Necrophenia (20 page)

Frankly, I could do without the blow to the back of my head and the long and horrid fall into that whirling black pit of oblivion, which I always have to take at the end of chapter two in every adventure I have. Frankly, and I use that word again and advisedly, I wish that there was some other way to expedite matters with the dame that does me wrong. Because, frankly, it gives me a headache. But for we genre detectives, the tried and trusty methods are the ones that get the job done. So I guess that you just gotta take the knocks along with the good times and never say die. And never ever change format.

I really cannot impress upon you too strongly the importance of format. A correct format, that is. A prize-winning, best-selling format. Correct format has seen me through thick and thin and no matter what kind of inexplicable conundrums I might find myself faced with, I will always stick to format and I will always succeed in the end.

And for any of you out there who might have forgotten the format, or possibly speed-read through that paragraph because you were anxious to get to the end of that particular chapter, probably in the hope of some really hot trench-coat action coming up in the next, I will run through the format just the once more and ask that you commit it to memory because it will prove so very important when the time comes.

So, just the once more and no more.

As a nineteen-fifties genre detective I work only the four locations:

1. An office where a client comes to call.

2. A bar where I talk the all-important toot with the barman and meet the dame who will do me wrong, who will impart important information, but will do me wrong. And strike me on the head to send me down into that black whirling pit of oblivion.

3. An alleyway where I will get into sticky situations (this is where there will be a lot of trench-coat action).

4. And a rooftop, preferably during a thunderstorm, where I will encounter the villain for that final rooftop confrontation. And from which the villain will take that final big tumble to ultimate oblivion.

And that is it. That is how it works. How it has always worked and how it will always work. You can call it a tradition, or an old charter, or something, if you wish. But I just call it a perfect winning format.

But why, you might ask, am I telling you this now? Where does me telling you this fit into the format? When would I have time to tell you this? Take my steel-trap mind off the case in hand at the present and tell you all this? When, Laz, when? I hear you ask, and the answer is oh so simple.

Right now is that oh-so-simple answer. Now, when I am unconscious, spinning around and around and around in that whirling black pit of oblivion. And I will have to part company with you now, because I think I’m coming round.

Wap! went a mug-load of beer to my mug and someone shook my trench-coat lapels all around.

‘Oh, whoa, hold hard there,’ cried I, striking away this douser of my person, unhanding their hands from my spotless lapels and making a very fierce face.

‘Sorry, Mr Woodbine,’ said the kid who was my client, ‘but Mama Cass lamped you one on the noggin.’

‘That’s no excuse to besmirch me with beer.’ I was on my feet now and wiping beer froth from my chops. And also from the shoulders of my trench coat. And that was not a good thing to be happening. Beer besmirchment of the trench coat. That was a big no-no.

In my profession, which can be likened to life in general, appearance, smartness and suavity, elegance, too, and panache – and style, of course, let’s not forget style, and cleanliness, but then cleanliness is a given – all these things make us us. Raise Man above the brute beast. Make us what we are.

Why, in my line of malarkey, having a clean trench coat can mean the difference between cutting a dash at a dandy’s conservatoire and cutting the cheese in the shed. If you know what I mean and I’m sure that you do. By golly, yes siree.

The kid who was my client was dispatched, at my behest, back to the bar to fetch napkins in order to facilitate trench-coat refurbishment. I did dustings down of myself and perused my situation.

I was in an alleyway. The one to the rear of Fangio’s Bar. But it could have been any alleyway. That Brit playwright Wayne Shakespeare once wrote that ‘all the world is an alleyway and every man and every woman, a private eye’. And he wasn’t talking slash-sleeved turkey for once. And so I perused my situation, fingering the bulge of my trusty Smith & Wesson as I did so, because in my game an alleyway can spell trouble. And one must always remain alert.

But enough of this gay badinage.

I dipped my hand into my trench coat, drew out the trusty Smith & Wesson, turned upon my toes, adopted the position and let off two rounds straight and true. Two bullets spent and two men hit the dust.

One had been crouching upon one of those cast-iron fire escapes with the retractable bottom sections; the other, half-hidden behind a trashcan. Both had sniper rifles and both of these had been trained on me.

Moving with more stealth than a Vatican pimp and more élan than a Lotus, I made my way to the guy who now adorned a trashcan, turned him over with the polished toe of my classic Oxford brogue, taking great care to avoid any trouser cuff/blood contamination, and viewed my erstwhile assassin.

‘God dammit,’ I said, in a manner that would soon find favour with the villains of dubbed kung fu movies. ‘I’ve plugged me a dame.’ And although dames do do me wrong, I always feel a little pang of something whenever I have to torture vital information from one, or gun one down in an alleyway.

‘Ah! But hey.’ And I perused a wig piece. Not a dame at all, but a guy done up as one. A Jimbo. I went through the cross-dressing SOB’s pockets to check for any ID.

And at that moment the kid who was my client came out of the rear door of Fangio’s and all but hurled when he saw the blood and the body.

‘Oh my God,’ he wailed. ‘You’ve shot a woman. Oh my God.’

‘Be grateful, kid,’ I told him. ‘I spied them out as soon as I came to consciousness again. I sent you to get tissues to keep you out of the crossfire.’

‘Really?’

‘Certainly did. And to get these beer stains off my trench coat. And this ain’t no woman – it’s a Jimbo.’

The kid was looking paler than Typhoid Mary’s Triumph Herald, which was a whiter shade of green.

‘A Jimbo?’ he said. ‘One of them?’

‘Could be, kid.’ I emptied the last of the cadaver’s pockets. ‘No ID. And the body’s as cold as an Eskimo’s love bite on the Feast of Saint Stephen. Ah now, what is this?’ And I drew into the alleyway’s light what looked to be a cardboard skull. ‘What do you make of that?’ I asked the kid.

The kid shrugged and said he didn’t know.

‘Top-class shrugging,’ I said, because praise never costs and kindness comes even cheaper. ‘This is a membership card to a very exclusive club. And if there isn’t another of these membership cards in the pocket of the other dead boy up there-’ and I gestured with aplomb towards the cast-iron fire escape ‘-then I’ll be a Crowleyian cowboy at a Rosicrucian rodeo. Which I ain’t.’

‘Another body?’ went the kid.

‘Do try to keep up,’ I told him. ‘This is a turning point in the case.’

‘How so?’

I displayed the card. ‘The membership card of a most exclusive club. Perhaps the most exclusive club in New York City – Papa Crossbar’s Voodoo Pushbike Scullery.’

‘Voodoo?’ said my client, the kid. With justifiable awe.

‘Voodoo,’ I affirmed. ‘And the way this case is shaping up, it could involve almost any god in the voodoo pantheon – Loco, the god of the forests; Papa Legba, benevolent guardian of the gates; Damballa Oueddo, the wisest and most powerful, whose spirit is the serpent; Maitresse Ezilee, the blessed Virgin, or Ogoun Badagris, the bloody dreadful.’

‘Mr Woodbine,’ said the kid (my client) with just a smidgen more awe, ‘you certainly know your voodoo pantheon.’

‘Kid,’ I told him, ‘in my job, knowing your voodoo pantheon can mean the difference between breaking the ice in the governor’s black carriage and breaking wind in a gargler’s back passage. And the distinction ain’t too subtle. If you know what I mean and I’m pretty damn sure that you do.’

‘I am coming to recognise certain patterns,’ said the kid. ‘I suppose you’d like me to swarm up the wall and fetch down the club membership card from the pocket of the other stiff.’

‘You’re catching on fast, kid,’ I told him. Because charm never dates and time and tide wait for Norse men. ‘And give me those tissues before you do, so I can save what I can of this trench coat.’

Now, a bar is a bar is a bar, as an alley’s an alley’s an alley.

And Papa Crossbar’s Voodoo Pushbike Scullery was, though a club, a bar by any other name. And as I do bars as part of my four-location format, the kid and I presumably flashed the membership cards that we had availed ourselves of and now found ourselves inside.

I remembered this place when it had been The Pink Camel’s Foot, an all-night topiary joint where landscape gardeners who were down on their uppers would congregate, hoping to hook up with new clients, or just to shoot the breeze with fellow artistes and swap some landscaping yarns. Those were the days, I told myself. But thankfully they were over.

The décor was of that subtle persuasion that says so much while presenting so little. There had clearly been some degree of graveyard looting involved. You just can’t get hold of that many human skulls simply by asking around. And although most morgue attendants will pretty much let you have the run of the place for a couple of Bacardi and Cokes, they don’t like to part with the heads of their stiffs because too many questions get asked.

There was a lot of red velvet all around and about and young dames in high heels and sou’westers mingled with the clientele, giving weather-forecast updates and offering love for sale.

I spied the look of bafflement on the kid’s face. ‘Something troubling you, kid?’ I asked of him.

‘The weather girls,’ said my client. ‘What is their relevance here?’

‘Aha,’ I said in reply. ‘You’ve touched upon a salient detail. You will of course be aware that God takes no direct action in the affairs of Man. He is like Switzerland, neutral. Even when the most hideous atrocities are being committed, God will not intervene.’

The kid did noddings of an agreeable nature.

‘But He does intervene in the ways of Man in a subtle and sometimes not so subtle way. God has control of the weather. You will note that you cannot insure your property against earthquake or flood, because these things are referred to on the insurance forms as Acts of God. I got involved in a case involving a Mr Godalming once and I learned all about this stuff. God is in charge of the weather, and through the weather He controls the future of Mankind.’

‘And you know this?’

And I nodded. ‘And this is a voodoo bar, where practitioners of voodoo congregate. And if they wish to invoke a particular voodoo god to achieve a particular end, they are going to need regular meteorological updates so that they don’t mess around with God’s overall purpose. It is never good to contradict God, especially if you know what He has in mind. God doesn’t take kindly to that sort of behaviour. And although He remains out of human affairs, do you really think that the folk who get struck by lightning do so through sheer coincidence?’

The kid made a face of some surprise. ‘Are you telling me that it might be possible to divine the overall purpose of God by studying weather forecasts?’

‘It is a reasonable proposition.’

The kid did further shruggings. And then, it appeared, the barman caught his eye. The barman was a beery guy in typical barman’s duds. And but for his blacky-dyed head with the white skull painted upon it, you might have had him down as any other barman, in all of the bars, in all of the world, and so forth. And suchlike. And so on.

‘I recognise that barman,’ said the kid.

And I perused the barman and did, likewise, recognise him.

‘Fangio,’ I hailed the barman. And took myself up to the bar.

The kid followed, but he didn’t look keen.

‘What is your problem?’ I asked him.

‘Well,’ said the kid, ‘if Fangio’s here too, then you’re going to talk the toot again. And I was really hoping that you’d be getting on with the case, because I have to leave New York tomorrow to head off to Woodstock. Our New York gigs got cancelled and Woodstock is now the next on the list, and it would be really brilliant if you could solve the case today.’

‘Solve this case in a single day?’

‘You always solve the case in a single day.’

‘Kid, it might seem like I do, because that’s the way that Penrose writes it up. But cases do not get solved in a day. These things take time, but things are happening. Already we’ve had the dame that did me wrong do me wrong and me gun down two assassins in an alleyway. Although I admit that you missed that bit. So although I might appear to have been mostly talking the toot, things are moving along.’

‘So you won’t be talking the toot with Fangio.’

I tipped my fedora to the kid. ‘Only if it’s strictly necessary.’

‘And do you feel that there might be the vaguest chance that you might solve the case today?’

‘Kid,’ I told him. ‘Kid, I will solve the case today. Okay? Just because you are a Brit, and you’re in a hurry, I will solve this case today.’

And I felt certain that I would. Because I was Lazlo Woodbine, Private Eye, and I had never failed to solve any case that I had taken on. And although this one had certain outré qualities about it, I felt absolutely sure that ultimately I would triumph. And I would ultimately triumph today. And that would be that would be that.

But I was wrong. So terribly wrong.

So terribly, fatally wrong.

There were a great many bicycles. But then of course there would have been, because this was a Voodoo Pushbike Scullery. There were bikes aplenty, hanging from the ceiling and mounted on the walls and modified to act as tables and chairs and lampstands and whatnots and suchlike.

And these were not all just standard sit-up-and-begs, not a bit of it. Here you had your drop-handlebarred aluminium-framed Claude Butler racers, your Louis Orblanc mountain bikes, your Mulberry drop-head traditionals-

Oh yes, in my career path, knowing your bicycles can mean the difference between knowing your bicycles and not knowing your bicycles. And there I paused and took stock. That wasn’t right, surely? There should be a little bit of witty double entendre stylish wordplay jobbie going on there. But oddly there didn’t seem to be, and this made me feel most uneasy. I looked all around and about at the weather girls and the clientele.

The weather girls looked sound enough. One of them was singing a song, and I caught the line ‘It’s raining men, Hallelujah’, so all was well with them. But as to the clientele, I viewed them with care.

They were not right at all. They had about them the look of uptown swells, bankers and traders and big city muck-a-mucks. But there was something out of kilter about these chaps.

And I paused once more. Did I just say chaps?

And I began to feel most uncomfortable. There was something altogether wrong. I knew who I was – I was Lazlo Woodbine, the Private Eye and very likely the last in my line. There wouldn’t be any more like me. The fedora and trench coat were, unbelievably, going out of style and a new breed of private dick appeared to be on the cards. No one had really noticed when the world of Sherlock Holmes was no longer the world of Sherlock Holmes. And perhaps no one would notice the passing of the world of Lazlo Woodbine.

In fact, perhaps that world had already passed and I was now nothing more than a cliché and an anachronism. Something that had become a parody of itself. Something, God forbid, to be sniggered at.

I felt a shudder pass right through me, from the snap-brim of my fedora to the leather soles of my classic Oxfords.

I looked at the kid who was my client. ‘Kid,’ I said to his kid, ‘how do I look to you?’

‘Uneasy,’ said the kid. ‘And strangely, now that I look at you, not altogether in focus. You seem a little fuzzy around the edges.’

I took a great deep breath and leaned my elbows on the bar.

‘A bottle of Bud and a hot pastrami on rye,’ I said to the barman.

‘Coming right up, sir,’ he replied.

‘What?’

‘Pardon me, sir?’ said the barman.

‘Fange,’ I said. ‘It’s me.’

‘Well, of course it’s you, sir. Who else would it be?’

‘But you are serving me my order.’

‘That’s what barmen do, sir.’

‘It’s not what you do.’

‘Ah, have to correct you there, sir. It’s not what I did, when I was the barkeeper at my old bar.’

‘That was only about ten minutes ago!’

‘It feels like that, doesn’t it, sir? But time passes so quickly. Tick and tock and tick again and the clock doth slice away our lives. But I cannot waste your time with idle conversation, sir. I must attend to your order.’

‘Fange,’ I said, ‘What is happening here?’

‘I’ve no idea what you mean, sir. A hot pastrami upon rye and a bottle of Bud. Anything else, sir? Anything for this young gentleman here?’

‘I’ll have a bottle of Bud, too,’ said the kid. ‘But you are certain that you just want to serve Mr Woodbine? You don’t want, perhaps, to talk some toot with him?’

‘Talk some toot?’ And the barman laughed. It wasn’t a good look, or a good laugh. And Lazlo Woodbine took his bottle of Bud and poured much of its contents down his throat.

‘Are you all right?’ I asked the man in the trench coat. ‘You really do look more than a little fuzzy round the edges.’

‘What did you say?’ asked Lazlo Woodbine, replacing his bottle on the bar. ‘And how are you saying it?’

‘I’m just opening and shutting my mouth, like I always do.’

‘No you’re not.’ And Lazlo Woodbine took off his fedora. ‘You can’t do that!’ he cried.

‘Do what?’ I asked him. ‘What is the matter?’

‘You’re in the first person. You suddenly moved into the first person. You can’t do that. I work in the first person when I’m working on a case. I made that perfectly clear to you when I agreed to take your case.’

‘Oh yes,’ I said. ‘I believe you did.’

‘You’re doing it again. Stop it at once.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Oh dear, I’ve done it again.’

The face of Lazlo Woodbine took on a curious expression.

No! No! No! My face took on a curious expression. I am Lazlo Woodbine. And something forceful moved inside my brain. And it said, ‘Hold on, hold on, something is happening to you, right here in this bar. Something altogether beyond the world of the outré. Something altogether anomalous.’

And I gritted my teeth and I thought myself back to the centre of things and back into the first person. ‘Kid,’ I said. ‘Kid, who is the greatest private eye of all time?’

‘You are, Mr Woodbine, sir,’ said he.

‘And why are we in this bar?’

‘Because you are pursuing a case – to find out who is the criminal mastermind behind the plan to zombify this entire world.’

‘And only I could solve such a case, yes?’

‘Only you, Mr Woodbine. Because you are the greatest of them all.’

‘Yes, kid. You’re right. You’re right.’ And I patted the kid on the shoulder. ‘Perhaps it was that blow to the skull that the dame who did me wrong dealt me. Or perhaps-’ And I looked once more all around and about.

‘Perhaps it is something more, Mr Woodbine.’

And I turned and I beheld. A figure of considerable strangeness and one that I did not take to in the slightest. He was short and plump and baldy-headed and if I had to pick out some historical character that he put me in mind of, I would have had to say Dickens’ Mr Pickwick. With the hint of a shaven-headed Shirley Temple and a little too much of a bucktoothed Caligula.

And there was an intensity and a density to this being that I found alarming and I took one pace backaways.

I might add that he wore a dapper black suit and carried a silver-topped cane.

‘Buddy,’ said I, ‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced.’

‘Mayhap not,’ he replied, ‘although you have already felt my power, Mr Woodbine. An uncomfortable sensation, is it not? Trying to define just what you are. Who you are. Whether your existence actually serves any purpose whatsoever.’

‘How do you know my name?’ I enquired. ‘Are you a fan? If so, whip out your pen and I’ll give you an autograph.’

‘Such bravado, Mr Woodbine. You are putting a brave face on it, anyway.’

‘What is going on?’ asked the kid who was my client. ‘Is this the villain, Mr Woodbine? Should you shoot him now?’

‘Priceless,’ said the stumpy fellow with the cane. ‘Absolutely priceless. One of Mr Ishmael’s little puppets. And so far from home. And oh, such thoughts of triumph.’

‘What?’ went the kid and he clutched at his head. ‘You are reading my thoughts. And it hurts. Stop doing it. Please stop doing it.’

And all around and about the kid and myself and the stumpy guy with the seemingly supernatural powers, the clientele of the club just kept on talking with their companions and downing their beers. And the weather girls came and went and Fangio the barman, in his skull make-up, served customers to the right and the left of him, with never a hint of the toot being talked.

And I squared up to the stumpy guy and stared at him eye to eye. ‘Who are you, fella?’ I asked of him.

And the fella laughed. And it was a terrible, terrible laugh and it rolled all about me and all through me and it made me feel sick at heart. ‘I do hate to use such a dreadful cliché,’ said the fella. ‘And as I have already made you aware that you are now a cliché yourself, it does seem such a shame. But as I have no feelings for you, or indeed your race, let it be known to you that I am Papa Crossbar. And I am your worst nightmare.’

‘The Papa Crossbar, High Priest of voodoo?’

‘And so very much more besides. And one by one I take from this world, take life and replace it with death.’

‘It is him,’ cried the kid. ‘Shoot him, Laz. Shoot him now.’

And I reached for my trusty Smith & Wesson. But my trusty Smith & Wesson wasn’t there. The stumpy guy that was Papa Crossbar had it. He had somehow lifted it from my shoulder holster. And he twirled it about him on a stumpy little finger.

‘I can hear you thinking,’ he said, ‘all of you, and the din is deafening. You make so much noise, don’t you? And so much mess, too, and you stink out this part of the universe. But soon I will be done with all of you. With all life on this planet, down to the tiniest noisy little microbe. All will be gone and all that will remain will be a Necrosphere. A planet of the dead – the totally dead. No bacteria rowdily feasting on corpses, no loudly chomping maggots. All will be dead. Each and all. But you will not be here to witness that, I am thinking.’

‘But why?’ I asked. And I took a step back. ‘Why would you want to do such an awful thing?’

‘Awful?’ asked the stumpy Papa Crossbar. ‘Awful in which respect?’

‘To annihilate an entire race. Eradicate life from an entire planet. Why would you want to do such a thing?’

‘ Pest control, if you will. Life is not universal. Death is universal. This little pocket of life is an anomaly. It ruins the perfection that the universe would otherwise attain. Nasty, noisy, smelly little planet. All must be expunged. All must die.’

‘You too?’ I asked.

‘Oh yes, but in my way, not yours. While I am here, upon this world, I am as you are. As mortal as you but so much more than you. I am Papa Crossbar. And when my work here is done, I will ascend into the darkness to enjoy eternal peace.’

‘Might I ask a question?’ asked the kid.

‘You might, but I doubt whether I will feel inclined to answer it.’

‘Well,’ said the kid, ‘I will ask it anyway, if you don’t mind. Because I got involved in all this weird stuff a while back. It was your zombies at the cemetery in Hanwell, I suppose.’

‘There have been many and there will be many more.’

‘And-’

‘And so what does Mr Ishmael have to do with this?’

‘Oh,’ said the kid. ‘You really can read my mind. And it really does hurt.’

‘Indeed. And so I know what you are now thinking. You are thinking that you will try to distract me with some toot so that Mr Woodbine here can strike me down and hopefully kill me by so doing.’

‘Hmph,’ went the kid.

‘No go, I’m afraid. Not that you couldn’t possibly pull off such a scheme, but you would have to guard your thinking so well that I could not penetrate your thoughts. And you do not have that skill. And so goodbye.’

‘Are you off?’ said the kid, with some bravado. ‘Please don’t think that you must hurry back.’

‘It is goodbye to Mr Woodbine,’ said Papa Crossbar. ‘This man could pose a genuine threat to me, and so he must depart now from this plane of existence.’

‘Not quite yet,’ I implored. ‘Lazlo Woodbine’s time has not yet come. I have years left in me. And my adventures might well enjoy a renaissance. There might even be a TV series made of them. With, perhaps, Robert Culp playing me.’

‘Yes,’ the kid agreed. ‘You can’t kill Lazlo Woodbine.’

The being that was Papa Crossbar shrugged. And he did this with a wicked smile upon his face. ‘It is goodbye, Lazlo Woodbine,’ he said. And he raised his hands. And then he projected. As I had projected, me, Tyler, on the Banbury Bloater drug at The Stones in the Park gig. I knew what it was to project. And just how much power it had. And one moment there was Lazlo Woodbine. And the next moment, there wasn’t.

‘Gone into the ether,’ said Papa Crossbar. ‘Will you be next, or will you choose to run?’

And I chose to run and so I ran.

And I ran and I ran and I ran.