“My God, is she something,” I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. I must have scared Paul. On screen, the perspective snapped to the right.
What? Oh. You. Nice fucking job. I though you were a private detective, not a babysitter!
“Funny, it didn't seem you minded the assignment too much a few seconds ago."
Screw you. You saying I can't handle her? Jesus Christ-I'm doing your job. Your incredibly pathetic job.
I waited a moment to let Paul realize how ridiculously he was acting. “Have you calmed down yet?"
Get out of my head, he said. He continued walking, then suddenly stopped and looked deep into the mirror. It gave the chilling effect of him looking directly at me, sitting in the Brain Hotel lobby. I wasn't used to it.
“What's wrong?” I asked.
Do you know this Susannah Winston from somewhere?
“No,” I said. “Not exactly my type. Like my women educated and truthful. Why do you ask?"
She said I looked familiar. Hence, you look familiar.
“But don't forget, we're wearing the face of a dead man. It's highly unlikely my client ever met this fruitcake."
I suppose, said Paul. God, everything's so fuzzy. Sometimes I lose grip on who I am. You kept me in that room for so long I don't know what's up or down. I mean, I could have been married to that nightmare, for all I know.
“Not likely,” I said. “You're an assassin from Las Vegas, remember? It doesn't leave much time for a personal life."
You know, you could let me out more often. I feel like I'm going crazy in here, sometimes.
“Welcome to life after death, Paul."
Without warning, another voice spoke up. It was the Ghost of Fieldman. He was standing next to me in the lobby, worming his way into the silver mike.
“Paul,” he said, “it's possible you're experiencing a retroactive memory."
“Stay out of this,” I warned.
The Ghost of Fieldman stuck his tongue out at me. “All of this time you've been with the Collective, you haven't heard a rational explanation for your state, have you?"
Paul asked, I suppose you have one?
I couldn't believe this. A mutiny, right in the middle of an assignment. “Do yourself a favor, Paul. Tell him to crawl up his own thumb."
“The Collective here runs the show without the slightest inkling of his own internal workings,” said the Ghost. “I, however, know how it all works."
You do? Paul asked.
The Ghost cleared his spectral throat. “All of us-that means you, me and Mr. Farmer here-are trapped in a soul nexus of the deep future. We're not alive right now. We are simply recreations of our former selves, resurrected by computers from the far future. But our computer-generated simulations are blurring together by accident-I suspect we're still in an experimental stage, and the thinkers who have brought us back are unable to give us proper boundaries."
Paul nodded, as if he understood perfectly. Fieldman?
“Yes, Paul?"
Lay off the LSD. Paul turned his attention to me. Let's go have a drink, Del. We've got some arrangements to make.
After laying my physical body down for a rest back at 1530 Spruce Street, we met at Old Tom's. Paul and I walked into the bar, waved hello to Tom, and parked ourselves into one of the faux-leather-padded, oak-tabletop booths along the right wall. We both ordered a drink-Brain Chivas and a Schmidt's chaser-then got down to business.
Paul wanted to lay down some ground rules; it was how he'd always worked, he said. He told me he could deal with existing in someone else's body, and he could even deal with living a solitary life in his Brain Hotel room until needed. But one thing Paul could not deal with was being unable to control the assignment.
“You want me to do the best work possible?” he asked. “Fine. Let me do the work. I don't need a straw boss. I don't even need the occasional piece of advice. Let me do things my own way."
A reasonable request. However, I had to lay down some ground rules of my own.
“One,” I said. “The Association investigation is top priority. If I need our body, Goddamnit, I'm taking our body."
“Even at the risk of abandoning our one paying client?” Paul asked.
“Paying clients are good for one thing and one thing only: cash. If we're forced to, we can find cash somewhere else. But a missed opportunity to collect evidence against the Association can never be regained. Every day that ticks by with the Association still in power is one less day the American public can feel safe.” Sure, I was laying it on thick, but the situation warranted exaggeration. I had to tame this hired gun before he did something regrettable.
“Two, you surrender the body when I say. No fights. It's useless anyway, and it only pisses me off."
I looked at Paul to gauge how pissed off he was getting. It didn't seem to phase him. Maybe to him, this was merely a business conversation. I used the silence to take a sip of the Brain scotch. Much better than the stash I had in my office-after all, this was scotch how Old Tom remembered it, not me. God, to think of the years of sweet, drunken bliss that man had seen.
Paul interrupted my reveries. “I understand. And now I want you to promise me two things. One, when I ask you to tune out, you tune out and trust me. I promise not to compromise the investigation one bit. Hell, I want those pricks to pay for what they did to me as much as you do. But I can't function knowing that you can storm in at any second. I'm a human being, man! I have things I need to take care of. There's stuff in my brain I need to work out on my own. In the real world. Not in here. I have to know I still exist."
Jesus. This was the closest thing to a buddy-buddy talk Paul and I had ever had. I wanted him to elaborate on the things he needed to “take care of.” I didn't want to stop him when he was on a roll. I nodded.
“Okay. Secondly, when it comes time to take down the Man, you let me take my pound of flesh. I've been dreaming about it for a long time now. I wish I'd had the balls to do it before, when I had the chance."
I didn't know what “Man” Paul was referring to. But I played it cool, letting him think I did, and agreed to both his demands. Yes, I should have asked him, point blank, who the “Man” was and finally started to piece things together. Was “The Man” this J.P. Bafoures? What was his real name? Where did he operate in Vegas? But the moment I admitted I didn't know much, I'd lose Paul's respect. I'd lose him.
“The Man will be yours,” I said. Then, scrambling to think of something neutral to say: “I want justice served.” I made a mental note to bring up the “Man” in the future. Subtly.
There was a song I didn't recognize playing on the jukebox-a male and female duet, something about them having “the time of our lives… never felt this way before.” I noticed The Ghost of Fieldman sitting in the corner, drinking something clear like Fresca, and munching on a basket of popcorn. I didn't have any proof, but I was convinced he'd been messing with the jukebox.
We finished our drinks and left the bar.