Secret Dead Men

Thirteen Portraits of the Artists as Young Men

Here was my problem: I hated freelance work. Great money for usually minimal labor, but it was too much of a distraction. Too much additional information got in the way of my real investigation. After careful consideration-about 10 seconds’ worth-I decided to enlist Paul After. He would play the part of hired dick, leaving me free to get a fix on Brad Larsen's killers. I figured he would enjoy the taste of bodily freedom; I'd have a chance to kick back and do some real work.

I would always be in control, mind you. I could watch what was happening from the movie screen in the Brain Hotel lobby. And if Paul did something to jeopardize the mission-or my physical body-I could crack the reigns, drag his soul back to the Hotel, and carry on myself. Of course, to the casual observer, my body would fall unconscious, maybe even lose control of its bodily functions. This was not something I liked to do often.

As I thought, Paul agreed to take the case for me. He complained about it first, but I knew he wouldn't turn me down. He had enjoyed his taste of freedom back in Henderson too much.

Paul dressed my body in gray pants and a white ribbed undershirt. Then he slicked back my hair and shaved me. Nicked me twice.

“There's something I've been wondering, Del,” he said, looking into the bathroom mirror. “Why do you look exactly like me?"

I don't, I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. You're seeing your own face. Happens a lot at first. In reality, we're wearing the face of a recent murder victim. I'm tracking down his killers.

“Why wear the guy's face?"

I've found it can help speed the investigation.

“Who was he?"

A man named Brad Larsen. He was also set to testify against your former employers.

“Was he a good-looking guy?"

Don't worry. The villagers won't come after you with torches and pitchforks.

Paul squinted. “If you say, so. But it's still damn weird. All I see is me."

It happens to everybody. It's too much of a shock to see your own consciousness in another man's face. Or so the theory goes. I saw myself for a long time until I came to terms with everything.

Paul grunted and dabbed his/my cheeks with a hand towel. He finished dressing us in a white shirt, red necktie, and gray suitcoat-the most stylish items in my limited wardrobe. I could sense Paul hated it, as if he was forced to wear his older brother's hand-me-downs. But until we received our first paycheck, there wasn't much we could do about it.

“Interesting choice,” spoke a voice behind Paul, in the real world. It was the Ghost of Fieldman, whose image was distorted by the rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. “Not everyone would put that ensemble together."

“Can't you shut him up?” Paul asked me.

If only.

We arrived early, so Paul took the opportunity to stroll around the square for a few minutes. Rittenhouse Square was a well-heeled neighborhood, despite the scruffy kids in dashiki shirts playing beat-up guitars in the park. Giant apartment complexes, hotels and office buildings lined the four sides of the park, and every body and thing seemed to gravitate toward it, being the only patch of green for blocks and blocks. William Penn may have had a brilliant plan in mind when he first cooked up the city grid, but he didn't give much thought to green open spaces.

Soon, it was time for our appointment, and I surrendered control of my body. Watching Paul operate my body was an education. Every motion was studied, whereas mine were automatic, unthinking. Take entering the hotel. I would have marched right up the front desk, asked for Richard Gard's room, then taken the elevator to the correct floor. A straightforward, let's-go-to-work approach. But not Paul.

Paul walked into the hotel bar first. Slowly, as if he were too bored to be doing anything else. The bar was right off the side of the lobby; a dark, oaky-looking room. While I didn't exactly know what Paul was thinking-it was more like I possessed deep intuition about Paul's intentions rather than direct knowledge-I knew he was checking for signs of Gard. Why would Gard be here and not upstairs? Good question. It's not one I would have immediately asked.

Paul walked directly to the bar and took a seat. He looked at the bartender, then to the guy at his right. Sweaty, young, in a very fashionable tweed suit, though wrong for this time of year. Blonde hair falling in every direction but the correct one. He kept looking at the door, waiting for people to pass his line of vision.

Finally, Paul tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Gard."

The man started, then wiped his brow with a cocktail napkin and recovered. “Mr. Wojciechowski."

“No,” said Paul, “I'm his senior associate. Paul After."

They shook hands. I received a sensory flash: sweaty palms. Ugh.

“Mr. Wojciechowski is seeing to some urgent business in Nevada,” Paul explained. Good boy. Keep the famous Mr. W. shrouded in mystery. Clients loved that.

“I understand.” Gard took a drink, then seemed as if a light bulb had gone off in his thick blonde skull. “How did you…"

Paul finished the sentence. “Know you? Come, now. I assume you're going to pay me a lot of money to predict what's coming next."

Damn. Mr. Mofo Disco Detective.

Gard seemed impressed, too. “Care for a drink?"

“In a moment,” Paul said. “First, I'd like to know why you are down here, in this bar, instead of upstairs in the room number you supplied my associate. Seems like you're up to more than sneaking a peek at the hired help."

“I admit, that was part of it. But there's also bit of preface to your job. The clerk at the front desk was supposed to send you over."

“What preface?” Paul asked.

“Before you meet Susie, I wanted to make this perfectly clear: no matter what I say upstairs, no matter how aloof I may seem, your loyalties will remain with me completely. You will run every single decision by me. You will not move a finger without my knowing about it. Everything begins and ends with me."

Paul nodded. Seemed fair to me, too. Gard was footing the bill.

“Upstairs, you are going to meet a woman who is my mistress. I demand complete discretion as well as respect in this regard. She is going to ask for your assistance. You are going to give it. You are also going to give her the impression you are working for her, not me."

Paul smirked. “I am to win her confidence. And, of course, I am to report everything to you."

“You're quick,” Gard said.

And you're a sweaty goofball.

Paul glanced at himself in the mirror, as if he could hear me. Could he?

“Now how about that drink, eh?” Gard asked. “Take a few minutes, then come upstairs as planned. I'll introduce you and you can begin your assignment.” He placed a hand on Paul's back. An uncomfortable jolt went through both of us. “Henry! Give this man whatever he likes.” A pug-nosed, white-haired man in a bow tie raised his head.

“A Shirley Temple, please” Paul said.

“A hard-boiled man like yourself?” Gard laughed.

Paul didn't answer the question. He told Henry not to forget the cherry. Gard shook his head.

“Oh, by the way.” Gard fished a check out of his suit pocket and placed it on the bar. “For today's meeting. I'll mail a check for double that every week, as agreed."

Paul didn't look at the check. I wanted him to, but I couldn't exactly force his eyes down to the bar top. “Thanks."

Richard was left holding the conversational bag, so he decided to leave.

There was a lot to learn from Paul.

I tuned out while Paul was enjoying his Shirley Temple and wandered back to my office. I could have ported myself there, but that kind of thing became disorienting after a while. The more the Brain Hotel seemed like real life, the better.

I poured myself a glass of Brain Chivas Regal and read through a notebook of some Association notes from last year. The notes were perfect; exactly as I'd recorded them months ago. But the Chivas was only as good as I remembered it.

After a while, the notes all seemed to blur together. A lot of numbers, a lot of places, a lot of words and letters. It started to bore me.

I made my way back down to the Hotel lobby in time for Paul to meet Gard's mistress up on the screen. It was not unlike watching a movie, especially when our new client entered the scene.

“Susannah Winston, Paul After."

There was a pause. A long, awkward pause. Hell, I was getting ready to say something when Susannah finally broke in.

“After what, Paul?” she asked, smiling.

“Charmed to meet you, Ms. Winston."

I noticed Paul's hand lingering on Susannah's. Mine would have too, believe me. I tossed back another gulp of Brain Chivas and took a closer look.

Susannah Winston had chestnut hair, fashionably bobbed to a sharp point on both sides of her prettily squared jaw. Her nose was slightly upturned, as if to clear way for her lips-full and dark red. A man in his twenties would consider her the antidote to marriage: one single, sensuous reason to stay single forever. And a man in his thirties or forties would think of her as a luscious packet of instant infidelity. Richard Gard looked to be pushing forty.

Susannah was much, much younger. Large round blue eyes and a mouth that curled upward like a smile, even when she wasn't reacting to anything. Even doing something as mundane as lighting a cigarette. I could detail the physical attributes below her neck, but it would be redundant. I could see the death-drop curves beneath those polyester slacks as clearly as if she was wearing a bikini.

“What can I do for you?” Paul asked.

“I used to date the wrong kind of boy, and now one them wants to murder me,” she said, then wrapped her lips around her cigarette.

Richard looked away, as if he didn't hear. Instead, he asked, “Anybody up for a drink?"

Susannah looked at Paul. “I'll bet you're a gin-and-tonic man, aren't you?"

“Just tonic,” Paul said. “No ice."

Good boy. I'd warned him about boozing it up on the job in the real world.

Susannah waited until Richard had returned with the drinks-plain tonic for Paul, two gin-and-tonics for Richard and Susannah. Apparently, these people were big on gin. Me? I couldn't stand the stuff-always gave me a wicked hangover the next day. Then again, this was probably because I only used to drink the cheap stuff.

The three made their way to the living room and sat down-Paul in a plush loveseat, Susannah and Richard on a long, spare couch without any extra pillows.

“I haven't even told Richard the entire story, to be honest,” Susannah said. “I wanted both of you to hear everything. I'm sure it hurts him as much as it hurts me."

Richard heard that, all right. He glanced at Susannah, gave her a warm, large smile, then looked back down at his drink.

“I'm from a small, yet substantially wealthy family from the suburbs of Boston,” she said. “My father made his fortune after World War II, when he invented a military tracking device that, to this day, is considered state of the art."

She let that sink in and continued, “I grew up in splendor, was sent to private academies. Smith College, eventually, where I majored in Victorian literature. A colossal waste of time. All of it. And I don't say that lightly. All I wanted was a real education-one that would teach me the way the world really worked. That's what I needed. Not emerald-studded bracelets and pretty pink dresses.

“I received that education soon enough. The year after I graduated Smith, I spent a week in New York City with some of my classmates-courtesy of my father, of course. We stayed at the Royalton, had our pick of restaurants and Broadway shows, four-star everything. It was a perfectly miserable trip."

“Yeah, I hear The Wiz is a real nightmare,” Paul said.

Richard's eyes narrowed. “Now look here…"

“No, it's all right,” Susannah said. “I guess it does sound like a pathetic sob story. Poor little rich girl doesn't get her way. But you haven't heard the part that makes me cry, Mr. After. At least allow me that."

Paul nodded deferentially.

“One night, my girlfriends and I decided to see the seamy parts of town, the kind we'd certainly never see at Smith. We took a cab down to the East Village and walked into a jazz club. I met a boy there-his name was Chris. He was skinny, his clothes were ten years out of style and his fingernails were dirty, but I let him buy me a drink. To be honest, it was exciting."

“And sure to anger your parents,” Paul said.

Susannah looked down at her shoes. “Precisely. I was looking for a different kind of education, and here was a man who presented himself as the crash course. So I never went back to Boston. I moved in with Chris-who turned out to be a pot-dealer, a television repair shop janitor, and sometimes, when he was in the mood, a novelist. Of course, all I focused on was the novelist part-even though he never let me read a word. For a sheltered Smith girl, he was Jack Kerouac. Until he raped me."

I'm sure she had been saving this for the right moment. Both Paul and Richard did the exact same thing: lowered their drinks and averted their eyes, as if ashamed for the entire male sex.

“Oh, he made such a fuss about apologizing, blaming the drink, his frustrations with being unknown. But nothing could explain away the act. The first chance I had, I ran to a nearby diner and called my father to beg his forgiveness and ask for train fare home. But my mother answered. It turned out I was too late."

“He came looking for you?” asked Richard.

“No. He'd already dropped dead from a stroke."

Susannah took a sip of her drink. I noted how much care she took not to leave any of her lipstick on the glass. Must be hard to drink that way.

“When I arrived home, I found my mother had pulled a Sylvia Plath."

Paul and Richard said nothing. They lowered their heads even further.

“But then I discovered Dad had forgiven me, in his own way. Weeks after I'd told him I was staying in New York, he had his will changed, and I soon discovered I was a half-million dollars richer."

“That was all he had left?” Paul asked. “For an inventor of something as important as…” He faked a pause, as if struggling to remember. He was trying to make her give away an extra detail.

It didn't work. “No, that was all,” Susannah said, and took another clean sip from her glass. “The government basically stole the patent, and probably gave him a million to shut him up. Part of me didn't even want to take the money-I didn't enjoy earning it through my parents death, or for that matter, that my father had earned it inventing a tool that sent thousands to their deaths in Vietnam."

“The guilt must have been awful,” Richard said.

Thank God I wasn't the one conducting this case. I couldn't imagine spending any more than 20 minutes with this drama queen.

Paul said, “And you took the money."

Susannah shot him a pair of icy daggers. “Yes, I took the money. I had nothing. And I wasn't going to refuse my late father's apology."

“Was that necessary, Mr. After?” asked Richard.

“I'm sorry if I offended either one of you,” Paul said. “I'm simply trying to establish motive.” He looked directly at Susannah. “Besides, I think I know where your story is headed. Out of the blue, your East Village friend catches wind of your windfall and takes the next cheap bus up to Boston to try for a second chance at love. With a fist or a pistol, if necessary."

“No,” said Susannah, looking pleased with herself. “I never saw the boy again."

“Then who's after you?"

“Oh,” she said, then laughed to herself. “You thought the man after me was… him? Please. No, no, Mr. After, I didn't have Richard bring you all the way from Los Angeles to protect me from a scummy painter boy. We've hired you to protect me from a professional killer."

Boy, I thought. Professional killers were everywhere this time of year.

“Come again?” Paul asked.

“Of course, I didn't know he was a pro at the time. He was all fancy French wines and exotic meals at first. He told me he was an international banker. Only later did I realize his most recent target was an international banker. That's how he knew so much about the lifestyle. He was-is-a professional chameleon."

“What's his name?"

“The name he used? Roger Adams. I'm sure it's fake."

Paul took the opportunity to stand up. I was suddenly thrown off by the sudden change of perspective. Even flashed up on the screen of the hotel lobby, sudden motion always gave me a touch of vertigo.

“Ms. Winston, can you tell me anything about the daily schedule of this Adams? I happen to know a great deal about these types of men…"

Understatement of the year!

“…and it would help to understand his habits."

“I didn't see him often enough to learn a routine. You see, I've been traveling for a while. I mean, was. Travel brought me to Philadelphia, and to Richard."

The sap smiled as if this was some sort of personal achievement.

“Right after my parents died, I decided I wanted to see the world. I met Roger months later, in Paris, while I was staying in a small artists’ tenement. The rent was cheap, and the conversations-the ones I understood at least-were phenomenal. Everyone I met was either a novelist, or a painter, or graphic designer…"

Was there a pistol in this hotel lobby? I asked myself. Can I put myself out of my misery now?

She went on at length about the wonders of café life, and how she was completely bedazzled by the Great and Powerful Roger Adams, and what they ate for dinner (shark), and what they drank afterward (vodka gimlets), and what pretentious poetry they talked about (Auden)… To his credit, Paul let her ramble. I guess he didn't want to insult her again. Or maybe she lulled him to sleep. Her beloved Richard Gard, I noticed, was looking droopy around the eyes. Paul waited until she talked herself dry before nudging the conversation back towards the topic at hand.

“And you saw him only once in Paris?"

“Yes, but we met up many, many times after. He traveled a lot on business and I found myself tagging along. It was fun and it gave my traveling a kind of purpose. I felt alive again. Until reality reared its ugly head."

“When did you first realize?” Paul asked.

“When I found the gun in his suitcase, and the dossier."

Ah. Now here's where Ms. Winston was tripping herself up. And I didn't need Paul's expertise to know it. Pro killers didn't carry a pistol, singular; they carried a portable arsenal. Knives, clips, guns, poisons, knucks, the works. And a dossier? Yeah. Unless it's tattooed onto their lower intestine for emergency reference, all the pros I've encountered never kept written info on their person. It was memorized, or locked away in a safe location.

Of course, Paul knew it too. I could sense him smirking. “A dossier?"

“Yes. Photographs, addresses, social security records-everything."

Paul nodded. “Where were you when you made this discovery?"

“In Dublin. I'd been dying to go ever since I read Portraits of the Artists as Young Men. I've long loved Joyce-and art history. Especially the chapter about Picasso."

“Ah, yes,” Paul said. “It's a classic."

My God. Who the hell did she think she was fooling? One look at Richard Gard supplied my answer. Gard wouldn't know James Joyce from a Rolls Royce.

Then again, I wondered if Paul would.

Susannah continued, “We stayed at the Westbury, of course. Roger slipped out for a couple of paperbacks for the plane home, and I was bored sitting in the room all by myself. I let my eyes wander."

Richard Gard suddenly spoke up. He'd probably been dying to talk for the past ten minutes. “And that's when you found the gun."

“And the dossier,” Paul added.

“Yes.” Susannah paused for the requisite amount of time. “I didn't know what to do. Part of me wanted to play the innocent, and ask Roger about the things I'd found when he returned. But then the sane part of me took over. I knew he'd kill me once I'd found out. Then I heard the room key turn in the lock.

Richard actually winced.

“It was Roger, of course. I slid the files back into his briefcase and nudged the briefcase off the side of the bed, praying it wouldn't make too loud a noise, or flip over and spill its contents. But thankfully, it didn't. Just one thump, which the sound of the door closing again completely covered.

“I asked Roger if he'd found anything good. He told me, ‘Nothing.’ Then he asked me what I'd been up to. I said, ‘Nothing.’ There was an uncomfortable moment between us. I knew he sensed something, so I tried changing the topic. I told him I wanted to go downstairs for a drink, maybe buy a couple of magazines. He told me no. I said, ‘What do you mean, no?’ And he repeated himself. ‘You're not going anywhere.’ So, like any sensible woman, I told him he could fuck off and I started to walk past him. He punched me in the face."

That seemed to impact Paul and Richard as well. As much as men didn't like to be told stories about women being raped, they sure as hell didn't like to hear about men slapping women around. It was an indictment of the whole gender. By mere virtue of having a penis, we belonged to the guilty party.

“I was stunned. Before I could scream out or cry for help, he hit me again, slapping me hard across the face. I could hardly breathe. The next memory I have is of Roger pinning me to the bed, his thick monkey fingers wrapped around my throat, threatening to kill me if I ever walked out on him again."

Then the eruption of tears began. “I don't know what you must think of me,” she said. “Oh wait. I know. You must be thinking, ‘What kind of girl would get herself involved with the same kind of trash, over and over…?’”

Richard went to her and started to rub her back. “Believe me, Susannah,” he cooed. “I don't think any of those things. I've heard far worse stories in my time."

“None like this.” Susannah buried her face in her hands. “I'm sorry…"

“Sorry? God, why are you sorry?"

“For me. For my past."

Richard put down his drink and rested his hands on her shoulders.

Paul cleared his throat. “Go back for a moment. What happened after he hit you?"

“He took a shower.” Susannah sipped her drink. “Right then, as if nothing had happened. I couldn't take that abuse anymore, boyfriend or not."

“Then what did you do?"

Susannah paused. “I decided to run."

“Go on, baby,” Richard said.

“I… I rushed out with all my things, but stopped at pile of his clothes, the ones he'd taken off before his shower. And I know I shouldn't have, but I…"

“But you…?” Paul prompted.

Susannah's eyes turned his way. “I took a pack of hotel matches and set his clothes on fire. He was always bragging about his stuff. He treated his goddamned shirts better than he treated me."

Richard looked at her hard. “Which is how the room caught fire, right?"

“The room caught fire?” Paul asked.

“Yes,” Richard said. “That much, she'd told me. He died in a fire."

“God as my witness, I didn't know! I didn't know!” she cried. “When I saw on the news later about the fire…” Susannah took another sip and stared off as if she was watching the broadcast again. “I knew he was dead."

“So the guy who sent you the note can't be your ex, can he?” Richard asked.

“He can't be… but what if he is? Oh, God, Richard, this man is a murderer! He didn't tell me he killed anyone until after we got to Europe! He said it was going to be our honeymoon!"

“Note?” Paul asked.

I wondered if this was how super-lawyer Richard Gard introduced exhibits in the courtroom. I knew who I wouldn't be calling when it came time to bring down the Association in federal court.

Richard walked over to his briefcase and removed a thin sheet of paper from a manila folder. He handed it to Paul. It was incredibly flimsy and glossy-a photocopy.

“This is not very specific,” Paul said. “Sure it's not a prank?"

“No,” said Richard. “We're not. But I'm not ready to take any chances."

“Who's ‘L'?” Paul asked.

“Me,” said Susannah.

“Oh. It's Susannah with an L?"

She scowled. “No. It's a stupid nickname he gave me-Lemondrop. My sweet and sour Lemondrop, he'd always say.” She looked away, covering her face with a tiny balled-up fist.

Richard walked over and sat down to hug her. “Don't worry. Shhh. I'll take care of everything."

“He's going to kill me, Richard."

“No one's going to kill you."

Susannah broke the hug. “You don't know. You don't."

“Shhh. Nothing's going to happen to you."

Susannah resumed the hug, and behind his back, with tears running down her face, smiled. “You're too good to me, Richard."

I couldn't glom a vibe from Paul. He was trying too hard to be his noncommittal, professional self. But I did catch a glimmer of a thought: I can't believe I'm watching this. Or it might have been: I can't believe I'm involved in this. Or, quite possibly: I can't believe a word of this.

“She's lying, you know."

I spun around. The Ghost of Fieldman had been standing in the Brain Hotel lobby, watching the scene with me. He had a Houdini-like knack for sudden appearances. I should have told him to go back to Vegas to start his own show.

“Which part?” I asked. “The rich inventor father? The Greenwich Village artist-rapist? The international hit man?"

“No man named “Winston” ever invented anything for any branch of United States military during the 20th century."

“Maybe the government can keep a few secrets. Even from you."

“Not likely. You want to know what is in the tap water in 1976? What the Air Force really found in Roswell, New Mexico? Why the United States Government invented static cling?"

“Stop,” I said. “Please. I'm only keeping an eye on Paul to make sure he knows what he's doing, then I'm going back to work."

“Ah, your quest for the Nevada crime syndicate. The entity you refer to as ‘The Association.’”

“That's right. Aren't you supposed to be helping me with my quest, Buddha man? Isn't that what you told me back in Henderson?"

“Yes, I did say I was here to help, but not with that particular quest. You are wasting your days with that, Collective. The musical genre known as disco will outlive your ‘Association.’”

“Disco is all over the radio, in case you haven't noticed."

“I am absolutely amazed at how little you absorb, Collective. I'm not sure how your delicate sensibilities are going to survive the Sex Pistols."

I'd had enough. “Stuff it, Fieldman. And stop calling me ‘Collective.’ You make me feel like an accountant."

The Ghost of Fieldman shook his head and faded away.

I rejoined the conversation already in progress. Richard was back from refilling drinks. “Sweetheart, why don't you fill in the gaps-you know, some physical description?"

Paul smiled. “Anything helps."

Susannah caught herself staring at Paul, but recovered nicely. She started to plow through the information as if she were up all night practicing. “Roger is a short guy with a Napoleon complex. Last time I saw him-this was five years ago, now-he had short-cropped hair. Very Italian-looking. I used to go for that sort of thing when I was young."

“Distinguishing features?"

“He had these deep-set eyes. Almost looked like they were black. A wide smile… and an awful limp."

“A genetic marvel,” said Richard, chuckling.

“He was once shot in the knee cap."

Paul asked, “Anything else?"

“He's very nondescript. People used to say he looked like somebody they knew."

Paul studied Susannah, who narrowed her eyes.

“So what can I expect from you, Mr. Paul After?"

“I find your man and have a nice chat with him. Maybe we'll compare dossiers or talk about firearms."

“And what if he doesn't want to have a nice chat?"

“He won't be able to chat with anyone,” Paul said. “Ever again."

Uncomfortable pause. They all looked at each other. It was too much for Richard. He was probably imagining his disbarrment hearings.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I have to visit the boy's room. Please make Paul at home, will you sweetheart?"

With that, Richard left. Susannah decided that making Paul at home entailed standing up, slinking across the carpet and taking a seat next to him.

“Have I ever seen you before, Mr. After?” she asked.

“I wouldn't think so."

“You look familiar."

“I shouldn't. I'm not from around here."

“Neither am I."

She took a drag from her cigarette, then blew smoke. “I suppose people tell you you look like somebody they know all the time."

“Not usually."

She paused. “You're a hard one, aren't you?"

Paul shrugged.

“I like that,” she said. “I honestly do."

Susannah stared at Paul for a while, not sure of how to place him. I tell you, the man was a Grade-A professional. I'm not sure a usual member of Stan Wojciechowski's crack detective team-namely, me-would have been able to face this task unmoved.

She tried a different approach: Big Boss Woman. “How many hours you going to devote to me?"

“As many as it takes."

“That's not an answer, Paul. I enjoy details."

“I enjoy working alone."

“I'll need you whenever Richard's not around. Days mostly, when he's at the firm. And some nights."

“What do you mean, need me?” Paul asked.

As if on cue, Richard returned from the bathroom. “Well, are we happy, Susannah?"

“I'll need a schedule,” she said to him. “I need my freedom."

“Of course,” Richard said. “Paul, you can start being Ms. Winston's guardian angel tomorrow morning. I'll send a car for you."

“Whoah,” Paul said. “What is this? Some kind of fraternity prank? If you want a babysitter, I'll give you the number of my eight-year-old niece in Toledo."

Richard's eyebrows lowered-undoubtedly, his patented kill-a-jury-with-my-sincerity look. “But Mr. After, this is the job. Until you find this madman, she's going to need some protection. She's quite safe here in the hotel-I've seen to that. But I need someone to be with her when she's shopping, or having lunch out in the city, or even walking around Rittenhouse Square."

“How many hours are we talking?” asked Paul, forcing every word out of his lips.

“As much as she needs,” he said.

Paul finished his drink then stood up. “I've heard enough."

Damn! I ran over to the lobby microphone and nailed the button. Easy there, Paul. Take it easy.

“This is a bunch of crap,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but still audible.

“What?” barked Richard.

Hey! I yelled. What the hell are you doing?

Paul stood still for a moment, thinking it over. I'd like to think it was my stern voice that kept him from flipping Richard the bird and storming out of the room. But most likely, Paul realized that without this job, we would be homeless. Brain Hotel and all. He didn't strike me as the type that enjoyed rooting through garbage cans for dinner.

“This tonic,” Paul said. “This tonic is crap."

“But it's Schweppes!” Susannah protested.

Richard ignored her. “Do we have an arrangement, Mr. After?"

“I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning, Ms. Winston,” Paul said.

“As if it's a bad thing?” Susannah asked. “Richard, I'll show Mr. After to the door. Could you refresh my drink? No ice this time."

“Sure, my peach.” He looked at Paul. “So we're square?"

“As a box,” Paul said.

In the hallway, Susannah looked at Paul, then finally touched his cheek as if she were blind and trying to see with her fingertips.

Richard called from the other room: “You want ice, sweetheart?"

“No, I don't, sweetheart,” she called back, rolling her eyes. She looked at Paul. “I think you're going to like the time we spend together."

Paul didn't say anything.

“Did you ever meet anyone who reminded you of an ex-girlfriend, Paul?"

“Pardon?"

“And feel you want to fuck that person because they looked-perhaps even vaguely-like someone else?"

“No."

Susannah smiled.

“See you tomorrow, Ms. Winston."