it. Most of them were still stumped by the global rainstorm when the first corpse walked into an unemployment office. Science soon determined that there had been a mass extinction of the majority of bacterial species on the planet. The cause was unknown, but it was soon understood that extinction had occurred on a scale that dwarfed the one that got the dinosaurs. It didn't get them all, yeast remained and certain cousins-which drew celebratory yelps from boozehounds the world over. But everything else died off. The leap was taken from there to the fact that dead flesh no longer rotted-or if it did, it did slowly. There were certain bacteria and lichens remaining that fed on minerals and proteins in the flesh, and there were molds that could cause a slow break down and raise a stink. Dead flesh was still subject to physical injury and dehydration but with careful cleaning and maintenance, and if they avoided flies, the dead could preserve what they had indefinitely.
And it seemed to go for the spirit too. Anyone lucky enough to die with his or her brain intact, retained all or most of the mind. It further frightened the scientists to discover that even individuals whose brains had been sloppily replaced after an autopsy retained much of their awareness. Research finally determined in quite unscientific fashion that a dead individual retained his personality if he had something like a pinch of medulla oblongata and a tablespoon of cerebellum or cerebral cortex.
'Yeah.' Tommy's hand signal for drinking brought me from my reverie. Elmo pointed to the desk.
'Yeah, oh yeah. Really?' Tommy breathed into the phone as he pulled a near-empty office bottle from the desk. After draining it he flung it angrily into the wastebasket and scowled at Elmo.
The dead man pointed to the chair Tommy was sitting in and mouthed, 'emergency bottle.'
'Yeah, uh…' Frowning Tommy dropped the receiver into its cradle. I could just make out a quiet babble as the caller was cut off mid-sentence.
'What emergency bottle?' Tommy glared. Elmo pointed a nervous finger at the chair.
'Th-the one you keep in the back of your chair.'
Elmo was talking about my emergency bottle. I had hoped to keep it a secret from Tommy, and had managed to; except for the time he lucked on it one dark night, but had been too drunk to retain the memory. He now dug into the space between the arm and the seat cushion. The mickey was half full in his hand when he pulled it out. The clown uncapped it and pressed it to his lips smiling. He gulped a couple of times before setting it down quarter-full. He gestured to Elmo.
'Got a smoke, guy?'
'No,' said Elmo. 'We smoked the l-last on the way here…' He stammered, agitated. 'Who was on da-th-the phone?' He gently cracked his knuckles, then rolled his eyes, embarrassed by the slip of his dead tongue.
Tommy's features raged, incredulous. 'Some Willieboy-bastard-no cigarettes, Elmo! Shit what kind of organization is this? I mean we can speak all the way around the world on wires, but we don't have any smokes! ' He shook his head, rose and circled the desk until he stood in front of his partner. 'Just another layer in the conspiracy, my friend. But, they won't get me. No.' He leaned forward whispering, 'They can take away my privacy with mini-cameras and microphones. They can take my office chair, my desk and my light. But when they come for my drink and my cigarettes-then it's personal!' Tommy straightened and smiled, lighter now from the eruption of paranoia. 'Let's go get some. I've got this wild feeling to pile them high tonight.'
'But Boss-the c-case?' The dead man was shocked.
'Excellent thought, Elmo. A case of beer or two would add just the right amount of grease to the old chatter box.' He stabbed his temple with a finger. 'I got to do some thinking.'
'But we should f-follow up that call?' Elmo was wide-eyed. He looked like he was about to quote from the Pinkerton book on Detective do's and don'ts.
'All in good time, my dear Elmo! All in good time.' Tommy drew close to him, and rubbed condescension into the dead man's shoulders. 'We have to fight back the only way we know how.'
Elmo seemed to pale, if that was possible, before standing and moving reluctantly to the door. He knew the score. Whenever Tommy started talking conspiracies, he usually sank into a drunken depression that lasted days. I knew I had to take some of the blame. Tommy's mind was unbalanced in the first place. When I started a series of possessions his link to reality deteriorated rapidly. But I had no choice. Acting quickly I began imagining the most revolting sexual images I could come up with. I imagined them with close-ups and all. Tommy froze, his hyperactive mind suddenly sizzling with neurotransmitters. A firestorm of nervous activity flickered across my field of vision. He was receptive but not entirely sold as my psyche crashed into his. The transition was not simple; the clown struggled feebly. There were a few awkward seconds of overlap. I saw chains and padded rooms. I felt plastic bristles scrub my cheeks. Anger surged through me, and pain lanced my-Tommy's-heart. I staggered and fell to one knee. Embarrassment and outrage howled through every nerve. Pain jolted my skull. I doubled over. I'm not sure if it was Tommy or me who sobbed.
Suddenly, the world clarified. I lurched up onto unsteady legs and turned to Elmo, saw two of him, then the double vision passed. The only thing that registered on his face was open-mouthed, but vague surprise. His boss had had a strange seizure that was all.
I could feel a dull throbbing from the gash on my temple. It was cold and raw to the touch. The palms of my hands were scored with fire, the knuckles swollen. I rubbed my shoulders. They were stiff and achy, overextended and fatigued. My back was strained and bruised. My guts felt smashed and broken. No wonder Tommy wanted a drink.
'Elmo, you go get some whiskey and cigarettes.' I could feel my face whiten beneath the paint as I experienced my injuries. The world spun-I staggered against the desk.
'I have to follow up that call,' I mumbled, and dropped into my chair.
Chapter 9
Pain had moved in and replaced the muscle stiffness. As the injuries revealed themselves to me I had seriously considered vacating the premises for healthier days. The act of touching up my makeup had been a chore, but it focused my mind on things other than bruises and retreat. I had cleaned the gash on my temple and bandaged it. Half an hour had passed since I had taken over. I had twice tried to find Willieboy's number in the phonebook. The operator wasn't any help. Elmo had resumed his seat across from me looking around, relaxed in his own fidgety way. His boss was back to normal; he would get by. The phone rang. I pushed the receiver to my ear and welcomed the familiar cool circle against my skin. I immediately recognized Willieboy's voice.
'What the fuck do you think yer doin', man? Hanging up on me-damn!' His voice had a humorless, tired edge to it.
'Sorry,' I drawled to the best of my abilities. 'It's this crazy thing I do sometimes-keeps it spontaneous. But I'm glad you called back.'
'Oh shit!' he growled. 'I should'a turned you into Authority. Fuck, I'm out of a job and jobs ain't easy to find in the Downings. What'd you have to burn down the whole fuckin' hotel for?'
'I didn't.' It was my turn to flash ire. 'Your goddamned friends nearly killed me!'
'My friends?' His voice registered genuine surprise. He paused, and then continued. 'Look, like I said, I got something you might be interested in.'
'Something like giving your friends another chance,' I snarled.
'What the hell?' Again surprise. 'I don't know what's rolling around in that bleached peanut you call a head, but if you're curious come to my place and bring fifty bucks.'
'Let's have the address.' I wrote it down, hung up the phone and glanced into Elmo's steady gaze. I lit a cigarette and stared blankly out the window. The half-open blinds divided the scene into long thin strips.
The sky was a muddy gray, ghoulishly lit by the city's inconsistent light; but I knew that the sun would soon be coming up, somewhere out there behind the perpetual cloud. Greasetown lumbered away from me like a dying elephant. Buildings long past their prime sagged and yawed in a pathetic ballet of decrepitude. In the distance, I could see the fuzzy glow of fires burning down to coals. The streets were a hazy gray wash of fog. Vaguely, I counted the days and realized that I was looking out at a Sunday morning. I looked at the clock on my desk. Four a.m.
Sunday. Prayer books and hymns, spiritual eunuchs telling people about the way to live life. Hypocrisy out for a walk on a long leash. Endless lazy afternoons. A depression began to descend upon me in a steady drizzle and for
