Secret Dead Men (18 page)

"You too seem to be getting along famously."

"I'm a babysitter. You should know that." Then, logic must have set in. "Wait ... wait ... this still doesn't fit. Why did you fake your own death, only to meet up with Ray's tramp later?"

Now I was completely flummoxed. I could barely keep up with the conversation as it was, let alone try to fake a rationale for something I obviously didn't do. Did Brad fake his death? Of course not. He was dead when I found him. The idea was ridiculous. Yet, this was the course I steered myself into, and I was stuck driving it. That is, if I didn't want to arrange accommodations in the Brain Hotel for a hot spinning bullet.

I tried the usual way out: abrupt subject change. "Don't call her that."

"Are you going to tell me different? Come on, you don't think Ray was the first to have the little cooze. Besides, does Lana know you're diddling the girl next door?"

"Girl next door" obviously meant Amy; Leah must seen us together, waited for her to leave, then sprung on me like a viper. But who the hell was "Lana"? I took a chance and closed my eyes for a second. The Brain Hotel lobby fizzled into view. I ran to the front desk and snatched the courtesy phone from its receiver. "Paging Paul After," I said. "Paul, we've got a Grade-A situation here, boy. Request immediate assistance. And I mean pronto, Tonto."

When I opened my eyes, I found Leah studying me way too carefully.

"Maybe it's you who's falling apart, tough guy," she said. "You don't look too sure of anything."

"I'm in more control than you could ever hope for," I said. That was good. Bravado. Keep her guessing.

Meanwhile, during a long blink: "
Paul! Damn it, Paul, get down here now!"

"Which one are you fucking? Miss Sweetness and Light, or the Vegas slut?" She accented the word "light" by poking the pistol into my head.

"This isn't about sex. This is about Ray."

"Finally, we're talking business. So tell me. How is this about Ray?"

"Ray's done some very bad things, Leah. Some people want to see him pay."

"What, because he ripped off the Man? Is that what you're going to tell me? Because forget it. He's already told me about it, and it's nothing. Repeat--nada. He wouldn't have him killed over something as stupid as a slot machine jiltz. Try again."

Bluffing my way through a conversation was never my forte. Which is not exactly something to be proud of, considering my line of work.

"No, I'm not talking about the slots. Something worse."

"Well, what?"

I didn't say anything. I closed my eyes.

* * * *

As if through divine intervention, Paul came walking into the Brain Hotel lobby at that exact moment. He looked sleepy. "You wanted me for something?"

I vigorously nodded my head up and down. I couldn't say anything for fear it would be mimicked by my lips in the real world, and confuse the hell out of Leah. Instead, I gestured with my arms:
Take my body, please.
Paul shot me a dubious look, then walked through the lobby doors anyway.

* * * *

In the real world, Leah saw my eyes open back up.

Paul felt the gun at this throat. His first thought was broadcast loud and clear in the lobby:
You're a real asshole, Del.

Well?
Leah asked, jabbing the pistol forward.

I ran to the front desk and snatched the microphone. "Okay," I rushed. "Explain what Ray Loogan could have done to deserve a hit. She thinks you and your client double-crossed them at some point."

What?
I wasn't sure if Paul was talking to me or Leah.

Are you stalling?
Leah asked.
Or are you screwing with me? Because if so, we can end this right here...

No, Leah--I'm sorry,
Paul said, feeling his (our) broken nose.
You must have hit me harder than I thought.

Good, good. I felt my own nose in the Brain Hotel. It was hurting, too. I must have carried the pain back with my consciousness when we made the switch. Weird how some things linger with you.

Forget that for a second,
Paul said.
Let's get something straight, here and now.

What?
Leah asked.

All I'm trying to do is stop you killing my client.

Your client?
she screamed.
You mean, the same client who sliced the shit out of you back in Illinois?

I froze. God in Heaven. Was Susannah Winston--or whoever the hell she was--Ray Loogan's accomplice? No, no. Brad identified his killers: Ray and his woman here, Leah Farrell. There was no reason for him to lie about it. Bringing his killers to justice was the only thing he lived for. Or sort of lived for. But why was Leah lying about it, then?

I don't know what you're talking about, Leah,
Paul said, honestly.

I picked up the lobby microphone once again: "She's obviously confused you with Brad Larsen. She and Ray were sent to kill him."

Squinting, Leah slowly let the pistol drop to Paul's chest.
You don't, do you?

My client's name is Susannah Winston. I was hired to protect her from a crazy ex-boyfriend. Then, out of the blue you and Loogan show up, shooting at us, and here we are, tangled in this crazy mess in my apartment hallway.

Leah looked doubtful again.

All I remember,
Paul continued,
is getting fished out of some muddy creek, taking a few months to recuperate, then swinging back into business for myself, as far away from Vegas as possible. I was running out of money, and needed some before I could even think about my next step. Life's changed a lot for me since the last time we spoke.

I'm sure,
Leah said. Even looking at her through the view screen in the Brain Hotel lobby, I could see the wheels spinning in her head.
So you don't even know ... what is it? Susannah Weston?

Winston.

You're saying you don't know this "Susannah Winston's" real name, do you?

No, I don't. I've never met her before this job.

Leah smiled, then leaned back and eased up on the pistol. I half expected Paul to smack it out of her hands and punch her in the face, but he didn't. He eased back into a more comfortable position on the floor.

If you're not lying to me,
Leah said,
and knowing you as long as I have, I don't figure you to be a liar ... we have the most cosmic case of fucking over I've ever seen.

What do you mean?

Obviously, we need to compare notes.
Leah stood up, and brushed the wrinkles out of her pants.
I think we need a change in venue. Is there a bar nearby?

Yes, on the northwest corner of 15th and Spruce.

After you.

Leah stuck her pistol beneath the flap of her purse--which contained nothing, I later learned, except a stiletto and extra clips--and kept it trained on Paul the entire way downstairs and across the street.

Thank God Brad Larsen was nowhere near the Brain Hotel lobby to catch this scene. Oh yeah, Brad? That was Paul--a former assassin who's in control of our collective body--going out to have a drink with the woman who knifed you to death. Only, we're not real sure; it might have been Paul's client who knifed you to death. That's why we're all headed out for a drink.

* * * *

Unfortunately, the bar on the corner wasn't a quiet neighborhood dive. It was a bonafide chic Center City cafe, complete with
Philadelphia Magazine
review ($$$$!) plastered, lacquered and hung on every available piece of wall space. At least it was nearby. Paul and Leah took a booth near the back, away from most of the trendy diners eating their plates of bluefish and foie gras. Between Paul's obviously broken nose and Leah's fresh cheekbone shiner, they didn't need any additional attention. She ordered for both of them--oversized shot glasses full of Jose Cuervo, with two Schmidt's chasers. "Next round, leave the bottle," she told the waitress.

Leah turned to Paul. "This is how it works. For every piece of information I offer up, I want you to down a shot of booze."

"Why?"

"Don't forget, I know who you are. And you know who I am. That makes us both smart. I need you dumbed down for a while."

"I can be dumb all by myself."

"Drink up, tough guy. There's two to start, and then we commence our business. If we reach a satisfactory conclusion, we both walk out of here alive."

Paul had nothing to say to that. Better to get it over with, I guess he figured. He drained both shot glasses.

* * * *

Inside the Brain Hotel, I felt the walls tremble.

* * * *

Paul cleansed his palate with a gulp of beer and a couple of complimentary oyster crackers from a wooden bowl on the table.

"Susannah Winston's real name is Lana Lewalski," she said. "Grew up in a shit town not far from Vegas, and as soon as she was old enough to bleed, she and her slutty little ass were slinging vodka and tonics in the nickel casinos. That's how she met Ray."

"I don't suppose her father was an inventor for the U.S. Army?"

"Boy, she's a queer bitch. She tell you that?"

Paul ignored the question. "So how did this 'Lana' entangle herself in the Man's business?"

Leah wasn't going to be tricked into spilling the goods that easy. She poured Paul another Cuervo. "To your health."

"This is silly," Paul said, frowning. "I have legendary tolerance. You could confess the world's secrets and have to start making shit up before I even feel a buzz."

"Then there's no problem, right?"

Paul drained it. Despite his bravado, it hit him deep. Hell,
I
could feel it. The lobby walls turned pale for a second,
on second thought
my seat felt like it was going to crash through the
wall wallflowersincollege punch bowl I was afraid to make a single move.
BBBBBBut it held ...
the only thing I ever wanted from life was a woman to love me like a man...

Holy shit, I thought. It's happening. The walls are breaking down.

"Good boy. All I know I learned from Ray. I've come to trust him over the last seven months."

"Grrranted."

"Well, Ray was proving himself to the Man, doing jobs here and there, mostly as muscle to scare distributors behind on their payments."

"Yeah. We all start out that way."

"But you never ran into Ray, did you?"

"I was top floor. I never met any of the Man's little people."

"Which makes it all the more odd that Ray received the contract to kill you."

Paul's eyes narrowed. "Kill me?"

Again, I was forced to remind Paul, via brain lobby mike:
She's talking about Brad Larsen. She thinks you're Larsen.
But a bit of static cut into the message:
Talking about my g-g-g-g-generation ... You are Larsen...

Leah smiled prettily and tipped the Cuervo into the drinking glass once again.

Paul sighed; tossed it back. A couple of phones at the front desk started to ring; pissed-off tenants probably complaining about a sudden lack of basic services. Amazing how people can forget where they are sometimes.

"Yeah--
you
. I mean, here was Ray, a nobody, handed half a million bucks to whack one of the Man's top turncoats. Even Ray knew it sounded odd. On one hand, it sounded like the deal of a lifetime. On the other, it sounded like a way to take out the uppity freshmen. A reverse hit, and the beauty is, nobody pays a dime."

"Ray shows up, and I'm sure to kill
him
."

"Correct. Ray decides to take along his girlfriend--one Lana Lewalski. Right there should have been the clue: This guy ain't pro yet. You never bring an outsider along for any job, let alone a career-maker. But Ray had it all planned out: drive out, spend a few days studying up, make the hit, split, have the rest of the payment wired out to him, and spend a few days kicking around the East Coast. Lana, apparently, wanted to be in Philadelphia for the Bicentennial."

Major click. Even Paul shuddered, and it wasn't from the tequila. It was the same damn thing Susannah had told Gard.

"What'd he tell her? It'd be a great family vacation?"

"Well, it could have been," Susannah said, "except that the happy couple's first stop was to an abortion clinic. Talk about killing two birds with one stone."

Paul didn't laugh. "How did you get involved in Ray's mess? You find yourself feeling bad for the sorry prick?"

Leah took a small sip of her beer, then raised her fingers like a peace sign. "That's two questions."

Paul swallowed a sigh. Leah poured him more tequila. Up to the brim.

"Go ahead. Trust me--you're going to need it."

Take it easy Paul,
I tried to warn him. But it was no use.

It took three whole gulps to finish it. Now that wasn't fair--it was clearly more than two ordinary shots. I wished I could pop out of Paul's head and call a time out.

The viewing screen started to wobble at this point, and the audio crackled in spots. I was confident it would all hold up at some basic level; after all, this whole framework
I'm in no hurry to disgrace myself in front of your father
had been constructed by my own brain power, and I was
Call a seven, c'mon goddamnit, call a seven or I'll start worshipping the devil, let's go
the equivalent of a public utility. It was the individual users I was worried about. The last thing I needed was
grapes never taste right in this friggin' fridge. I like 'em cold and crisp. In this damn thing, they might as well be
a mob of angry and confused souls stomping down here, demanding to know why entire pieces of their rooms had suddenly swirled away
the best one is the one about the bookworm who works in a bank, and seals himself in a vault right before the big one hits
like a cigarette butt in a flushed toilet. That's how alcohol fucked with the brain. How else can I explain it? But oh, God, GOD, GOD! The voices!

"I was thinking you'd be able to tell me," Leah said.