A Soft Barren Aftershock

by F. Paul Wilson

  “Oh. Thanks. That clears it up perfectly.”

  “Any time. Anyway, W.B.—we called him W.B.—was grooming this quartet to cut the first all-original recording in the history of Wonder Records. He’d always said the key to a hit rockabilly record was to make the lyrics unintelligible. He told me he’d found a singer no one would ever understand. Said the kids would go crazy wondering what he was saying. They’d play the song over and over on jukeboxes all over the country, trying to figure out the lyrics. He was very excited.”

  Again that bell rang in Tracy’s brain, louder now. He glanced at Catchem, who shook his head.

  “I know what you’re thinking, but it ain’t possible.”

  Tracy turned back to Mr. Figh.

  “Thanks, Hy. You’ve been a big help. Please don’t leave town for the next few days. We may have some other questions for you.”

  “Anything I can do to help. Anything. Just call.”

  As the young executive headed for his office down the hall, Tracy turned to Catchem.

  “Who does that sound like to you, Sam?”

  “Mumbles,” Catchem said, lighting another cigarette. “Who else? But Mumbles is dead, remember? He drowned over a year ago and almost took you with him.”

  “I know, I know. But it fits so perfectly. A guy no one can understand: That was Mumbles. Sings with a quartet: That was Mumbles. Crooked enough to have been ‘borrowing’ the Wonder Records masters and making illegal copies of Wonder hits—”

  “I know,” Catchem said. “Mumbles. But he drowned, he was buried, and neither of us believe in ghosts.”

  “And violent enough to kill when cornered,” Tracy said. “That would fit Mumbles too.” Tracy pushed back his yellow fedora and scratched his head. “Yeah. A crazy thought.”

  “No argument there,” Catchem said. “But until Mumbles shows up, what say we get back up to the murder scene and see if we can find anything to point us toward a living suspect.”

  Tracy couldn’t sleep. The William B. Cover murder wouldn’t permit it. Finally he gave up trying. He left Tess slumbering peacefully in their bed and wandered down the hall to Junior’s room. He put his ear against the door and listened. A radio was playing low. He knocked and stuck his head in the darkened room.

  “Got any rockabilly records?”

  The light came on and Junior sat up in bed.

  “Sure. Want to hear some?”

  “Just a couple of samplings. And real low. We don’t want to wake the sleeping, let alone the dead.”

  Junior hopped out of bed and pulled out his record box. He showed Tracy the labels with the titles and artists and played snatches of the songs.

  They all sounded pretty much the same to Tracy. Junior ran through “Blue Suede Shoes” by Carl Perkins, “Tongue Tied Jill” by Charlie Feathers, “Ooby Dooby” by Roy Orbison, “Be-Bop-a-Lula” by Gene Vincent . . .

  “Enough,” Tracy said. “That’s all I can take. But thanks for the lesson, Junior.”

  He tousled the kid’s hair affectionately, the way he used to, but came away with a hand coated with grease. Wiping his palm on his pajama pants leg, he returned to his own bedroom.

  And still he couldn’t sleep.

  Mumbles . . . was it even remotely possible that he was still alive?

  Tracy thought back to July of last year when he and Mumbles had been caught in that salt marsh at high tide. Tracy had survived but Mumbles had drowned because he wouldn’t—or couldn’t—let go of the loot he had dug up. Tracy racked his brain now trying to remember if he or Sam or anyone for that matter had officially identified the body. They’d found it strapped to the barrel of jewels, they’d shaken their heads and said that Mumbles’s greed had finally killed him, then they’d sent the body off to the coroner—tagged as Mumbles.

  Tracy dragged himself back to the present. This was fruitless. All it did was distract him from zeroing on a real suspect in the Cover murder.

  And yet . . . rockabilly, with all its hiccupping vocals and nonsense lyrics, was almost custom made for Mumbles, wasn’t it? If he were alive, he could very well have been rehearsing in the Wonder Records recording studios—

  Tracy bolted upright in bed.

  Rehearsing! Wouldn’t they be recording those rehearsals? At least parts of them? After all, the quartet in question was slated to be a recording sensation. Wouldn’t W.B. have wanted to hear what they sounded like on vinyl?

  Tracy was out of bed again, this time reaching for his clothes. Those tapes might break this case.

  The all-night security guard at the main entrance let Tracy in and directed him to the recording studios on the tenth floor.

  “On the way in I noticed that the big record player isn’t working,” Tracy said.

  “We turned it off in mourning for Mr. Cover. The big Wonder record won’t play again until after his funeral.”

  “I’m sure he’d have appreciated that.”

  Tracy headed directly to the recording studios. All the tapes and masters in W.B. Cover’s office vault had been accounted for this afternoon, so Tracy figured that the mystery quartet’s rehearsal tape, if it existed, might still be in the studio.

  But which studio? There were eight of them on the floor.

  He realized he should have brought Sam along to help go through the hundreds, perhaps thousands of tapes that were stored here. But better to

  let Sam sleep so he’d be fresh for the morning. Tracy hadn’t been getting any sleep anyway.

  Where to start? He decided to begin at the end. As he walked down the hall toward Studio H he heard a noise. He stopped and heard it again. A clatter . . . very faint. Coming from Studio C.

  Tracy pulled his snub-nosed .357 and edged the door open.

  The studio was a shambles. Empty tape canisters were everywhere; the entire studio was festooned with tangled garlands of recording tape. As Tracy watched, a ten-inch reel, trailing a shiny brown ribbon behind it, sailed across the room and clattered against the wall.

  To his left, out of sight, he heard someone shouting.

  “Fina fug inape!”

  A chill crawled over Tracy’s skin. He knew that voice. But it couldn’t be. Without thinking, he shoved the door open and stepped inside.

  There were four men in the room. Three of them—one wearing a gray fedora, one with a knitted cap, and one bald and bareheaded—were tearing through the studio’s tape library. But it was the fourth, standing in the center of the studio floor, who seized Tracy’s attention. Short, medium-framed, close-cropped blond hair, heavy-lidded eyes, dark eyebrows, and a small, thin-lipped mouth.

  “Mumbles!”

  The man’s eyes widened. “Syoo!”

  Tracy shook off the shock of seeing Mumbles alive and covered the room with his pistol. He realized he’d made a rookie-level error: no backup. But he had the drop on them so maybe he could pull this off.

  “Hands up and into the middle there—all of you!”

  They hesitated, looking to Mumbles for direction.

  “Doozee sz,” Mumbles said.

  “What he say?” whispered the one with the knitted cap.

  “What’sa matter? You deaf?” the bald one replied. “He said ‘Do what he says,’ So let’s do it.”

  They joined Mumbles in the center.

  “Now—everybody face down on the floor.”

  When he had all of them down he could use the wrist radio to call for backup. This would be a good collar, even if it wasn’t by the book.

  Three of them went face down on the rug. Only their leader refused to comply.

  “You too, Mumbles,” Tracy said.

  Mumbles stepped to his left behind a microphone on a chrome stand. He stayed on his feet.

  “Newt beoo, Tree.”

  “What he say?” said the knitted cap.

  Baldhead said, “He said, ‘I knew it’d be you, Tracy.’ ”

  Tracy said, “How did you survive that tide? That’s what I want to know, Mumbles. And who did we bury if it wasn’t y
ou?”

  “Yoofih grout, eppr.”

  “What he say?”

  “Shuddup,” said the fedora.

  “Down, Mumbles,” Tracy said.

  Mumbles’ stare was coolly defiant.

  “Nway, eppr.”

  Tracy approached Mumbles warily, keeping the three on the floor in full view.

  “I’m warning you, Mumbles. Don’t try anything foolish. You’re now the prime suspect in the W.B. Cover murder. And if that isn’t enough, you’ll be tried for Cinn’s murder and as an accomplice in the George Ozone murder. Now get down on that floor!’

  Mumbles sidestepped, keeping the mike stand between Tracy and himself.

  “Kz maz, eppr.”

  Tracy reached out to knock the mike stand out of the way. The instant he touched it, he knew he’d been suckered. He heard the buzz, felt the electric current shoot up his arm, saw Mumbles’ sneering face dissolve in a cascade of blinding white, yellow, blue, and orange explosions.

  Then everything went black.

  Tracy awoke slowly, to the chilly caress of a city-flavored October breeze, to the sound of faraway voices, and to the throb of a thundering headache. He opened his eyes and immediately snapped them shut against the sudden, overpowering rush of vertigo.

  He took a deep breath. For a moment there, he’d almost thought—

  Tracy opened his eyes again. To his left the sun was rising. The dark, sleeping city was spread out above him . . .

  No—below him. He was upside down—trussed up and being lowered by his ankles on a long rope from the roof of the Wonder building. He could feel the grooves of the giant record logo jouncing against his back as he was lowered along the north wall.

  Voices filtered down from above. He picked out Mumbles’s voice immediately.

  “Hole air.”

  “What he say?”

  “He said to hold it there. C’mon. We’ll tie it to this vent stack here.”

  “Hey, that’s pretty swell, Mumbles. You got him right over the dent where the needle hits. When the arm comes over it’ll nail him good!”

  “Lemring amurwep innacor!”

  “What he say?”

  “He said, ‘Let them bring that murder weapon into court!’ ”

  There was laughter from above.

  “Swaj blow,” said Mumbles and the voices faded out.

  Tracy’s hands were tied behind his back. He probed the depth of the pit in the surface of the giant record where the tone arm’s “needle” impacted twelve times an hour. A deep pit. He glanced over at the metal spike that served as the needle. It wasn’t sharp, but it had to come down with considerable force to wear a pocket like this. Force enough to punch a hole in Tracy’s gut.

  But the laugh was on Mumbles. The giant phonograph had been shut off.

  Just then Tracy felt a hum through the back of his head. The giant record vibrated as the label at its center began to turn. To Tracy’s right, the tone arm shuddered to life.

  Mumbles had turned on the power!

  As the arm began to lift, Tracy began to swing his body left and right. Soon he had a bit of a pendulum motion established. The arc was small, but he hoped it would be enough to give him a fighting chance to be out of harm’s way when the tone arm came down.

  It was swinging toward him now, looming over him. He augmented his pendulum motion with a quarter roll to the right just as the needle slammed down onto the record.

  Missed me!

  Now he had a couple of minutes to work at the ropes around his wrists. The left was not looped quite as tightly as the right. He made an all-out bid to pull it loose, clenching his teeth against the pain as the upper layer of the skin over his wrist tore away. He groaned and broke out in a cold sweat as something popped inside his wrist, but suddenly his left hand was free. Seconds later the right was also free.

  Using mostly his right hand, Tracy pulled himself up inside the tone arm. He twisted himself around to an upright position and wedged his body into the metal struts of the supporting framework. His legs and ankles were still trussed up like a roast but he left the ropes where they were for now. He had to close his eyes and let this sick feeling pass. Good to be right side up again, but his left wrist was swollen and puffy and throbbing like an elephant’s migraine. At least he still had his wrist radio. He flicked the transmitter switch.

  “Headquarters, this is Tracy. I’m at the Wonder Records building. I need immediate backup. Repeat: Immediate backup requested. Do you copy?

  But when he switched to receive, he heard only static. He tried again with similar results. Maybe he’d damaged the radio getting out of the ropes. Maybe just the receiver was out of commission. He hoped that was all.

  Because things were a bit dicey up here.

  Voices . . . from far below. Angry shouts. Tracy peeked down at the gesticulating forms in the parking lot below. He realized with a grin that they couldn’t see him from down there. Couldn’t even see the rope. They probably thought he’d escaped.

  Well, in a few minutes they’ll be right!

  He went to work on the rope around his legs, doing the best he could without putting too much stress on his left wrist.

  Just then the tone arm began to rise. He heard the motor groan with the strain of lifting his extra weight. The arm was just starting back toward its rest position when something snapped in its base. The motor screeched and died as the arm jolted partially free of its supports and tilted at an angle.

  Tracy hung on by his fingertips, then got his feet braced against the framework again. Renewed shouts rose from below as he realized his hiding place was now exposed in the growing dawn light.

  He saw two figures, one blond, one bald-headed, dart for the rear of the building. It looked like Mumbles and one of his gang were coming back up to finish the job—probably by way of W.B. Cover’s private elevator.

  Tracy redoubled his efforts on the ropes but they resisted him. If only he could use both hands!

  Moments later he heard a clank above him. Mumbles was there, grinning maniacally as he leaned over the edge of the roof and hammered at the tone arm’s remaining supports with a tire iron.

  Tracy felt the structure twist and sag further. Any second now it would go, taking him down with it. And still the knots on his legs resisted him. If he could just free his legs he could climb up the arm and at least give himself a fighting chance.

  And then Tracy heard a wonderful sound: sirens.

  So, apparently, did Mumbles’s companion.

  “The cops, Mumbles. Let’s get outta here!”

  “Ntlee fls!”

  “Are you crazy, Mumbles?” Baldhead said. “What’re you doin’?”

  Tracy glanced up and saw Mumbles swing his leg over the edge of the roof and begin kicking at the tone arm’s base.

  “Dmthns tuck!” Mumbles said.

  The sirens were getting louder but every kick sent increasingly violent shudders through the arm. Its base was edging free of the support. A few more good kicks . . .

  Tracy yanked on the rope that ran from his ankles up to the roof. Still tied. Suddenly he was glad he hadn’t been able to conquer those knots.

  Far below, Tracy saw the two other members of Mumbles’s crew running for their car. He looked back up toward the roof to see Mumbles hanging from the edge of the roof by his arms, ramming both feet against the base of the tone arm.

  Suddenly it twisted loose, but in twisting it caught Mumbles’s foot. Mumbles lost his grip on the parapet. Baldhead made a grab for his arm but it was too late. Tracy dove free of the arm as it began to fall. The metal screeched but Mumbles’s scream was louder as man and tone arm plummeted to earth.

  Tracy was hanging upside down again, the blood rushing to his head. He saw the tone arm crash through the hood of the getaway car as it pulled away, saw Mumbles bounce off the car roof and land in a broken heap atop the trunk.

  “That crazy bastard!” said Baldhead from above. “All because of you.”

  Tracy angled his
neck to see the man’s angry face glaring down at him. A knife snapped open in his hand.

  “No reason why you shouldn’t join him, cop.”

  As Baldhead began to saw at the rope, Tracy stuffed his right hand into the pocket the needle had made and clutched one of the record grooves with his bum left, hoping he might be able to hold on but knowing deep in his gut that there was no way in hell he could.

  Suddenly there was a shot. Tracy looked up and saw part of Baldhead’s scalp explode in a spray of red. Then the body slumped over the parapet. Warm blood began to drip on Tracy.

  Sam Catchem’s face appeared over the edge of the roof.

  “You all right, Tracy?”

  “Just fine, Sam. Enjoying the view.”

  Catchem lit a cigarette. “Yeah. Me too. You know, I was listening to a preacher on one of the news shows last night. He was warning the kids that hanging around these rock and roll joints would bring them nothing but trouble. Looking at you makes me think he may have a point.”

  “Pull me up, Sam. Now.”

  “Yes, boss.”

  As he was being dragged upward across the grooved surface of the giant Wonder record, Tracy stared down at Mumbles’s inert form and . . .

  No—not inert. His arms and legs were moving—not much, but moving all the same. He was alive. Tracy shook his head in silent wonder. Mumbles’s luck never seemed to run all the way out.

  Well, at least now they had a good chance of finding out who was really buried in Mumbles’s grave: They could ask Mumbles himself. Either way, though, Tracy would have to get an exhumation order. But that could wait.

  At least until this afternoon.

  Saturday

  Vicky’s scream pierced them, froze them.

  Gia turned to Jack and he saw the panic in her eyes. It came again, Vicky’s voice, high-pitched, quavering with terror. But where was she? She’d wandered ahead of them down the midway only a moment ago.

  Jack took off toward the sound, moving as fast as the crowd would permit, bumping and pushing those he couldn’t slide past. She couldn’t have gone far in just a couple of minutes.

  Then he spotted her skinny eight-year-old form darting toward him through the press, her face a strained mask of white, her blue eyes wide with fear. When she spotted him, she burst into tears and held out her arms as she stumbled forward, her voice a shriek.