detective, he got all secret agent-like, lowered his head and hunched his shoulders. He slinked around the office. I half-expected him to turn his collar up. Apparently he observed some unwritten detective brotherhood because he seemed quite willing to help. Boredom probably and life after the Change made too many demands upon sanity to allow long periods of introspection. I assumed that the isolation had already pushed him over the edge. Judging from his demeanor and his appearance, I guessed he had not been visited by a living human-or a dead one for that matter-for months, just renters, all business or avoidance. He had not laid eyes on Grey in two years.
'Der, der, der, der-Ah ha!' he cried, and the door swung open. He gestured with a broad hand. 'Der, now as simple as dat! You take a look around, Mizter Wiltclown. I weel be beck at my offiss.'
'Yeah, simple as that.' I nodded my thanks, then entered. The waiting room stank of neglect. The carpet had that slightly sticky feel of one that had long gone without a cleaning. Mold and dust. A lengthy wooden bench stretched along one wall. A small coffee table stood in front of it with a number of old magazines. I glanced at their dates. Two years old-January of '48. Across from me was an inner door. I walked to it, grabbed the brass knob and entered.
I found a small office inside. Everything was covered with dust. Three black filing cabinets lined one wall like senators at a photo opportunity. A large desk sat before a window shuttered with blinds. An empty ashtray had been placed on it to the left beneath a lamp. I crossed to the desk and snapped the light on. Nothing. I grabbed the cord. It came free. I crawled behind the desk and jammed the plug in at an awkward angle. The light came on. I stood up. A large well-padded leather chair sat behind the desk. I ignored it and pulled on the first filing cabinet drawer I came to.
It was unlocked and empty. I tried the next drawer. Empty as well. I knew it would be. The fact that the lamp cord was pulled out told me that. No one in his right mind would plug the thing in more than once. The place had been frisked, that was obvious. And whoever had done it had said the hell with the lamp cord. Everything else had been put away nicely. The files were taken. That told me that whoever searched the room had done so without authorization from the higher-ups and had to do the methodical investigation of the case files somewhere else.
I tried the other drawers. Nothing. I sauntered over to the desk and dropped into the chair. The action was answered by a distinctive crushed clink of broken glass. I reached into the crack between the cushion and the arm with my right hand, and cut the first and second fingers. Someone hadn't cleaned up completely. Sucking blood from the wound, I detected the slightest smell of whiskey. The glass ground beneath me.
I pulled open the top drawer and found it empty. There was a deep, broad one on my right, I pulled that open. A dark brown bottle of whiskey rolled into the light. I smiled at it. Old friend. I grabbed it and set it on the desk in front of me. It was about quarter-full. I read Canadian Club beneath my bloody fingerprints. I took a handkerchief from my overcoat and bound it. Not a bad cut, but it would be messy for a while. I grabbed the bottle, twisted the top off, sniffed, then upended and drank half of it. The whiskey burned my throat, but I loved the sensation. I belched absentmindedly, then crossed and uncrossed my legs, rolling the bottle around in my lap.
I studied the office and wondered what had happened to Grey. There were no plaques or diplomas on the walls. The two pictures were of a mallard duck and the other a pair of Canada Geese. So he liked his wildfowl, maybe a hunter in the good old days when you could shoot a duck without being murdered by the flock. Then I had a strange sensation-a powerful feeling of familiarity. Things seemed a little pat, too predictable. Grey's was very much like my own office. But I was a detective. He was a detective. Our offices were decorated in Detective style. All function and mold.
I lifted the bottle and drained it. My belly started burning at the last gulp. I lowered the bottle, but noticed a silhouette of something through the brown glass. I peered in, then flipped the bottle. In the slight depression on the bottom, there was a small neatly folded envelope. It had been flattened thoroughly and taped into the recess. I suppressed a grin; I repressed a Eureka! I congratulated my boozehound's nose.
First I licked any remaining blood from my fingers and then dried them on the leg of my coverall. I flicked the tape loose with a fingernail and pulled the envelope free. I set the bottle down and moved my chair close under the light. Gingerly, I pulled the envelope apart. A key fell onto the desk blotter with a muffled rattle. I picked it up. It was a key to a locker. Someone had stamped 'Greasetown Transit' on it. The terminal was not far off. I would go there.
Chapter 47
A bus with a 'Dead Only' sign over its door roared away from the terminal. I saw a collection of dead faces looking out through the flyspecked windows. The air was thick with exhaust fumes, the smell of oil, and people. The great roofed-in departure area was sour with the scents of travel. I had no idea where a bus full of dead people would be going, but they still managed to conjure up the hopeful, worried, anxious expressions of travelers. Probably going down the coast to Vicetown: gambling, roller coasters and prostitutes. A huge carnival for the kids when there were kids.
A wheezing transit bus pulled up and disgorged its passengers onto the dirty cement ramp that ran around the terminal. A collection of bodies living and dead moved in a pulsing mass to the stairs and down toward the subway. The practical considerations of mass transit negated notions like prejudice and intolerance at least until everybody got home. I mused over the idea of a vacation as I walked into the main terminal. Heavy glass doors just managed to keep the air inside breathable. I headed toward a long bank of lockers, big and small. My key said A21. I found the group of lockers in the 'A' section. They were an enameled orange.
I rattled the doors with my fingertip as I walked along underlining the numbers: 18, 19, 20, and 21. The door was just like all the others. There was no X marked on it in red paint. The key fit perfectly. It was a little sticky but turned eventually. I paused, resisted the temptation to draw a hopeful breath then opened the door.
A musty scent. On the locker's one shelf was a book. A thin leather-backed journal. I snatched it up, shut the door and walked quickly back to the car. Elmo's eyes were hopeful.
'Back to Grey's office,' I said, hugging the tome with all the answers to my chest.
Chapter 48
The superintendent had been obliging this second time. He only charged me ten bucks admission. I asked him who paid the rent for Grey. He said he assumed it was Grey since he had received a series of money orders in the mail without a return address-just a note saying Owen Grey's rent, but that it had been paid up for two years. He told me he didn't keep the notes before I could ask to see them. The rent was due, and the superintendent wondered when more money orders would arrive. He showed me a stack of flyers and bills that the post office had been delivering to Grey's office. I took a quick look through the envelopes, and found only creditors. A gun shop, a bill from a grocery store. I smiled at the superintendent and told him not to worry. I went up to the office. Elmo came with me this time. My dead gunsel looked around wide-eyed before remarking, 'Just like home.' I walked to the couch and lifted a cushion. A hide-a-bed. I pulled it out. Musty blankets and mattress. I turned down the covers and found a few dark spiral hairs, nothing more. I glanced at the coat rack. There were a handful of wire hangers empty. I surmised that Grey lived at the office. The fact that there were no clothes piled up anywhere gave me hope that he was still alive. He may have run. I asked Elmo to wait in the outer room and keep an eye open for trouble. He was engrossed in an old magazine when I left him.
I had a pint of whiskey, and a couple of sandwiches in front of me. I'd dusted off the ink blotter to use as a place mat then bent the lamp over and set the journal down in front of me. Biting into a sandwich I paused. Tommy hadn't protested at all. I had been in possession of his body for a full day and he had not complained. I shrugged, then yawned. It was about eight. I had to make sure he got some rest. The beating the Handyman had given me still told; but the absence of bacteria did wonders for my recovery time. It was another of the few benefits of the Change. The bacterial extinction centered on the types that caused infection and rot, while miraculously allowing the survival of species that produced alcohol. Maybe it was proof there was a God-if I were God I would have worked it that way. Regardless it left me mainly tight muscles and tenderness. I'm sure my shoulder could have used a couple of stitches but I didn't have the time. And whoever had worked me over might be keeping tabs on
