refused to say what kind. A release perhaps or surcease. A common condition in Greasetown. I don't think she would have cared one way or another, if I shot her or married her. She dressed in the type of black suit she might wear to her own funeral.
'Mr. Wildclown?' Her voice held a brittle lid on a hair-pulling screech of nails on steel.
'Yes,' I said, unwilling to go through the obvious discussion about how she knew me. 'I'm here to see Ms. Redding.'
'Take the elevator at the top of the stair to the fifth floor. Newsroom's on the left.' The words rattled out of her mouth like the mechanical taps of a telegraph machine.
'I'm curious,' I said in an effort to be amiable. It seldom worked. Especially when my eyes were blood red and I reeked like an open cask of whiskey. But I made the effort. 'What in hell else do you do in this building? I mean, this is a big building.' I gestured to the high marble walls.
'Advertising,' she said curtly before repeating vaguely. 'Advertising.'
'Oh,' I said, joining her in the fun. 'Oh.'
I walked to the stairs and up. The warm marble banister spoke to me about power and cooperation with power. The stone had an oily sheen of twisted ethic and pandering. Power was not cheap in Greasetown-the electrical kind. There were blackouts every other day. But this place was lit up like Heaven. I kept expecting to see the good Lord himself-bed hair sticking straight up, pink terrycloth bathrobe tucked tight under his beard, tooth brush and spit cup in hand-step out of the elevator on his way to the bathroom. The elevator doors slid seductively apart when I pushed the button. No emerging gods. Inside, the moving closet sang songs to me from a half- forgotten age. Whoever the fool was who enjoyed singing in the rain would definitely love Greasetown.
I got off on the fifth floor as some melancholy drill sergeant droned into a marching song about New York City-the only thing that could make it there now were tuna fish. A sign marked 'Newsroom' pointed to the left. I followed through ankle deep carpet that sucked at my boots. I'd forgotten what it was like when people had money and wanted you to know it. The sound of Photostat machines greeted me. A thin balding man, reading a coil of paper that streamed out behind him like a cape, thumped into my shoulder. He looked at me over semi-circular glasses. I could see the lower half of my face maniacally reflected in them. His eyes blinked, widened.
'Who…' he muttered.
'Who?' I echoed, still speaking receptionese. 'I'm from Ringling Brothers Cosmetics. Here to see Ms. Redding.'
His little beak of a nose wrinkled. 'You're drunk-I'll call security.'
'Only if they bring their own whiskey, boy. I'm not here to be sneered at. Where's Ms. Redding?' I was edgy, and in the middle of a cold sweat from detoxifying. If this little bird didn't want me washing my cheeks in his blood, he'd have to stand down on the 'holier than thou' attitude.
'Ms. Who?' He was taking us back to the beginning again.
'Redding,' I said, putting my chest into it.
'Oh.' He looked hurt or suspicious. I couldn't be sure. My intuition was still drying out. 'Over there.' He pointed with a rattle of paper. My musky cigarettes and whiskey detox scent must have frightened him. A shower can only clean the skin. My pores were pumping out the poisons like so many little factories. 'Nine-nine, over there,' he stammered; his neck bent back like a swan's as we looked down a division in a labyrinth of dividers.
'Thanks,' I said and left him to his owlish blinking. My boots clomped over a well-stained strip of carpet. Coffee, mustard, relish, cigarette ash, all pounded, pounded, pounded, into what had once been a deep pile rug. It resembled a dirt path now. I stopped at red dividers, peered over the top.
Mary Redding looked up at me over her glasses. Her desk was covered with paper, held a typewriter and an overflowing ashtray. She studied my face, then smiled nervously. 'I still can't believe last night.'
I smiled. 'I can. That's what makes my life so interesting. I believe in everything. There's nothing that will surprise me. I could open a fortune-telling booth-tell people exactly what they want to hear. Doesn't matter how weird or strange the idea is, I expect someone to bring it into reality. It's true. People will say, 'I'd never do that!' But, watch. Sooner or later you'll catch them at it. Most of the human race is in full denial. They're still trying to leave instinct in the animal world.'
'Snarly today, are we, Mr. Wildclown?' She stood up, reached out a hand. 'I didn't mean to hurt your feelings.'
'Oh, these aren't my feelings, they're borrowed.' I clasped her soft hand in a shake. A memory of the night before caused Tommy to stir where he likes to stir the most. I dropped her hand and patted my pockets until I found a cigarette. There was a time before the Change when smoking was not allowed in public workplaces, but there had been hope back then. People actually wanted to live forever. I lit one and gave her the once over. Ms. Redding was wearing a crisp, gray and black pinstripe suit. I saw her strong calves jutting knee-down from the close fitting skirt. Black pumps cupped her broad feet. I swung my eyes up. Hers were blue and expectant. The cleft between them quivered for recognition.
'Can I look at your records?'
She smiled. 'Sure, Mr. Business.' Her teeth momentarily resembled a shark's. 'Come with me.'
Ms. Redding walked along the space between some thirty cubicles toward a room at the back. I ignored the astonished looks of the reporters who coughed on their coffee as I passed. They were so many strange angular shards of faces stealing quick peeks over the edges and around the corners of their multicolored office dividers.
Mary turned and with a sweep of one hand bowed. 'The Library, Mr. Business. Or more affectionately, the Morgue.'
Behind her, the wall opposite me was layered with many wide trays, about twelve feet across. An old coot with a poker visor and a tan suede vest looked up from a file he was perusing. He looked at me with astonishment, and then cast a glance at Ms. Redding. I smiled. He snatched at his bottom lip. I almost laughed when I looked down and saw his tartan slippers.
'Oh, Ms., Ms., Ms., uh, Redding. I'm sorry! Here, you can take over. There we are.' He began to tidy up his files. There was a strange urgency to his manner.
'Hey, Morris, relax. There's no hurry.' Mary walked over, placed a hand on his shoulder. 'Take your time.'
'Oh, yes, certainly, Ms. Redding.' He looked at me. 'I was just leaving.' He tucked the files under his arms and left.
'What got his goat? He afraid of clowns?' I watched Mary shake her head. 'Christ, you pack a wallop, Mary. You said you've been here three months. You don't waste time.'
Mary smiled and ran a hand down my arm. 'He's just an oldster we have working here. He wanted to help, so we let him. I think he suffers from the volunteer skitters. He's sure he'll be in the way and that we'll ask him to leave.'
'Oh, bad luck for Morris.' I looked at the broad trays again. Two green buttons stood out of the wall to the left of them. Mary walked up and held a hand over the buttons.
'Our hard copy files-there's microfilm too…at the back.' She pushed the top button. The wide trays groaned downward on a simple chain and gear apparatus. 'Thank god for hardcopy! The damned computers are worthless. The geniuses at Microsoft keep saying they'll figure out the bug, but it's been fifty years and they're only getting worse,' she sighed. 'The other button brings them up.'
'Thanks,' I said walking to the wall files. 'I prefer something I can get my hands on.' I tested the bottom button-the trays moved up.
'And what hands!' Ms. Redding stepped forward and kissed me lightly on the cheek. She came away with whitened nose, chin and lips. 'I'll never get used to that,' she said as she wiped at it with her hands.
'You may not have to,' I said cryptically as she winked and left the room. I watched her go. There was nothing like wide hips on a woman who was built for them.
I turned my attention to the files and found that if I rotated the trays too quickly, my head would start to swim. I soon located the file on the phantom baby calls. The Gazette, going along with the Authority edict, had adopted a new dating system. Some lobby group for historical respect and perspective finally got the A.D. officially changed to N.A. for New Age. It was positive, vague and friendly-exactly what a race of responsibility dodgers and public relations men would feel comfortable with.
I noticed that phantom baby calls had started roughly six months after the Change. Strange days they were,
