are you today, Mr. Wildclown?'
'Fine,' I said. 'I don't have a wooden leg.'
There followed a grating, bubbling sound that was either laughter, or a hamster drowning in oil. I laughed along too. There was no point in crying.
'Oh yes,' I added. 'I burned down that building-the Morocco-yes, the one you were murdered in.'
He stopped laughing.
'I didn't actually do it by myself, but I was there when it happened.'
'Then all the evidence…'
'Is gone.' He was silent. I let him hang a second. 'But, I think Van Reydner knows enough to find your killer. I'm about two phone calls away from finding her.' I lied. He wasn't paying me enough for truth.
'You think she knows who did it?'
'I think she had a hand in the 'didding' of it.'
'Never.' His voice nearly broke. 'She and I were…'
'Not an item you can't buy for a dime a dozen.' I decided to push him. 'Listen, you walked out that night looking for someone in the living room. She could have left the door open for a friend. Also-' I could hear his stuttering indignation. 'She has contacts with the only people who could profit from your death in this day and age.'
'But who?' he blurted.
'Since people don't stay lying down dead, killing isn't the best way to keep their mouths shut. So I doubt you could have known something that someone wanted to keep quiet. If you did, you'd have been put in a blender; your head would have been missing, or something. There was another motive, I'm almost sure.' I hesitated. 'Where are you going for your preservation treatments?'
'Simpson's Skin Tanning and Preservation for the Deceased. They come highly recommended and timing is crucial to the process. I purchased one of their policies before I died. But I don't…'
'I'll know soon,' I cut in. 'Of course, I'm still going to have to look for something concrete. That's why I need Van Reydner. Did she to tell you about the Simpson's Afterlife Policy?'
'Come to think of it. But she just mentioned it in passing…' His voice held the first hard notes of realization.
'Don't worry about that right now, all I've told you is a couple of pieces of a theory. I need evidence. Did you have any contact with Van Reydner outside of your therapies?'
'No,' the lawyer said, voice lowering. 'She and I had an arrangement. Since I was married…well you understand.' He fell silent. I did understand. I didn't like it, but I understood. 'We agreed never to talk about our personal lives.'
'Okay,' I said. 'Are you familiar with the term 'conjecture?''
'Of course.'
'Well, that's all I'm talking about. Believe me, I'd like to tell you something really romantic like; she died protecting your fallen body. You never know, I might still find something like that.'
'When will you know?' His voice quavered.
'Tomorrow, maybe the next day, but not today, I've already done too much work today. It's Sunday for Christ's sake!' I was standing up now and beginning to pace. The phone's short cord had it sliding around on the desk after me.
'Of course,' the lawyer added hastily, 'you'll call as soon as you know?'
'Yes.' I hung up, grunted, and slipped my gun into the desk. I leered at the photo of Van Reydner once more before I put it in the filing cabinet, then walked out past Elmo to the couch in the waiting room. I lay down. My head felt heavy against the greasy black leather. Tommy's mind was nearly asleep. I could feel the pleasant REM state so close to me. The soothing nervous energy surged like spring water. I released my hold on him, floated toward the ceiling and began hallucinating immediately.
Chapter 12
I snapped out of my trance at the first harsh rap on the door. Latent images of people and places whirled before my perception, flickered and were gone. If I'd had a tongue, their names would have been on the tip of it. The second knock brought movement from the inner office. Below me, I saw Tommy stretched out on the couch. His breathing was deep from fatigue and whiskey. He personified the sonorous roar. Fat Elmo shuffled out of the inner office with newspaper in hand and opened the door.
Two leather-jacketed Authority Inspectors stood there. Elmo stepped back, his mouth slack. He rattled the newspaper at them, like he'd find words in the sound, and then froze when an Enforcer's bulky form appeared behind them. Twin eye-slits glowed with infrared light from a steel visor sculpted into the shape of a human face. Authority psychologists had designed the trademark Enforcer Kevlar and steel helmet. Their studies showed people lost respect for authority figures when they identified too much with them. Similarly, the public responded negatively to a faceless authority-riot helmets and tear gas masks tended to provoke more mobs than they calmed.
In an attempt to tie these disparate issues together, the facemasks were designed into the helmet. Later, for fashion's sake a fedora was added in a final effort to completely humanize and dehumanize Enforcement Officers. The glaring steel face poised a foot above the Inspector's hats was a composite of features that included two presidents and one cowboy movie star. The final result was a terrifying apparition of a hard, emotionless man covered with armor carrying enough weaponry to tear down a building. The Enforcer in the hall was motionless, the wide, armored shoulders spanning the doorway. His rubber and steel trench coat touched the floor. The long-faced inspector in front of him gave Elmo the once over.
'We're looking for Wildclown, Jellybean, where is he?' he muttered between paper-thin lips. His eyes were severe slits in shadow beneath his hat. Jellybean was just one of the cute little nicknames for the dead. Necrophobia had been given new life with the Change bringing unusual twists to the time honored tradition of prejudice. All other definitions sloughed away with the coming of death. You were a Jellybean, a Bone Bag or a Zomb; it had no relevance whether you were white, black or East Indian. The fact that you were dead was all that mattered. I had a hard time understanding those feelings. We were all just one bullet away from the club.
'He's sleepin'. Been sleepin' for a while,' Elmo stammered, then pointed to the flyspecked window. 'It's night time.'
'I don't need some zomb to tell me that. Besides, it only just turned nighttime. It's seven. We want to talk to your master.' He peered over Elmo's shoulder, eyes squinting through the darkness at Tommy. 'That him?' The Inspectors casually shouldered Elmo out of the way.
Their shadows slid across the floor like snakes. The other inspector, a short and squat gorilla, chewed at a brass toothpick he clasped between his teeth. His eyes bulged like a fish's behind glasses. He licked his thick lips nervously. Apparently he was of a mean little disposition because he kicked the couch near Tommy's head.
The clown mumbled an obscenity, cupped his genitals and curled into a tighter fetal shape. I had been trying for the last few seconds to arouse Tommy enough to let me into his head. For some reason he was safe from me when in the REM state. I had tried before.
The Enforcer's bulk muted the light from the hallway. He remained unmoving-a fortress of pain in his reinforced steel and rubber trench coat and body armor. An auto-shotgun jumped around in his hands. I knew those weapons held enormous circular magazines of thirty solid rounds that could chop a Sequoia in half.
The squat Inspector flicked on the lamp by Tommy's head. The clown's makeup was smeared and oddly arranged over sleep lines. A good amount of it had wiped off on the arm of the couch, and that had migrated into his hair. Grinning, the Inspector looked over at his partner. 'Get a load of this ugly mug. Christ, I thought they were pulling our leg down at HQ. We got a fucking meteor jockey here.'
The tall intruder leaned over and started talking. 'Get up you sick son-of-a-bitch. We want to ask you a few questions about a fire. Let's be nice about this. We can run forever with sugar, or we can give you a taste of Meat!' He gestured to the Enforcer with a quick thumb.
Tommy answered with a few snorting sounds before finishing his rebuttal with wet sucking noises. I made
