I wrestled gravity. First I gripped my knees, found I sank too far-pulled myself forward again, locked wrists around them. I wanted a cigarette, couldn't smoke one this way so I let go and sprawled back into the overstuffed pillows on the couch. I tried to make the maneuver look natural so I dug into one of my pockets and produced a cigarette. I popped it into my mouth and then gazed across at the distant ashtray that taunted me from a heavy marble coffee table. I struggled out of the couch, and sat on the arm.
I noticed Mrs. Cotton had been watching me. I smiled, offered a cigarette that she declined, and then lit my own. Two great triangular windows swept up the wall of the living room that faced the coast. They formed the broad wings of a sea bird that was worked into the stucco. Through these wings, I could see the world outside, gray and blurry in the wind-blown rain. Around me sprawled a number of similar man-eating couches and divans. Mrs. Cotton leaned against a mauve grand piano. We were waiting for our drinks. Neither of us had said anything for the last few minutes. The butler returned. I welcomed the warm presence of the scotch. Mrs. Cotton sipped a martini. The living room was kept well lit by many ceiling lamps. I could see Mrs. Cotton better in this light.
She must have been pushing fifty before the Change, and the end of aging. She had fairly smooth skin, flawed by a slight bagginess over the cheekbones. It gave her eyes a protuberant, fish-like quality.
'I suppose you're through sizing me up,' she said coolly, using the paperback mystery jargon.
'Nice place you have here.' I walked over, flicked my cigarette at the ashtray, and then looked around and around. There was a picture on a side table of a man with a kind face and bulbous nose. He was dark haired, and dark eyed. Heavy rimmed glasses held up his thick lenses. 'This Mr. Cotton?'
A slight blush washed behind her features. 'He hated that picture.'
I stifled an urge to agree with him. 'Been here long?'
'Alan purchased the house for us ten years ago-just after his promotion. It used to belong to a movie director.'
'What was the promotion to? Head of the sales team?' I stood about ten feet from her; drink in my left hand, cigarette in my right.
She looked offended. 'Don't be ridiculous.'
'I was told your husband sold cosmetic products for the dead.' I sauntered over to the piano, resisted the urge to set my drink on it.
'Now you are being ridiculous.' She turned away from me displaying a featureless back. 'He was nothing of the kind.'
'Really,' I said, experiencing the kind of tight feeling I get in my stomach moments before life gets complicated. 'What did he do exactly?'
'Well, he was in the afterlife business; but nothing so inconsequential as cosmetics. Goodness, no. Alan was the inventor of new life Regenerics.'
Regenerics. The term rang a bell, but I couldn't place it. 'Would you mind explaining Regenerics to me?'
'You're quite a detective.' She wandered over and placed her thin behind on the piano bench. 'Regenerics is a relatively new field. Alan was the first to investigate it to any great degree. That's what gave him so much freedom.'
'Freedom?'
'To move around. Write his own ticket-so he used to say.' She paused. 'He was quite sought after. Though he complained about the fleeting aspects of celebrity.'
'And this Regenerics-what is it a preservation technique?'
'Nothing so superficial. Alan was involved in genetic…let me see-what did he call it-genetic revivification. He believed there was every possibility that the dead were not completely dead. Oh, I know they still walk around and everything, but Alan felt certain there was a way to restart their life processes. He said it would revolutionize the death industry. Can you imagine?'
I could imagine. I tried to relay this with a knowing nod.
'What was he doing up in Greasetown?'
'When he died? He worked up there-spent most of his time in Greasetown. Something on business, rest assured. Though he was always secretive with me. He got the majority of his funding from King Industries. They supplied a laboratory for Alan.'
'He did all of his work in Greasetown?'
'Oh, yes. He had an office here, but as he used to say, 'the body' of his work was in Greasetown. Authority has already been over the information he kept here-his office and files, I mean. They felt it necessary, considering the nature of his-demise. But, as I said, Alan spent the majority of his time at his lab working.' Mrs. Cotton did the first truly human thing during our encounter. She leaned forward, pressed a hand to her throat and grimaced as though she was trying to swallow a pill. 'He tried to make it home on weekends.'
I paused a second to hate my job. 'I know this is difficult for you, but how did he die?'
'You don't know?' She finished the last of her martini. 'You are a detective.' I wasn't going to miss Mrs. Cotton. She continued: 'An accident at the lab, involving one of his experimental mixtures and some faulty machinery. The explosion was quite devastating I was told. There-there, wasn't much left.' She fell silent and again rubbed her throat. 'Really, Mr. Wildclown. Must this line of questioning be pursued any further?'
'No, I'm sorry. I understand.' My mind was already tossing these tidbits into the conspiracy I was cooking. Then I shook my head, and moved around the piano to stand in front of her. 'Uh-no, I'm sorry, Mrs. Cotton. But there is something you should know. Your husband was murdered.'
Mrs. Cotton looked at me hard. 'What?'
'He was murdered. At the Morocco Hotel, Downings District in Greasetown. It's a bad part of town. It's a good place to go if you want to get killed, but what you've told me about your husband has me wondering what would have put him there. I have it on the word of a reporter for the Greasetown Gazette that she and her photographer discovered his body. I can't tell you any names, but Authority immediately put a gag on the story.'
'This is impossible, Mr. Wildclown.' Her hands clawed the air.
'I'm afraid not. Mrs. Cotton, has anyone other than Authority been here to talk to you about your husband. You said Mr. Cotton was a leader in the study of Regenerics. Don't you think that someone would come to talk to you about him if there was nothing unusual going on.' I cleared my throat, and leaned in toward her. 'His colleagues, his employer, perhaps the newspaper or TV reporters.'
'There was no one, as I said, his celebrity was fleeting. He often complained about it. He knew everyone would…talk about him; know him, if his process worked. For the time being, he was not well-regarded by his peers.' Her eyes dropped. 'But it's early yet, I quite expect to hear from Mr. King, his patron, very soon-or some of his colleagues. I'm sure everyone is a little slow with the shock.'
'It's been almost two months. That's a lot of shock,' I sighed. 'No one will come. Not Mr. King. Not the newspapers. Authority is sitting on the story for some reason.'
'But why…' She gave the floor between my boots a searching glance. 'Why would…'
'I don't know, Mrs. Cotton, but I'd like to. I have a feeling that this is somehow wrapped up with another case I worked on. I want to know how.' I rubbed my chin thoughtfully.
'But, no. This is ridiculous.' She shook her head, ran her eyes over me again. 'You come in here, dressed as a-a clown of all things, and then begin to tell me this incredible story of Alan being murdered. I never should have let you in.'
'I understand your skepticism.' I smiled weakly. 'And to help get you over that, I'd like you to do this for me. If there is nothing unusual about the accident, Authority would be glad to help you out. Am I right?' I bent, placed my hands on my knees and leaned even closer. 'I suggest you call them, and ask for a tour of your husband's lab. Tell them your doctor ordered it as part of the grieving process. Ask the investigating inspectors to take you to the place where Alan died. I'll bet they won't take you. I know what they'll try to do. Calm you down. Oh, you're upset. Poor widow. But, I'll tell you this. Authority won't take you because he didn't die in his lab.'
'I have been curious about this. I just assumed that these things take time.' She held her face with broad, red hands.
'Another thing, ask them about a rumor. Tell them you heard that Alan was murdered at the Morocco Hotel. Don't mention me, that would just tie my hands or kill me.' I straightened, but didn't move back. 'I know how Authority works. They're a big powerful body. So why would they hide the truth? Well, they would only hide
