Secret Dead Men

Twelve Love City

I hailed a cab at Philadelphia International and handed the driver the address: 1530 Spruce Street. The Sherman Oaks girl had found a place for me. A friend of hers at the Moore School of Art knew a building that catered to college students and other transients. No year lease required; you could pay by the month. Since it was June, the end of the school year, there were plenty of furnished rooms available.

The building was quite nice, but old. A stone date-marker read “1870,” and it looked it. Perhaps the most recent renovation had been the row of mailboxes in the hotel lobby. As promised, the landlord was waiting outside for me with my keys. He didn't speak much English-or else he didn't care to. I handed him an envelope containing $350-security deposit and a month's rent, up front. He handed me two keys: one for the front door, one for my own apartment. The front door was tagged with a green plastic overlay and a tiny, yellowed sticker that had LOBBY in shaky capital letters. Just in case I was confused. The landlord left without a word.

He is concerned you are a serial killer, said the Ghost of Fieldman in my head.

“Good. Maybe he won't bother me about a late rent check,” I said. “Now, if you don't mind, I'd like some peace and quiet."

Every Collective needs his rest, the Ghost agreed. We will speak again.

Oh, I was sure we would.

I pushed all my things inside, then carried my wardrobe (i.e. my plastic trash bags) up to my apartment, and prayed nobody would steal my boxes while I was gone. I keyed in. The first room was tiny-a stove and sink shoved into one corner, a desk and chair in another, and a battered houndstooth couch placed beneath two greased windows that, if cleaned properly, would afford me a great view of a gray brick wall. NEWLY RENOVATED, FURNISHED STUDIO APARTMENT, RITTENHOUSE SQUARE VICINITY, HISTORIC BUILDING. Yeah, Washington slept here all right. And left his crap all over the place.

I opened a door leading into the bedroom. It was furnished with a toilet, bathtub, sink, and mirrored cabinet. Confused, I went back out into the first room and looked for another door. There wasn't one, except for the one through which I'd entered. After some poking around, I learned that the scratchy-looking couch was also a day bed. How efficient-a living room, dining room, kitchen, study and bedroom, all in one, low-priced space! Only now did I realize why the landlord never gave me a tour. The walk upstairs would have taken longer than the tour itself.

I went back down to the lobby and thought about leaving, but instead opted to carry my two cardboard boxes up to my fully-furnished closet. Halfway up, I caught my reflection in the glass covering a fire extinguisher. It shocked me, even after all these months. Brad's face was rugged, yet boyish. Nature's way of saying, I am harmless, but please do not touch. This face, I remember thinking, will serve me well during this investigation.

At this particular moment, however, it did not. Halfway up the second staircase, I met a woman wearing a college sweatshirt and faded jeans. She was carrying a shoulder bag stuffed with papers and books. “Pardon me,” I said, as mechanically as possible.

“You're pardoned,” she said, smirking. Her eyes went to my shoes and back up. “You need a hand with that?"

“No, I'm fine. Thank you."

She skirted to one side, and I mimicked her, unintentionally. We repeated the mimic. She started laughing. I frowned.

“My name's Amy Langtree. I guess you're moving in."

Yes, but my friends call me Move. I thought about saying it out loud, but it was probably best not to start a conversation. “Yes. Uh… I'm Del. Del Winter.” This was my new alias. Sure, it wasn't too much of a stretch from my real name, Del Farmer. But I found it useful to keep “Del.” You try keeping a dozen people in your head straight, and then talk to me about names, okay? I needed all of the psychic anchors I could get.

“Great name. Sort of like Del Shannon, right?"

“Sort of,” I said, trying to squeeze past her. “Only it's Winter."

“Aren't you going to shake my hand?"

I started to shake, but one of the boxes slipped, and a semi-auto clip slid out of top. Damn it. I quickly dropped the box and scooped it up.

“Del, you need help.” Amy grabbed the first box and started up the stairs. She looked back at me, smiling. I looked up and returned a queasy version of a smile.

“No lip. C'mon. What apartment number?"

I told her, full knowing this was not going to sit well with the other souls.

One thing I may have failed to mention about my Brain Hotel residents: They tended to be cooperative, just so long as I didn't appear to have a life outside of my job. The minute I tried to resume a normal life-settling down with a nice girl, finding a job with benefits-they were all over me.

Oh, the souls had it good. No puzzles, no worries, no bills. They could lounge in their quarters, or eat and drink to excess, or read books and paint. The only thing I ever demanded was a bit of their time (no more than 20 minutes, usually) every so often to ask a few questions. Most of them led their own lives in their Brain Hotel rooms, and rarely bothered to ask me for anything. It was like being the president of a small company; I only dealt with a select few employees, and the rest… well, the rest did whatever they did and didn't bother telling me about it.

But the ones who paid attention-man, they could give me trouble. And one who was starting to pay more and more attention to my real world activities was Paul After.

I knew he wouldn't take kindly to Amy Langtree.

Amy kneed the door open and walked in. I followed, hunched over, still trying to casually stuff ammo clips back into the box. She dropped her box on a table in the corner, careful not to knock over the telephone that sat there.

“What do you do for a living?"

“Living?"

“Yes-your job?"

“My job?” I repeated.

She squinted at me. “Let me guess. You hang out all day mimicking people's actions and speech."

I told her my new cover. “I work for the Philadelphia Electric Company.” Well, at least it was a chance to try it out. See how it worked on a nobody. Somehow, I didn't think the tenants would buy this as an excuse to talk to her. If anybody happened to be in the lobby screening room this particular moment, I was sure to hear an earful when I returned to the Brain Hotel later.

Amy nodded, and walked over to me. “You in the collection department?"

“Huh?"

A clip I'd forgotten about was sitting on top of the box I was holding. Amy picked it up and pointed it at my face. “You no pay, I blow brains out?"

“Oh,” I said. “Oh, no no. Hah. Hobby. I mean, it's a hobby of mine. Guns.” I looked at her. “Keeps nosy neighbors from asking too many questions."

Amy's eyes widened for a moment, then she laughed. “Damn, Del, you do have a sense of humor. A sick sense of humor, but I'll take it. I was beginning to worry."

I smiled-uncomfortably-then turned to drop the box. I could feel Amy giving me the once over. What was it with her? Most women, upon meeting a strange man carrying a box of firearms into his tiny studio apartment, usually spin on their heels and hit the road. Fast. But not her. “What kind of guns do you have? I used to have a cop buddy who showed me quite a few of his police-issue numbers. You got single or double action?"

Paul was going to hate this line of conversation. Nice cover, “Del,” he'd tell me. Why not give her a tour of the Brain Hotel while you're at it?

“Amy, this is not a good time. I'm not feeling great, and I've got to finish-"

“Yeah, yeah, you're getting settled. Speaking of-where's the rest of your stuff? Need any help?"

This time I was prepared. I'd planned the story in advance: I had moved with some work files and necessities. The electric company was having my furniture and personal affects sent later. Of course, I didn't own anything else; I made a mental note to pick up a few pieces of junk to avoid suspicion.

Amy seemed satisfied with my explanation. “I guess I'll take a rain check."

“On what?"

“On the gun talk.” She whipped out a felt pen from her backpack and started to write on the top of one of my boxes. “Here's my number. I'm right upstairs. Nice meeting you too, Del."

“Nice… you, too."

I showed her to the door, then turned around to expel the air from my lungs. I looked around, pressed my palms to my eyes, then walked into my new bathroom.

I uncapped a bottle and dry-swallowed two Bufferin, cupping water from the faucet. I looked at myself.

New friend? a voice asked, more than a twinge of sarcasm in his voice. I recognized that voice. At least it wasn't the Ghost of Fieldman again.

With Paul, I had to be careful. He was still sore about the whole Fieldman/trunk mix-up-especially when I blamed him for the creation of the Ghost of Fieldman. But it was important to keep him happy, to maintain his enthusiasm for the investigation, since he was one of the few useful souls I had. Besides, I couldn't go around pissing on everybody forever.

“Look, Paul, I made her go away. You saw that, right?"

Yeah, I saw. I saw you flirting like mad.

“Point is, I made her go away."

I made her go away, he mocked. Come on. If you want to be serious about your investigation, it's important you don't get involved… with anybody. Raises too many questions.

“Don't worry about it."

If you want action, use one of the Brain hookers. I've gotten used to them. Genevieve is especially accommodating.

The phone rang. I went back into the non-bathroom room and answered it.

“My name is Richard,” a voice said. “I believe you are an associate of a man named Stan Wojciechowski. Are you available to speak this afternoon?"

“Of course."

“Meet me at the Rittenhouse Hotel, Room 1223, at 4:00 p.m. You won't require anything. Just yourself. Is that clear?"

“Sure. See you.” I hung up. Actually, he'd be seeing Paul.

What was that?