Then, to Paul: “What kind of incident?”
“Ms. Winston’s ex-boyfriend took a few shots at us while we were in a cab. Our driver got his brains blown out. On the bright side, we didn’t have to pay the fare.”
Poor Richard went white. “My God. He is real.”
“Real and connected to an unsavory crowd. Turns out, Ms. Winston was not exaggerating—’Roger’ does indeed work for a criminal. But his name is not Roger, it’s Ray—Ray Loogan, and the criminal operates out of Nevada. I’m familiar with them, having worked in the Las Vegas area for some time.”
“My God,” Richard repeated, then proceeded to drain half his gimlet.
“That’s not all. He was with an associate of this criminal—a woman named Leah Farrell. Which means if she’s with Ray, chances are this criminal from Las Vegas is very interested in your Susannah.”
“Can’t I ever pick ‘em without complications? If they don’t have bruiser ex-husbands, they’re tied to the mob. Jesus H. Christ—I’m too old for this bullshit.”
Paul said, “Maybe you should consider fidelity.”
“What?”
“Nothing. But I need to know more before I can bail your pinstriped ass out of this.”
Richard considered this for a moment. Even from my vantage point in the Brain Hotel lobby, I could practically see his wheels spinning. Can I wrangle out of this now and ignore her, or will she come after me? Is paying for more protection worth a thrice-a-week screw? Should I have her killed?
“I’ll tell you everything I know.”
“Great. Another gimlet, Mr. Gard?”
Predictably, Richard had met her in a bar: the Crab Club, on 2nd Street in Old City, the newly-minted historical section of the city. The Federal Government had poured a ton of money and concrete into the area—formerly a slum—to be able to host President Ford for the Bicentennial in the actual historical environs without having to chase away winos and junkies every two minutes.
They met December 23, 1975. Richard had been at his firm’s office party, which spilled over into the bar at Harrigan’s Saloon, near Market Street, then the Crab Club. He was intoxicated, but by no means devoid of his lawyerly charms. Susannah had introduced herself when he bumped into her to order another French martini. Richard soon abandoned his buddies, called his wife in Lower Merion to tell her he was taking a room in town, and took Susannah to “drop her off at her apartment.” As it turned out, there was no need for Richard to rent a room. Upon sobering up the next morning, Richard found himself in a tricky Yuletide situation. As fate would have it, Susannah Winston was a far cry from the acne-scarred, flabby-thighed bimbo from the steno pool he usually landed. No, she was an amazingly young, amazingly beautiful woman who was alone for holidays, orphaned, and in dire need of companionship. She also gave the most “mind-numbing” blow job Richard had ever received.
Now, this was a fact I could have lived without knowing. But as Richard told this part of the story, I caught Paul conjuring scenarios and images, involving him and our client. They flittered by the lobby screen almost too fast to catch. Almost.
Richard spun this wild tale of a lost case file and the urgent need to replicate the documents on Christmas Eve, no, honey I don’t work for Ebeneezer Scrooge, but I do try cases in front of him, and if I don’t have this case file together by noon tomorrow … blah blah blah. And on Christmas Eve, instead of being home with Elaine and his twin boys, he ended up drinking milk and eating slightly-burnt cookies Susannah had baked. He even darted out to a shop on the square to buy her an impromptu Christmas present of emerald earrings—using the firm’s petty cash account, of course. Susannah returned the favor by numbing his mind yet again.
Again, more images from Paul: Red and green felt, pine needles, Santa Claus, lips. I was going to have to watch this situation carefully. Perhaps take more drastic measures.
Richard realized how simple it would be to care and feed a mistress. Fact: Susannah Winston was independently wealthy—no clumsy requests for cash for a manicure, or a new bra. Fact: She had her own apartment on Rittenhouse Square, not five blocks from the firm. Fact, she didn’t give a damn that he had a family. Fact, she could give the most mind-numbing…
“I get the picture,” Paul said.
“Right.” Richard’s face was blushed, and he was working on his fourth gimlet. He didn’t seem to remember he’d been pressed for time. In fact, he didn’t even seem to realize he was talking out loud.
Susannah had supplied the same autobiographical details she had Paul: rich family in Boston, generous trust fund from inventor father, bad taste in men. She also told him she came to Philadelphia to see the Bicentennial. She figured it would be the chance for a rebirth, right along with the 200th celebration of the nation’s birth.
And then, the note from Roger Adams had arrived. The rest was recent history: a teary confession of past wrongdoings, a desperate plea for help, and no way for a man with even the thinnest fibers of self-respect to wriggle out of the obligation. Richard had to help his mistress. He called the biggest agency in the country, the Brown Agency, for that help. Best of all, he could expense it.
Gard looked around for his briefcase. Ah yes, there it was. Right next to him in the booth. Absentmindedly, he rubbed the condensation from his glass, then turned to gather up his things.
“Before you go, there’s one more thing. Mr. Wojciechowski had a call from his accountant yesterday. It seems there was a problem with my retainer check.”
Good boy, that Paul. I knew I could count on him to talk cash. It was the one part of the investigatory business I loathed.
“What kind of problem?”
“The kind where it fails to clear.”
“What?”
“Now I’m sure it’s a mix-up, and I’m not the kind to suspend services for lack of payment. We’re both adults, beyond that petty nonsense. I would like a new check that can be cashed by noon tomorrow.”
Richard frowned. “Ah, those bank assholes. Always screwing things up … yes, yes, of course, Paul. I don’t know what to say. I can give you a check right now. I’d walk with you to the Girard Bank, but it’s out of the way and I really have to—”
“Tomorrow will be fine.” And with that, Richard excused himself and left.
“Now we know two things,” I told Paul from the Brain Hotel lobby mike.
He looked down at his reflection in the pint glass, which made it seem like he was staring right at me from the lobby screen. What’s that?
“One, the man who hired us is an aging jerk who enjoys blow jobs way too much.”
C’mon, Paul said. How much is too much?
“Two, our client’s story has evolved over the months. She’s gotten ambitious.”
Yeah, I was thinking the same thing, Paul said. One minute, she’s knocking around Philly for kicks, the next she’s planning a grand rebirth. It doesn’t fit.
“Third…”
I thought you said we knew two things.
“Now I’m theorizing.”
Oh. Please continue, then.
“Third, she’s somehow connected with Ray Loogan, who killed our fellow Brain Hotel resident, Brad Larsen.”
Paul paused to mull it over. Kind of makes you wonder how you got called in on this case, doesn’t it?
“To a point. Our ‘Stan Wojciechowski’ is a backup vendor at the Brown Agency, and Brown is the best there is. They’re the Pinkertons of the ‘70s. It’s no wonder Gard called them, and they decided his rinky-dink babysitting gig was something for a freelancer, not one of their own boys. Very well could be a coincidence.”
Sure. And my mother was Betsy Ross. She used to sew me diapers made of rejected American flags.
He was right. There was something I was missing. “What are you saying?” I asked. “The Association set this up? Why? What’s the motive?”
The Association? Paul shook his head. Oh, yeah. That’s what you call it. No, I don’t think it’s something The Man would pull … I mean, it�
��s too damned indirect. He’s usually blunt, to the point. Unless…. He snapped his fingers. Wait a minute … unless he’s somehow on to your investigation, and connected it to the name Stan Wojciechowski.
“I see where you’re going, I said, “but it’s impossible. Wojciechowski is a name I use for my freelance business. I purposefully kept it that way so the money stays clean. Or, I should say, Association-free.”
Stan has never done a little digging for your investigation?
“Not a single shovelful.”
Well, we’ve got to resolve this one way or the other. I don’t think approaching our client point-blank is the way to do it, though.
“I agree. Better keep this particular part of the investigation in-house for now. I’m thinking of grilling Brad Larsen.”
Sounds perfectly groovy to me.
A tap on Paul’s shoulder interrupted the conversation. The view on the screen snapped up to the greasy, tired face of our waitress. Can I get you and your imaginary friend anything else? she asked.
No, Paul said. We’re fine.
Then, to me: You know, we’ve gotta start having these little conferences inside the hotel from now on.
Eighteen
Case Solved
Hours later I was sitting at Brad’s table in his Brain Hotel room. I purposefully chose his room—spare as it was—to make him comfortable. If he was going to freak out and start foaming at the mouth and hurling profanities, better he do it in here.
“I have something important to show you,” I said. “Something you’ve been waiting a long time to see.”
“You do?” he said, a spark of hope in his eyes. It was the first time he’d resembled a living person since I’d absorbed him eight months ago.
“Yes.” I slapped two photographs on his kitchen table. They were photos of Ray Loogan and Leah Farrell, extracted from my Brain footage of the cab scene. Years ago, Robert had graciously shown me a way to burn a memory onto a sheet of Brain film, then develop it. I’d never thought the skill would come in handy. What did I know?
“Well?” I asked. “Anything?”
Brad’s face shifted slightly.
“It’s a simple question,” I said.
Brad nodded. “That’s them.”
Finally. Confirmation after all these months. We had our killers. It was a matter of time before we reeled the bastards in.
Brad didn’t seem terribly excited about the case being solved. It was all he’d talked about for months: Find my killers. Well, break out the cake, ice cream and candles—I finally found the bastards. And the most Brad could do was nod?
Maybe he was confused. I tried it again. “Are you sure these are the people?”
Brad’s eyes slowly lifted from the photographs and zeroed in on me. “Of course I’m sure. This prick shot my wife in the throat, and this bitch cut me up like a pound of lunchmeat. You don’t think I can remember their faces?”
“I don’t doubt it, Brad. But you don’t seem particularly happy about it.”
“There’s nothing happy about looking death in the face. You of all people should know that. You do it for a living. Are you a happy man?”
I decided to change the subject. I slapped a third picture—a photo of our client, Susannah Winston—on the table. “Do you recognize this woman?”
Brad gave it a once over, then shook his head. “Nope. Should I?”
“You haven’t seen here anyway? Even recently?”
“No, I haven’t.”
I didn’t think Brad hung out much in the hotel lobby—otherwise, he would have seen thousands of hours of Susannah’s face up on the screen. But it was worth a shot.
“So as far as you know, she’s not a member of the Association?”
“Again with your ‘Association.’” Brad smirked. “Nice try. But I’ve told you already. No information until I’m able to take a hot steaming piss on our killers’ graves.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You’re admitting it’s possible you do know this woman? Are you holding back something?”
“Sure, it’s possible. But not in this case. Look: I don’t know this woman.”
There was a knock at the door. I was startled. Another knock. It took me a moment to realize it came from reality, not the Brain Hotel.
“You’d better answer it, Del,” Brad said. “It’s probably your girlfriend. I’m going to spend the rest of my day wallowing in some personal misery, if you don’t mind.”
I assumed control of my physical body and stood up from the couch. I answered the door, and sure enough, it was Amy, holding her hands behind the apartment wall, out of view. “Surprised?” she asked.
“Yes, very. Uh … Amy…”
“I brought you something.”
I shook my head and spread my hands as if to say, You shouldn’t have, but Amy insisted. “It’s a housewarming present. Come on, close your eyes.”
“Okay.” I took a few steps back, then closed my eyes. “Come on in.” Involuntarily, the Brain Hotel lobby started to materialize, but I squeezed my eyes tighter and wiped it away. What was that about? Normally, I had to make the effort to port myself to the Brain Hotel. Maybe I hadn’t snapped out of it completely.
“Where’s the TV?” Amy asked.
“I don’t have one.”
“Oh. Thought I heard voices.”
God, I thought, horrified. Was I broadcasting that conversation? Sometimes the other end of the Brain Hotel conversation would slip through, like a mumble, creeping out of my physical body. Yikes. I heard the door close, and sensed Amy walking to my right. A paper bag rustled on the floor.
“Well?”
“Wait a minute…” she said. “Okay. Open up.”
I did. And I saw a small gray rat running around on my hardwood floor. No, wait; it wasn’t a rat. It was a kitten. A tiny gray kitten with white paws. It darted forward, to the beat-up houndstooth couch, then sunk its claws into the side and hoisted itself up to a cushion. “Surprise!” Amy laughed.
“It’s a cat,” I said.
“Whew! What a relief. For a moment there, Del, I wasn’t sure if you’d be able to identify basic animal species.”
“Why did you bring me … a cat?”
“Face it, champ—you’re lonely down here, all alone with your ugly couch and rusty toaster. Everybody needs someone to come home to.”
The cat dug its claws into the couch and pulled them back. I heard strands of material strain and pop.
“Hey, kitty,” I said, trying to be a sport about the whole thing, despite visions of Cat Chow and kitty litter and turd logs dancing through my head. “Come here. Pss-wss-wss-wss. Come on, girl.”
“Boy,” Amy said.
The cat took one look at me and froze. An anguished chirp issued from its lungs, and it quickly lunged for the hardwood floor, scratched its nails in a frenzied attempt to run, and squeezed itself beneath the couch.
“Well, that was charming.”
Amy smiled. “Oh, he’s scared.”
“I’ve never had a pet before. I’m not sure I know what I should do.”
“You seem like a natural. And besides…” Amy turned around to open the paper bag she’d brought along with her. “You’ve got enough supplies to last you at least a couple of months.” She pulled out two bags of Cat Chow (can I call it, or what?), a bag of litter, a tan plastic box for said litter, and a miniature rubber brush—pink.
“What’s that for?” I asked.
“To groom him, of course.”
We looked at each other, then said at the same time:
Me: “Do you want a drink—”
Amy: “Hey, I was wondering if—”
I waved. “No, you first.”
“Really, you go.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted a drink.”
“Water, please.” She started to laugh. “I was going to ask you out to dinner.”
I walked to the kitchen without another word. Amy waited a few uncomfortable seconds, then stood up and wal
ked into the kitchen area. Why not? The case was as good as over. Paul was soon going to recuse himself from his babysitting gig. Soon, if I could help it. We’d find Loogan and Farrell, do a little soul collecting, and fly back to Vegas. There was no reason in the world not to have dinner with a beautiful woman.
I filled up her glass with tonic water and a wedge of lemon and walked it back out to her. Then, simultaneously:
Amy: “I’ve gotta go.”
Me: “I’d like to go.”
“Right,” Amy said. Her eyes narrowed. “Wait. Go where?
“To dinner,” I said.
“You … oh, okay. Great. Uh, I’ll give you a call later this week?”
Boy, she stammered worse than me in a tight spot. “There’s no need to call. How about Thursday night? I’m off work.” I wasn’t sure, but what the hell. I had to reclaim my body wherever I could. Besides, I had a feeling we wouldn’t be employed by Richard “Suck Me” Gard much longer.
“Sounds great,” Amy said.
Moment of awkward silence.
“I’ll come up for you,” I said.
“Great. Enjoy your cat.”
“I will. If he ever crawls out from under the couch.”
Amy left my apartment with the strangest smile on her face. Strangely enough, I smiled too. Then I glanced over at a mirror and there was Paul’s image, waiting for me.
Hey!
I said nothing. I didn’t want to talk to Paul right now.
You don’t have any “nights off.” You’ve got a job to do.
The phone rang.
Oh, I’ll get it.
Instantly, my vision went black and woozy. I was being sucked down into the lobby of the Brain Hotel. Ordinarily, I would have fought it, but I was too shocked it was happening in the first place. A tenant, taking control of my body … without asking? What the hell was this Hotel coming to? Robert would have never put up with this kind of crap.
Secret Dead Men Page 13