Scott Nicholson Library Vol 3

by Scott Nicholson

  “Is he running around on you?” I was blunt, because my flesh could dissolve away at any moment, and then some wet-nosed waitress would be selling an eyewitness account to Sightings or Unexplained Mysteries, probably pitching a screenplay at the same time.

  “Nothing like that,” she said, and there were honest-to-goodness tears in her eyes. Tears. In Los Angeles. Who would have thunk it? But this was a female, and tears come to them as conveniently as lies did. Only men know how to cry, and believe me, we keep it in the dark whenever possible.

  “What is it, then?” My head ached. I felt like death warmed over, which I suppose I was.

  “It’s these,” she said, pulling three printed-out digital snapshots from her purse. She waited until the waitress brought her steaming drink before sliding them across the table. “I need to know where he got them.”

  I glanced at the photos and was about to ask which “he” she meant when I felt myself go lightheaded. My stomach did a flip and my feet felt as if they had fallen asleep. I was losing it. My tab was coming due.

  “I got to go,” I said. “I’ll keep these and get in touch later.” I pushed the photos into my pocket, then stood and hurried to the door. Clean-cut yuppies and actors-in-waiting stared at me from their booths. I felt like a stack of clothes, nothing more.

  Bailey called out as I battled with the front door. “I love you, Richard. See you at your place?”

  I thought maybe I’d misheard in my panic to leave, and that word “love” added to whatever panic I was experiencing at the time. But then she yelled, “Lee can’t keep us apart.”

  I staggered into the street. I wasn’t sure if I had gone out the door, or through it. I hope I was in the shadows by the time I fully dissolved. Only the wino behind my apartment building knows for sure.

  ***

  4.

  I didn’t feel like going to my room to watch my body decompose. I hung out in the bottom of the elevator shaft. There was an odd assortment of junk in there: a few used condoms and liquor bottles, some spare steel cable, a man’s hat, and a teddy bear. A teddy bear. I spent fifteen or twenty minutes putting my hand in the stuffing, then animating the bear and making it do funny little dances.

  Eventually my head cleared. By playing the puppet game, I had learned one of the rules of ghostly existence. Solidifying myself took a lot of willpower, and the more thinking I did while solid, the lower the juice in my metaphysical batteries. That’s why my encounter with Bailey DeBussey lasted only a few minutes: she’d been taxing my deductive powers while simultaneously triggering some deep and patently offensive sexual fantasies.

  The other thing was that objects I carried, like the photographs and my clothes, seemed to borrow a little of my nothingness, because they came through the walls with me. I even sent the teddy bear through the wall a few times, but it took a lot of willpower. Maybe the bigger the object, the harder to “ghost” it.

  I studied the photographs. Nothing much on first examination. Two of them were of Bailey and a man I didn’t know, standing on the beach with the Santa Monica Pier in the background. Bailey filled a bikini as well as she did a leopard–skin dress, maybe better. The guy with her looked like an extra from one of those California angst TV dramas, perched under his moussed hairdo with biceps the size of grapefruit. He wore the same smarmy expression in each of the photos, his “money smile.”

  The third photograph showed Bailey on a fishing boat, one of those that rich people chartered for the half day so they could squeeze in some serious drinking. A white-haired man in a captain’s hat and a knit short-sleeved shirt had an arm around her, his fist clenched in a buddy-buddy hug. The Golden Gate Bridge was barely visible in the background, and S.S. Lady Slipper was emblazoned on the bridge bulwark.

  What did all this have to do with Lee? Why had Bailey called out her name? And what was all that staged nonsense about Bailey’s claim of loving me? Had she been setting me up for something? She couldn’t know about Diana—maybe that my wife had committed suicide, but certainly not the part about returning from the dead and knocking back espresso twenty feet from where we sat.

  I played over the coffee shop scene in my mind. The two gay lovers in the corner booth, the skinny punk with the baggy jeans and skateboard, the mouse-haired girl with the Kurt Vonnegut hardcover displayed so all could be impressed by her intellect. Then something clicked. On one of the counter stools sat a woman in a trench coat, collar turned up to her ears. I hadn’t thought much of it, because that close to Hollywood, everybody was either an actor, pornographer, screenwriter, or plain, out-and-out schizophrenic figments of their own imaginations.

  But now I remembered how she’d taken her coffee hot and steaming from the waitress, gulped it down as if it were lemonade, and exhaled with an air of satisfaction, without a hint of steam or wince of pain. As if she’d absorbed the heat. I wondered if she’d worn anything beneath the trench coat, because the bit of her hair that was exposed had been slightly curly and dark. Like the style Diana had apparently adopted in the afterlife.

  No. Surely I would have recognized her just by her mannerisms. When you know somebody, when you’ve slept with them and held them and watched them, when you’ve let them a little into your soul, you know their gestures, the way they move their fingers, the way they lean forward when they sit. That wasn’t Diana.

  Then again, people change. And dying was the biggest change of all. If it had been Diana, she had disguised herself well. But I couldn’t imagine her sitting there in silence while I chatted up a beautiful woman. It was the kind of thing that would have ignited her jealous nature back during our marriage. She would have doused us both with scalding coffee, turned over the table, and tried to stab me with a butter knife. After that warm-up, she’d turn nasty. Judging by our initial encounter in the afterlife, I suspect she hadn’t let go of that particular character defect.

  I started to light a cigarette, then decided I didn’t want the smoke mixing with my mist. I studied the photos until my head was tired. You wouldn’t think a ghost could get tired, would you? I figured it was just another part of the test. Hell, if being a ghost were easy, everybody would be doing it.

  In fact, I wondered why I hadn’t encountered other lost souls, those who had been sent back to accomplish missions of their own. I didn’t for a second think I was getting some kind of special treatment from the gods. Maybe we were all invisible to each other. In everyday life, people pass in total ignorance and apathy all the time, ghosts in their own lives. We each built our own realities as breathers, to some degree, so why should death be any different?

  I guess I sort of dozed off, despite the cantankerous screeching of the elevator. When I came back around, my head was clear and I realized I had made my first mistake. I should have drifted on over to the Hollywood Hype while the assassin’s tracks were still fresh. By now, the cops had already dusted and powdered everything, tracked down the shell casings if the killer had been dumb enough to leave them lying around, and probably were trying to figure out why and when the shots were fired. No body yet, so it wasn’t officially a murder investigation. Except in my book.

  I mentally thumbed through the cases I had been working on at the time of my death. A few alleged insurance scams, delinquent dads, petty embezzlement on the order of a check-out drone swiping change from the till. Nothing big enough there to justify murder. A missing persons, some kid from North Dakota who ran away to make it in movies. That case was a low priority. Even if you find the runaway, she won’t believe you when you tell her the only films she’ll ever star in are the kind that cost four quarters a peep.

  None of my active files provided a link to this case, at least as far as I could tell. So why did somebody plug me on the off chance that I could help Bailey DeBussey? After all, I wasn’t the only P.I. in town, even if I was probably one of the best.

  Well, no need to lie anymore, was there? In my new state of existence, honesty was the best policy, unfortunately. I was actually pretty damned medi
ocre. Sam Spade, rest easy, wherever you are in that fictional character graveyard in the sky.

  As usual, thinking was getting me nowhere. Another few minutes with the photos and I headed across the street to the Hollywood Hype. Maybe the police overlooked something. Maybe not even a maybe. The police were about as mediocre as I was, and every mortal’s head was stuffed full of holiday gift ideas and jingles during that most wonderful time of the year.

  Drifting is an awkward act. In the movies, it always looks graceful, with the ghost floating around all misty and mournful. Drifting takes its own sort of willpower that is in some ways even more demanding than jerking your leg muscles. I couldn’t shake the old habit of stopping for traffic, either. I’d wasted about two minutes before I realized I could walk right through the cabs, limos, tour buses, low riders, and homeless people pushing shopping carts.

  The lobby of the Hype was cavernous and musty, a row of faded scarlet holiday stockings pinned to the front desk. It’s a Wonderful Life was playing on the television in the lobby. I wanted to tell Jimmy Stewart that the only difference between living and dying was the size of your credit card bill. But that was the old, cynical me thinking. This new me, the dead one that was full of hope, kept on plugging.

  I could have just floated up to the second floor, but instead I took the stairs. It was a mock-up of those stairs where Clark Gable carried Vivian Leigh in Gone with the Wind. The rest of the Hype was just as cheesy. Painted stars like those on Hollywood Boulevard lined the hallway floor, but the stars were scuffed so you couldn’t read the names. The walls were covered with framed movie posters and memorabilia that were definitely not licensed by the studios.

  I checked out all the rooms with north-facing windows. In the first, the sheets were in such a quiver that I thought I had stumbled onto a fellow ghost, and then I realized I had walked in on a loving couple. I’m not a peek freak unless I’m getting paid for it, so I gave the windowsill a quick once-over for any sign of residue or marks. No dice.

  The second and third rooms were unoccupied, though suitcases on the bed indicated recent arrivals. The fourth was empty, marked off with yellow crime tape. Why didn’t I think to look for that? The truth is, my brain was getting a little foggier the longer I was dead. If I didn’t solve this case soon, I wouldn’t have enough brains left to attend my own funeral. Afterlife Alzheimer’s was a bitch.

  I searched the room but found nothing of merit. The police had given it the comb’s teeth. They’d even snagged the chocolate off the pillow, though I suspect that never made it into an evidence bag. I was just about to skulk off to my elevator shaft when I noticed the mirror.

  I didn’t stop to admire myself, because I didn’t want to waste the willpower it would take to don a face. But the dresser mirror had been carefully turned so that someone sitting at the desk had a clear line of sight to my room. The assassin might have had me staked out for days. In that case, why wait until just before I was supposed to meet Bailey before pulling the trigger? Or maybe Bailey was just a coincidence, one of those red herrings life likes to throw at you to keep you confused.

  If my murderer had watched me, he or she knew I was a creature of habit. If I had an appointment, I never showed up early. I tried to time my appointments so that the person I was meeting would be checking their watch at the moment I walked up. Gave you an edge on a person, in my opinion.

  A quick drift downstairs to the front desk, then I tipped over a couple of boxes in the stockroom. When the hostess ran from the desk to check the commotion, I willed my hands into enough substance to flip through the sign-in book. Room 217 had been rented by a Mr. Raymond Chandler. Jeez. My killer was a damned comedian.

  So the name was fake, but at least I learned that the room had been rented two days prior to my death. “Chandler” had paid for a week, cash in advance. The police had all that information, and no doubt were running Chandler aliases through their database, but they still didn’t have a body.

  I was reminded of one of Lee’s little endearments, something she’d whisper in my ear on those nights when we lay under the sheets, our sweat drying.

  “Habeas corpus, baby,” she would say. “You got the body.” A legal term never sounded so sexy. What I wouldn’t give for just one more night of her sweet whispering.

  Lee. Would I ever see her again? I was afraid I’d never make it across town to her place, not with my soul juice tapped. I didn’t have any leads, and I was running out of time. I was down, so down that only another dead person would understand. It can get pretty dark down there.

  Feeling like my stores of hope had drained, I drifted back to my apartment.

  ***

  5.

  “Where have you been?” Diana called as I entered. Just like old times.

  She was waiting in the bedroom. Just like old times.

  “Nowhere.” I hovered in the living room.

  “Everybody’s somewhere. Who was that woman in the coffee shop?”

  “Nobody.”

  “That was some body, all right. 38D? I’ll bet those melons were fake.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Richard. Get your ass in here.”

  “This is my place. You can’t boss me around.”

  The sliver of darkness under the bedroom door pulsed orange with flame and a sulfuric steam clouded the crack. “I said get your ass in here.”

  Shit. Never marry a Leo.

  I opened the door instead of drifting through it, dreading the inevitable. She was on the bed, nude, glistening, 36C, throwing off her own candlelight. One leg was cocked in a way that made it seem as long as the bed. The other curled in a provocative arch.

  “Is she as hot as me?” Diana said, her voice taking on a low purr.

  I averted my gaze. It was damned hard, but her marbled skin, caused by carbon monoxide poisoning, was a bit of a mood killer.

  “That woman in the photograph,” she said, her voice low and taunting. “On your television. Does she do that thing you like?”

  That thing I like. When you are intimate with one person for a long time, you become vulnerable and slowly reveal your true desires. You let them try things that never happen during one-night stands. You bring your fantasies out of your head and onto the playground of love.

  Then, when you are with the next person, or the one after that, you can’t expect them to jump right to the full course. They have to sample the buffet, go through the entire menu, nibbling at things to see which tastes they prefer. You can’t exactly say, “Well, my last lover did this, so why don’t you?”

  It sucks, except sometimes it doesn’t.

  Diana, for all her faults, was good at some things. She knew how to serve dessert. I couldn’t help licking my lips. They were cracked and parched from the heat in the room.

  “I’m aching,” she said, stretching the word out into a moan. Her legs spread and she rolled her hips forward. I swear, a tuft of steam rose. I reached up to loosen my tie or strangle myself.

  “This isn’t right,” I said.

  “It feels right to me,” she said, moving a hand down to play.

  “We’re done,” I said. “I can’t—”

  “Come on, honey. I’m your wife.”

  “No, that’s over.”

  “This was yours. All yours. And nobody else could ever take it the way you could.”

  Damn. Hitting me at my male pride. She sure knew how to play me. My fingers tugged the tie free and I was messing with the buttons of my shirt.

  “It’s not cheating,” she said. “You didn’t make any promises.”

  “Not cheating,” I said, glad Lee’s photograph was in the other room. I didn’t want her eyes on me. Even though she might learn a few things about me. Several fantasies and several realities.

  My pants slid down easily. I didn’t look. When you die, you want everything to work just as it had before. All your parts. I wasn’t sure I felt anything. You don’t throb much when your heart doesn’t beat.<
br />
  But I was game. She was Eve, Jezebel, Delilah, a Siren, a selkie, succubus, every temptress ever devised. 36C, just the way I like them. Forbidden fruit.

  I reached for her, leaned over the bed, fell toward the steaming flesh, heedless of the burning I might receive.

  I bounced naked off cold sheets. Her laughter purred from every corner of the room. Her voice came as if from a distant elevator shaft: “I wonder what Lee would think.”

  Diana had won this round. And she’d sapped my batteries. I could only lie there in my self-disgust and wonder if death really changed anything, if all grabs for redemption were futile, if we were destined to repeat the same mistakes on every spin of the karmic wheel. Could I succeed at anything besides failure?

  I must have fallen asleep again, because I dreamed that I gave up. I took the elevator to the top of my building, skinnied up the little ladder to the roof access, and looked down on all the lights. The city was like a giant Christmas tree, blinking red and green and silver. And that expanse of sky, the buildings stretching to the Pacific, the rounded and sandy hills, the tangle of highways, all left me feeling lost and small.

  Through the smog I could see a cluster of dim stars. Those stars were forlorn and so far away, adding to my sense of insignificance. Why should I solve my own murder when I would be dead either way? Why did I matter at all, when I was nothing but a few wisps of mist, a palmful of dust, and a random scattering of thoughts? A memory to only a handful, a memory that would die along with those few people.

  I was so depressed that I took the only possible exit: I jumped.

  I’d never thought much of suicides, especially after Diana turned her little trick. I thought even less of those who tried it over and over again. My definition of a loser was somebody so miserable they even failed at the final failure. And there I was, a leaper, an airborne idiot. Even as the wind whistled past my head, I was thinking how impossible this was. How could you kill yourself when you were already dead? And my second thought was “Why am I not drifting?” even as the concrete rushed up to meet me.