“A walk in the park,” said Coop.
“It’s like old times, isn’t it?” said Phil. “You and me on the job, about to snatch some big shot’s solid-gold shoe trees.”
“Except now we’re on a salary and have to give everything back.”
“Yeah, that’s a drag. Still, it’s great working together again.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d rather be literally anywhere else in the world right now.” Coop checked his watch. “What’s taking him so long?” He looked back at the police van. If they ran now they could make it to Mexico by dawn, ditch the van, steal a car, and disappear into the desert by lunch. Coop knew it wasn’t his best plan but, he thought, It can’t possibly be any worse than this.
“I’m giving him two more minutes,” he said.
“You don’t have to. Watch your head, dummy,” said Phil.
Coop stepped out of the way just as the end of a length of heavy rope thudded to the ground beside him. He gave the cord a tentative pull and it felt solid.
“Looks like Robocop did his job after all. See? You’re always so worried about things,” said Phil.
Coop climbed the rope a few feet and jumped down. “I haven’t been shot by a trumpet player yet and I’d like to keep it that way.”
In his head, he quickly went over his plan again, hoping to find something he’d missed, some other way into the museum that didn’t involve dangling like a dying flounder at the mercy of a windup toy.
“Coop . . . ?” said Phil.
“Okay,” he said, and waved to the van.
Morty and Giselle dashed out of the back, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. In their odd costumes, it took a little longer than normal for them to cross the lot. Morty was the slowest, high-stepping in shiny blue shoes that extended a good twelve inches past the end of his foot. Eventually, they reached the wall.
As soon as they got there, Coop said, “Everybody ready?”
“You’re not,” said Morty. He thrust a spiky green wig and red round nose into Coop’s hand. “Join the clown club, Officer Twinkles.”
Coop reluctantly pulled the wig over his head and stuck the nose over his.
“Satisfied?” he said.
Giselle sniggered.
“Getting there,” Morty said.
Coop grabbed the rope and stuck his foot into one of the loops tied down its length. “I’ll go up first. The rest of you grab on when the doc pulls. Oh, and don’t ever call me Officer Twinkles again.”
“Sergeant Sparkles is more like it,” said Giselle.
Coop didn’t say a word. He just took a duffel bag off her shoulder and tugged twice on the rope. It slowly pulled him into the air.
The whole way up, Coop kept telling himself that Dr. Lupinsky knew what he was doing. Besides, why was going up this wall so different from others? He’d climbed plenty of walls and ropes in his criminal career. Of course, those times he’d been climbing, not hanging on for dear life hoping he wasn’t going to pull a walking clothes dryer down on top of him. At around the third floor, he closed his eyes. Coop wasn’t big on praying, but he did mention God’s name several times on the way up—mostly to curse everything and everyone around him.
Finally, he made it to the roof. Coop pulled himself over the edge and dropped the duffel bag. Dr. Lupinsky continued to wind up the rope around two of his metal tentacles. Coop gave him a quick nod.
Meow, said the television cat.
Coop hung over the edge of the roof and helped pull up the others. First Giselle, then Morty. Their wigs were askew, one of the Morty’s shoes was half off, and the enormous plastic carnation in Giselle’s striped lapel drooped as though it had lost the will to live. Giselle gave Coop a hug. Morty leaned against an air duct and gave them a gasping wave.
“Coop,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Your plan sucks.”
“That was the hard part. The rest is going to be a lot easier.”
“Ahem,” said Phil.
“Yeah. That’s why we have Phil with us?” said Morty. “Because it’s going to be easy?”
“Easier,” said Coop. “Not easy. Easier.”
“Can’t we just stay up here for the rest of our lives? We can drink rainwater and eat pigeons.”
“I like Morty’s idea,” said Giselle.
“Me, too. That’s three votes for living up here. You’re outnumbered,” said Phil.
“We can’t stay here,” said Coop.
“Why not?” said Morty.
“Because the doc needs batteries. You don’t want the pussy cat to die, do you?”
“Aw. You do like kitties. I knew it,” said Giselle.
Thank you, Coop, appeared on Dr. Lupinsky’s screen as he pulled up the rest of the rope.
Coop ignored the chatter and looked around. “Who has the amnesia gas?”
“It’s over here,” said Giselle, unzipping one of the duffels. She took out several soda-can-size canisters with little bat wings tucked underneath.
“How do they work?’ said Coop.
“It’s easy. They’re like grenades. You pull this pin and it turns them on. Then you just point them where you want them to go and off they go.”
“They look like party favors.”
“They’ll make everyone inside loopy as a ferret and as dumb as a goldfish,” Giselle said.
“Sounds like a party,” said Phil.
Coop scratched his scalp through his wig. It just made his head itch more. “We want the things inside, on every floor from here to the lobby. Can they do that?”
“Easy,” Giselle said brightly.
“Don’t say ‘easy.’ You’ll jinx it,” said Morty.
“Doable.”
“Thank you.”
Coop went to where Morty leaned on the duct. “You’re in charge of any locks between us and the museum. We need to get the bats all the way inside.”
Morty gave him a thumbs-up. “You look good giving orders again. Like your old self.”
“My old self would have punched me for a rickety plan like this,” said Coop.
Dr. Lupinsky set down the rope and crept over.
What about me?
“You stay with me and Phil until we get to mummy central.” Coop looked around once more. “Anybody have any questions?”
“I have one,” said Giselle.
“What?”
She took out her phone. “You look ridiculous in that nose and wig. Can’t I take just one picture?”
“There’s no way . . .” said Coop before he heard the sound of a camera shutter. “Are you happy now?” he said.
“Very.”
“Finish with the bats.”
“Just two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” she said.
“Did everybody take their anti-amnesia pills?” said Morty. “I have some more.”
“I’ll take another,” said Coop.
“How many is that for you?”
“This’ll be my third.”
“Maybe you ought to lay off after this. There might be side effects.”
“I’m in a cop getup with a green wig and a rubber nose. How much worse can I get?”
Morty shrugged. “Maybe I’ll have another, too.”
“Finished,” said Giselle. A dozen of the winged canisters lay in a neat pile next to her.
“That’s enough for the whole museum?” said Coop.
“Are you kidding? That’s enough for Las Vegas.”
Coop turned to the others. “I know this plan is sketchy as hell. If anyone wants out, now’s the time. No hard feelings.”
“I don’t have hands per se, but if I did, they’d both be raised,” said Phil.
“A minute ago, you were all gung ho,” said Coop.
“A minute ago, I was on the ground. Now I’m in the air with Cirque du Soleil and some bottle rockets.”
“Tough. You don’t get a vote.”
“We have no idea what’s inside.”
“We will in a minute.
Anyone else?”
“Will you quit it with the dramatics?” said Morty. “No one’s going anywhere, so let’s get the rodeo started.”
“Okay. Thanks,” said Coop. “Morty, you’re up. Get us inside.”
With Morty in the lead, they went to a door over an enclosed staircase at one end of the roof. The others followed with the gas bats and bags. Morty took a breath and touched the door. Locks popped. He pulled, and the door swung open.
Timidly, Morty stuck his head inside the staircase. There was nothing but cinder-block walls and metal steps. He edged down a flight to another door and listened for a few seconds. He looked back at Coop and touched the door with one finger, jumping back as it came open.
The lights on the top floor were all out. Morty took a quick skulk around the gallery and came back.
“You were right, Coop. Everybody is downstairs.”
“Great. Let’s send in the bombers,” he said.
Giselle took one of the gas bats, pulled a pin on its rear, and tossed it.
“Fly, my pretties!”
Silently, the bat’s wings began to flap. It rose, almost to the ceiling, before zooming down the stairs.
Coop and the others smiled. The television cat meowed. They pulled the pins from the rest of the bats and tossed them into the dark. They swooped and fluttered downstairs, leaving trails of white mist behind. As the last one disappeared, Coop pulled the door closed and checked his watch.
“How long will the gas take?” he said.
“Not long. Give it ten minutes,” Giselle said.
“What are we going to do to pass the time?” said Phil.
“You can tell us more about spats, Uncle Phil,” said Morty.
“What do you know about dressing well?” Phil said. “You’re a guy who probably buys his clothes by the pound.”
“Touchy. Why don’t you sing us one of Sonny Brisco’s big band tunes?”
“Do not encourage him to sing,” said Coop. “He’s impossible to turn off.”
“Don’t worry, Coop,” said Phil. “I wouldn’t waste my pipes on these philistines. But just so you know, I own Roy Orbison on karaoke night. I’ll sing ‘In Dreams’ and make you cry like I banged your mom.”
“Don’t threaten me with karaoke,” said Morty. “I have more Sinatra in my little finger than you have in your ectoplasmic whatever.”
“Are you calling me out, Clarabell?”
“Are you challenging me, Casper?”
“Don’t call me that!” said Phil. “Ghosts hate that name.”
“Sorry,” said Morty.
“It’s okay. Just watch it with that stuff.”
“Okay, Sam.”
“Why are you calling me Sam now?”
“He’s the ghost from that movie.”
“What movie?”
“Ghost.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Come on. Every ghost must know that movie.”
“Nope. I’m drawing a blank.”
“It’s got Demi Moore and a pottery wheel.”
“Now it’s arts and crafts. Settle on a topic, Emmett Kelly.”
“I think he’s messing with you, Morty,” said Giselle.
Morty’s eyes narrowed. “Is that true? You screwing with me, Freddy Krueger?”
“Maybe just a little,” said Phil. “Every ghost knows that goddamn movie. And we hate it almost as much as we hate Casper. Ever since that thing came out, spirits are supposed to look like that Swayze asshole. All pecs and six-pack abs. You think there’s a lot of gyms over here? Let me tell you, there’s not. If you were a fat fuck when you died, you’re pretty much a fat fuck as a ghost. Does that sound like fun?”
“Sorry,” said Morty. “I didn’t know it was so hard being a ghost.”
“Aside from being dead?”
“Yeah, aside from that.”
“It’s not that bad most of the time,” said Phil, calmer now. “At least I have a job. I’m not some stir-crazy phantom stuck in a Gothic mansion out on the moors somewhere.”
“Does that really happen?”
“All the time. And then some prick knocks the place down to put up a mall and the last microscopic bit of dignity you had left goes out the window because now you’re not haunting the tower where you were murdered by your jealous lover. No, now you’re the spook in the haunted nail salon. On a good day, maybe you get to throw some cotton balls at a soccer mom.”
Dr. Lupinsky nodded his bulky body.
It’s true. Being dead is complicated. It took me a long time to convince anyone that I was still here, trapped in this television. For years, everyone just thought I was stuck on a crappy nature show that never ended.
“That’s so sad,” said Giselle.
It wasn’t all bad. Unlike Phil, I never got the hang of fashion. Being dead during the seventies means I missed a lot of terrible clothes.
“Flared jeans,” said Phil.
Paisley.
“Nehru jackets.”
Puka shells.
“A velour tuxedo to your prom,” said Morty.
Giselle looked at him. “You sound as old as Phil.”
“No. It was a seventies theme. Though, in retrospect, the tuxedo was maybe a little much.”
“Velour could be. With girls, there’s a fine line between ironic and unfuckable.”
“I overshot ironic by a mile.”
“You poor boys. Such sad stories,” said Giselle, putting on a pouty face. “Want to hear a really crappy one about Coop?”
“Yes!” they said.
“No,” said Coop. He turned away from the group and looked at his watch. “It’s ten minutes. Let’s move.”
“There’s no way it’s been ten minutes,” said Phil.
“Yes. It’s absolutely been ten.”
Dr. Lupinsky’s cat rubbed its side on the television screen.
Thank you for bringing up the subject of the ghosting experience, Phil. I seldom get to talk about it.
“Anytime, doc. It’s good to have another spirit around when I have to work with these meat buckets.”
Dr. Lupinsky’s cat knocked its party hat off and batted it around happily.
If you ever want to come over and visit my television, you’re welcome.
“Thanks, but I’m allergic to cats.”
I understand.
“Let’s move,” said Coop.
“There’s no way that was ten minutes,” whispered Morty.
17
Across town, Vargas was getting home before dawn, an unusual event for him. As much as he hated leaving work early, he just had to get away from Zulawski. The man’s obsession with the parcel was getting worse. Of course, Zulawski loved to accuse him of being the one obsessed. Tonight, though, Vargas had nailed him. Coming back from the restroom in the middle of their shift, he caught Zulawski in a welding mask and gloves, poking the parcel with a cardboard mailing tube covered in aluminum foil.
“Exactly what are you doing?” said Vargas.
Zulawski shushed him and crooked a finger for Vargas to follow. They backed all the way to office door before Zulawski would speak.
“It’s talking,” he whispered.
“What? The parcel?”
“No. The pencil sharpener. Of course I mean the parcel!”
“All right. Calm down,” said Vargas, who was beginning to feel less and less calm the more Zulawski talked. “What did it say?”
“I don’t know. It wasn’t speaking English.”
“What was it?”
“Something old,” said Zulawski gravely. “Something . . . eldritch.”
Vargas scratched his chin as if deep in thought. Really, he was looking around for something to hit Zulawski with if he kept on his current trajectory and went completely insane.
“Eldritch, huh? Well, that does sound unsettling.”
“Unsettling? It’s horrifying. I can’t stand being near it anymore.”
“I can understand. It being so eldritch and all.”
>
Zulawski peered at him appraisingly. “You don’t believe me.”
Vargas held his hands up, still speaking quietly. “I didn’t say that. But tell me one thing, please.”
“What?”
“What’s with the foil scimitar?”
Zulawski clutched the silver-wrapped tube to his chest like a homemade life preserver. “It’s to keep away the rays when I touch it.”
Vargas continued to keep his voice low. “Which rays are those?”
“The thought rays. The ones that put the voice in your head.”
“You mean like a tinfoil hat that people wear so the CIA can’t read their thoughts?”
“Yes. Like that.”
“Those are crazy people,” said Vargas at full volume.
Zulawski took a step back, holding the tube at him like a sword. He looked at the parcel over on the shelf. “What have you done? I think it heard you.”
“That’s it,” said Vargas. He went to his desk in as calm and nonthreatening way as he could and put on his jacket. “I’m leaving. If I stay, you’re going to make me as crazy as you.”
Zulawski came over to his desk. “You can’t leave me alone with that thing,” he said pleadingly. “Please.”
Vargas stepped around Zulawski, but stopped by the office door. “I’m going home. I suggest that you do the same. Tomorrow we’ll call someone who knows about haunted whatnots.”
Zulawski went back to frantic whispering. “That’s the insidious part. It’s against the rules for us to tell anybody! We’re trapped with it.”
Vargas opened the door and stepped out. “Go home. You’re overwrought. We’ll figure out something tomorrow.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Zulawski. He set down the tube just long enough to snatch his jacket off the back of his chair. Then he grabbed it again and pressed it to his chest. “But I’m taking my tube with me. If you want one, you’ll have to make your own.”
“I’ll get right on that,” said Vargas. “Good night.”
“Good night,” said Zulawski, coat in one hand, tube in the other, still staring at the parcel.
Living on a government salary in a city like L.A. wasn’t easy and Vargas didn’t much like the seedy building where he lived, his grim apartment, or his odd neighbors. Like that Brad guy on the first floor. The earnest loser who stuffed animal rights pamphlets into everyone’s mailboxes. Sometime in the last few days, he’d nailed crosses and hung rosary beads all over the hall near his apartment door. As he picked up his mail, Vargas thought, The guy is as batty as Zulawski.