not my type.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Okay, okay. What’s the situation?”
“Uh,” I stalled, thinking of the best possible way to put this. Unfortunately, nothing came to mind. “An angry FBI agent has confronted me. To buy some time, I passed out in front of him. He probably has smelling salts under my nose as we speak, trying to bring me around. All you have to do is snap awake, deck him, bind him, gag him, lock him away for a while, whatever. Do your stuff. I’ll take care of it from there.”
“Mighty white of you,” Paul said.
“Can you help or not?”
“It’d be my pleasure, Mr. Farmer. God knows, I don’t see any action in this freak motel of yours. I’ll be right down.”
I was still trying to figure out if Paul was being sarcastic when he appeared beside me. He must have cheated and ported his soul along instead of walking down the Brain Hotel staircase. “When my massah calls, I come-a-runnin’,” he said.
“I appreciate that,” I sai
d. “Now all you have to do is step through those doors and say the secret phrase.” He gave me a quizzical look. I checked to make sure no one was spying, and then told him. “It’s three words: Owatta. Goo. Siam.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“No, I’m serious,” I said. And I was. That was the same phrase Robert had taught me back when he first trusted me to take over the physical body from time to time.
“Jesus Christ. It’s a nursery rhyme. A joke. A bad joke.”
“Well, it does the job.” I didn’t feel like justifying it to him. What did it matter what the phrase was? Do the ridges on a key mean anything? Does the spinning wheel on a telephone have any great cultural significance?
“Go ahead,” I said. “And good luck.”
“You’re insane.”
“Just say it.”
“Oh, what a goose I am,” he said, then stepped through the front doors and into the real world.
On the lobby screen, blackness fluttered and finally opened up. Light poured in, then adjusted. We were sitting upright. The view snapped to the left, then the right, where Agent Fieldman was sitting on my motel bed. He was pointing his gun at us.
Good morning, Fieldman said, somehow looking more imposing up on the silver lobby screen. Have a nice nap?
The view snapped back to the left again, then right, up, down and behind. The view wobbled. Angrily. What the hell was Paul doing? Neck exercises?
Finally, a hushed voice: Goddamnit, I’m handcuffed to a chair!
Fieldman said, You are observant, Mr. Larsen.
Whoops.
Ten
The Thing in the Trunk
Agent Fieldman had grown an attitude over the past eight months. Maybe the experience of having your soul yanked out of your body changed you fundamentally. Made your mind stronger, your senses sharper. Or maybe he had been hanging around Dean Nevins too much.
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