When Graveyards Yawn ta-1

by G. Wells Taylor

  "What the hell would I go there for anyway? Probably some other clown." I slurped my new drink. "You know I don't shoot people. Death's a serious thing these days."

  I noticed Pogo fumbling with something in his hands. It was a little can of Greaseasy-the newest high in town. He squirted a drop into each eye, clenched his face and held the can out toward me. I smelled ethanol.

  "No thanks," I said, pushing the tin back. "I'm working."

  "Come on, man," he muttered; his head wedged between his knees. "You'll see clearly now…" He gripped his skull with broad hands. "Oh shit! There we go…"

  "Maybe later." I turned away from Pogo and his convulsions, and watched the singer. She had just started into the same sultry tune again. I still couldn't name it-some sad song about a storm, and somebody's baby going away.

  "Hey, Pompeii!" I waved the bartender over. "Have you got anything to eat in this joint?"

  "Just sandwiches, Mr. Clown!" He smiled insolently and showed off a gold tooth. I wondered if he'd like to have it surgically removed from his bowel. I clenched my fists instead of swinging them.

  "Sham sandwich-make it two, and one of those giant deli pickles if you have them."

  "You want sham or real ham Mr. Clown?" He gave me another grin. "Maybe it's payday at the circus?" I glared at him as he walked away from the bar, and whispered through a door at the back. He waved a finger to signify that it would be just a minute, hour, day or month-possibly a year. It would just be one of something.

  I scanned the bar while I waited. Most of the waiters were dead. They were cheap labor, and would work for nothing: busier, the better. About ten people in all enjoyed the atmosphere of Berlinz. It was not a big place-just a long rectangle that looked like it had been made over into about nineteen different styles. Flickering lights behind a smoked glass wall screamed, "We're a disco." Ancient sepia-tone pictures of black men holding saxophones over their bellies like brass entrails drawled, "We're a blues bar." A prancing little maitre d' in a lavender tuxedo looking more bored than gay lisped, "We're a bistro"; while from the ceiling, low hanging wagon wheels slung with oil lamp light bulbs twanged, "We're a country bar." It was that type of thing. Oddly enough, the customers fit right in.

  My sandwiches arrived. My pickle didn't. The bread was white and dry; but I found the sham to be white and dry, so decided not to complain. Everything breaks down after a while. Who was I to rock the boat?

  I looked over at Pogo. His convulsions had ended. The veins in his neck stood out like sewer pipes, and his face was apple red.

  "Good stuff, Pogo?"

  He smiled, eyes wide as an ocean, and nodded idiotically. "Yeeaaah!" His voice was wild and uncontrollable. "Gooood stuuuff, baby." He nodded his head so rapidly that I had to turn away to smirk.

  "Heeyy, Tommmmy!" His voice followed me.

  "Hey, Pogo."

  "Da-da Elmo, wwhere's h-h-heeee?"

  "At home looking after the kids…" My voice trailed off. Mood momentarily lifted, I smiled at Pogo's noseless face then threw a ten dollar bill at the bartender and left.

  Chapter 18

  The Chrysler's hubcaps screeched against the curb as I slid its long battered body to a halt. While I lurched up the steps to the office, the singer with the rabbit under her dress sang a song in the back of my mind: "Since my baby went away." I moved past Elmo where he sat looking bored in the outer room, and in minutes was pacing the eight feet of dirty carpet I kept in front of my desk to impress customers. The whiskey wasn't doing its job. The back of my head had begun to throb again. The front of my head had joined in too. Elmo entered, his puzzled look crossed my bloodstained clothing but disappeared with a shake of my head. He sat silent in his chair like a deep dark secret. Cigarette smoke sketched clues in front of him.

  I phoned down the street for coffee, lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk. I was frustrated. I always got that way when a case broke. I may have completed the puzzle, but there was a real anticlimax in the way Authority dealt out justice. This was the hard part. Who could I trust with my news? True, I didn't have Van Reydner, but I as much as had a confession from Mr. Adrian. Since the lawyer had hired me to get the guy who killed him, our business would soon be concluded. My problem was finding some way of bringing Mr. Adrian to justice. The plain truth of it was exactly as Mr. Adrian had stated. He, like most powerful people in history, was above Authority. What that meant was he owned a piece of it. That was probably why Billings had wanted me to kill his murderer outright. The lawyer's professional pragmatism must have told him that some people simply owned too much of the law to be subject to it. And even the worst, most hardened criminal could slip through the cracks on a technicality. The truth was I had an impulse to kill him myself. I could say he really hadn't treated me very well; but where he had power I had none. It was a long afterlife to spend in a cell.

  Still, I had to do something, if for my own sake alone. Mr. Adrian had just tried to kill me for getting too close. He would try again, unless I could draw attention to myself. There were enough rival factions in Greasetown that friction from one, or the possible reaction of another, often stayed the hand of more aggressive groups. I had done Authority favors before. Perhaps I'd try my hand again.

  I dialed the operator. "Authority, Criminal Division, please."

  The phone rang. Then a stern voice. "Authority, Crimdiv."

  "Hello, I'd like to speak to Inspector Cane."

  "Just a moment. I'll put you over to records."

  More canned Muzak. Of all the things we could have left behind in the old world, why not…

  "Inspector Cane, who's speaking."

  "Hello, Inspector Cane. It's Wildclown. I know we didn't exactly hit it off at our last meeting; but I remember you saying I should call with information. And I'd like to report an attempted murder."

  "I'll come to your office."

  "Don't we usually do this kind of thing at headquarters? Besides it's kind of late."

  "I work late, Wildclown."

  "What time is it now?" I knew it was ten-thirty, the clock on the desk said as much. But I couldn't resist asking. He seemed like the type who would hate that kind of thing.

  "Just after ten-thirty." His voice was a petulant hiss. "I'll be there at eleven."

  "Fine," I said, hung up, and then looked across the desk at Elmo. "It's the best we can do, Fatso."

  He nodded sadly.

  Chapter 19

  The setting was everything I could have wanted it to be. My little lamp cut a yellow circle out of my desk blotter. The ashtray was the perfect distance from my hand. A cigarette smoked in my fist and my. 38 snub-nose nestled snugly in my right boot where it crossed my left calf. Elmo was in the waiting room having a coffee and keeping an eye out for Inspector Cane. Elmo also had a gun, and he wasn't supposed to. Everything was perfect.

  I heard a rap at the outer door, then heard Elmo shuffle his way toward it. I listened as Inspector Cane grunted something nasty. He crossed the waiting room then entered my office. I smiled. I believe his face was incapable of such sentiment. He walked up to the desk, grinning as he chewed his brass toothpick.

  "Let's hear it, Wildclown. I don't have all night." I could see a double reflection of my lamp, ashtray and hand in his glasses.

  "Want to sit? It might take a while."

  "No." His eyes were fixed on the back wall of the inside of my skull.

  "Okay." I gestured with the whiskey I had close at hand. He didn't surprise me when he turned it down. That was fine, I didn't want to drink with him anyway. I poured myself a large one. Client confidentiality got complicated here. If I kept quiet, then Adrian could have me killed and Billings disappear which would be bad or Billings could have Adrian killed which would make me an accessory that was better, but still bad. I didn't have a choice. Talking gave me a better chance of survival.

  "On Saturday, March 2 a lawyer, Conrad Billings came to my office. He had been murdered. It happened at the Morocco Hotel. You may remember th
at." Cane nodded. "He requested that I find his murderer. I went to the scene. During my investigation some arsonists torched the hotel taking all of my evidence with it. Except for this…" I set the cigar butt on the desk blotter. Cane picked it up and sniffed it. "Don't worry, that comes in later. To be honest, there was not a lot of evidence in the first place. I think Adrian paid to have the place torched. I was lucky enough to be there when it happened. I believe Authority investigated both the murder and the fire." Again Cane nodded, then set the cigar down on the desk.

  "Mr. Billings' massage therapist disappeared the night he was murdered. It's my theory that she was working with whoever wanted Billings dead. An accessory, to be certain. I acted on a lead from the night clerk: A Mr. Douglas Willieboy-I have his address written here…" I tossed him a card. "On that tip, I arranged to meet a man who had been in communication with Jan Van Reydner on the night of the murder, and her disappearance.

  "The man I talked to was Mr. Richard Adrian, president of Simpson's Skin Tanning and Preservation for the Deceased. During the weeks prior to Conrad Billings' death, he communicated with Van Reydner at the Morocco under the pseudonym 'Simon.' That cigar butt is the same brand that Adrian smokes and I found that butt in an ashtray at the Morocco. When I met with him, Adrian admitted his involvement and knowledge of Ms. Van Reydner, though not of her whereabouts. My theory is that he and Van Reydner had been playing a nasty game. Seems Van Reydner would work the old sex magic on the boys for a while, gaining their trust. Then, on a signal from Adrian she would make sure they had a nice gin party to make everybody real sleepy. In the middle of the night Adrian would sneak in and off the poor mark in his sleep. It makes sense that Adrian would do it himself. He looks tough enough, and it's always better to use people you trust." I paused a moment, looked into my glass. "This time something went wrong. Billings woke up. He said he heard a baby. Whatever he heard, it got him out of bed just in time to hear Adrian come in. He was murdered in the living room-shot in the back of the head, which is the first indication that something went wrong. I'm pretty sure the marks would normally be poisoned, or killed in some fashion that could be passed off as natural causes to avoid the inclusion of Authority. I have a feeling something went wrong again, because Billings was allowed to come out of Blacktime on his own. I'm certain that if things had gone right, Van Reydner's big breasts would have been resting on him when he came to. She would have steered him toward Simpson's Skin Tanning and Preservation for the Deceased before he had time to get his bearings. This time though, Billings was allowed to get to Authority and the outside world before Simpson's got him.

  "Anyway, back to Adrian's office, he told me that he was involved and promptly thereafter, I was ambushed and taken to the Landfill where Mr. Adrian had asked his men to, and I quote 'Leave him, piece by piece in the Landfill.' Now, I'm completely aware of the power a man like Mr. Adrian wields, and the negative result charges against him would get me; but I had to tell someone. Authority was my first choice.

  "If because of lack of evidence you can't prosecute Adrian for the murder at the Morocco, I am willing to charge him with my attempted murder. I can take you to the scene anytime you're willing. It's an Authority Internment Facility. I suggest the sooner, the better for both. The evidence will be fresh, and the bodies might not have crawled too far off. There were three: two living, killed by their accomplice, and the accomplice, a dead man I was forced to shoot it out with."

  "And Van Reydner?" Cane's face was inscrutable.

  "Gone, for the moment." I lit another cigarette. "I have the feeling she is gone for good. The fact that Adrian didn't know where she was tells me she might have double-crossed him. He had no reason to lie. He thought I was a dead man-landfill."

  "Leave it with me, Wildclown." Cane walked to the window, peered out through the blinds. "It's not what I'd call an iron-clad case. Christ, all you have is a cigar butt for physical evidence. I'd think long and hard before you charge Mr. Adrian with anything. He's connected. Everything else you've told me is circumstantial and hearsay. And I'll bet that whatever happened at the Internment Facility will be nicely cleaned up when we arrive. Keep everything between you and me. What was the location of the internment center?" He took out a notebook. I told him where: he wrote it down. He grinned around his toothpick. "If this is the best you can do, get out of the business, Wildclown."

  I ignored his sally, then climbed to my feet. "I've got to tell my client. He'll want to know." I was still a little leery. I had no reason to trust Cane. Who paid for his vacations? Also, with Conrad Billings aware, he might be able to use his talents as a lawyer to put the right amount of pressure on the right people. Hell, he might know a judge or two. I definitely needed more power working for me.

  Cane stared at me for a moment. "Just a matter of money, eh?" His sneer was unmistakable.

  "I told you I'd press charges." I stared back, then shrugged. "I've got to eat. Besides, he's the only reason I know about any of this in the first place. Believe me, the last thing I want to do is anger a man with power. I mind my own business."

  "Okay, tell your client. But leave Adrian and Van Reydner to me. If I'm going to make these charges stick, I don't need you poking your silly face into things."

  "Of course," I said, smiling.

  Cane started for the door, then stopped. "Oh, Wildclown. This doesn't have anything to do with that stupid baby case. I guess you were just clusterfucking us around before."

  "It's related," I said, mainly for a reaction. What should he care?

  Cane's face was grim. "Hell of a thing to joke about."

  "By the way," I rose from my chair. My head throbbed ever so slightly. "Who's Inspector Borden?"

  Cane's face turned uglier for a second then went blank. "Why?"

  "My client said Borden gave him my name."

  "Did he say any more? Just Borden?" I couldn't read the look that played about his toad features.

  "Just Borden," I said absently, intent upon Cane.

  "Then your client has hearing problems. I never heard of a Borden. And I've been in Authority for forty years."

  He adjusted his hat, licked his lips and left.

  I walked to the blinds and peered out. Cane's hunched form climbed into an armored Authority transport that waited. "More's the pity," I whispered.

  I walked out to the waiting room and met Elmo coming in. "Elmo, I've got to make another call; but I think you'd better pack. It might be wise for us to take a trip for a few days-to keep out of Adrian's way. He may still want to settle with me, and I don't trust Cane."

  Elmo nodded like a good partner. He didn't know what I was talking about but he nodded anyway. I had to get out of town before I gave Tommy his body back. I stretched. Damn it. If only I had Van Reydner.

  Chapter 20

  Billings took it all pretty well. I mean the fact that he was going to have to eat his vengeance-for the moment. He assured me he would do his level best to see that Adrian came to trial for his, as Billings put it, "Crimes against Humanity!" I had to wish him luck. He would need it. Cane had contacted me once more before Elmo and I left for a vacation. He told me Adrian was missing. I told Cane that Adrian might have been a lot of bluff. After all, when he realized I was still alive and talking, Adrian might have put together an ugly picture of himself in the hands of a dead lynch mob-rather an unpleasant possibility for a man of refinement. Cane said Authority was trying to get access to his records. He might have been responsible for thousands of new clients. There was no telling how long he and Van Reydner had worked together. Cane ordered me to keep out of sight for a while, but to expect a questioning. Billings paid me exactly what he owed me-no bonus-and wished me luck. I needed luck. So did Elmo. So did a woman named Jan Van Reydner who had become a recurring dream to me.

  Part Two: A Witching Time of Night

  Chapter 21

  I was at the office. Elmo sat motionless across from me looking like he was painted on black velvet. I was tempted to shout or somethin
g, to lever him out of his trance. I had finished my umpteenth cigarette. So had Elmo. The air around us resembled a heavy Scottish mist. I resisted the urge to walk to the window and open it to replace the sour air within with the sour air without. Then, with extreme ease, I sank back into my own malaise. I was into the habit now of possessing Tommy every day, rain or rain, just to keep in practice. We hadn't had a case in weeks.

  After the Billings' murder, Elmo and I drove west, and we didn't stop until we reached a lonely motel set on a stark hump of granite. We had started without a destination in mind, the motel simply appeared to us out of the rain. It was a nice little place lost in a twilight zone of decor-fake tiger skin couches and plastic dome lamps. A fat landlady would keep us honest. I had passed over the possibility of a trip to Vicetown because so many gangsters and outlaws called it home. All those casinos were like magnets to gunmetal. If Adrian were going to hire a hit man he would do it from there. Maybe I was being paranoid, but I would be a well-marked target with the clown makeup.

  Instead, Elmo and I visited the Bonny-Vu Motel about eight hours west of Greasetown. The name must have come from the Old World before the Change, because the view was anything but bonny. The motel overlooked a waste disposal dump. Mrs. Loxley, the landlady, explained with chubby vociferation, that the dump was new. There used to be a lovely lake for fishing, she said, canoe rides and everything. The woman was obviously upset about the turning tide, but you could tell by her earnest eyes and perpetual blush of embarrassed self-assertion, that she would do her best with what the good lord had given her.

  We stayed there about three weeks, drinking ourselves into oblivion in a cozy fisherman's lounge where stuffed trout cavorted in varnished glory for the guests. Tommy had quite taken to Mr. Loxley, who after initial hesitation accepted the clown as a formidable drinking partner. Mr. Loxley occasionally described supplementing his income with trips into the dump. "Incredible, the things people throw away," he had said time and again. Once, he took us into his workshop where every kind of machine from toaster to dishwasher sat about with insides of wire and metal vomited on the floor. "A gold mine!" Mr. Loxley's eyes seldom betrayed the madness growing behind them. I spent the week in and out of Tommy. He seemed content to ride the wave, so to speak-as long as there was plenty of strong drink handy. I had held onto him until we were checked in at the motel, and he seemed fairly content upon waking. That was likely due to the exhausted and injured condition his body was in when I returned it. Mr. Loxley was perfect though. Tommy loved to drink and talk-argue, if he could-preferably about nothing-and Loxley had an appetite similar in both respects. Things almost took a bad turn one night when, full of liquor, Tommy made a clumsy pass at the lady of the manor. I managed to take over and avert what promised to be a disastrous situation, much to Tommy and Mrs. Loxley's chagrin.