“Fine,” said Woolrich. “If you’re going to be insistent, you can bring along a poltergeist assistant. What about Phil Spectre? You two have worked together before, as I recall.”
Coop sat back down feeling like he’d dodged a punch in the face just in time to shoot himself with a shotgun full of bees.
Morty handed him the photo of the amulet.
“Cooper?” said Woolrich.
“When do you want us to go in?” Coop said.
“Let’s see, there’s a homicidal mummy on the loose with vast magical abilities and an unknown agenda, so whenever is convenient for you.”
“We’re going to have to work on a plan. The day after tomorrow?”
“Did I hear tomorrow? That will be fine,” said Woolrich.
Coop pointed a finger at him. “You know things are going to get messy this time, right? We don’t know what the hell is waiting for us in there.”
“Just bring back the amulet. Requisition what you need, but remember . . .”
“I know. Don’t go over budget.”
Coop looked at Dr. Lupinsky. “Your wish has come true, doc. You’re going in with us this time.”
The cat stood up, walked out the edge of the screen, and fell over.
Excuse me while I go and soil myself.
12
There was a knock on the door to Nelson’s office. He cursed quietly.
Nelson was busy making a long list in a notebook. Every now and then, he would copy a group of items from the list and put them in a specific square on a grid he’d drawn at the back of the book. He was creating a handwritten database, handwritten because he couldn’t chance on creating one on his computer. The audit department swept those at regular intervals, checking for viruses, malware, peeking at browser histories, etc. Nelson thought that it must be a tedious way to spend your days.
Of course, those audit creeps ought to come down here and try this job. Then they’ll know what tedious is.
Nelson, however, had become an expert in ways to make his job less tedious. His games of reading, losing, rerouting, and holding back memos and mail helped keep his job semilively and periodically engaging. But he couldn’t keep all of the clandestine traffic in his head, so he had to create his paper database. It was dangerous, painstaking work, but if he did it right, it would pay off big in the end. Patience was what he needed now, but he’d never had a lot of it. It was doubly hard now that alcohol no longer had any effect on his mook system. However, some of his smaller-scale and petty meddling in the information flow through the DOPS helped compensate for it. Every missed meeting, every wrong assignment, every bit of research material lost—while pinning the blame on someone else—was a personal victory. It wasn’t the same as getting loaded or being alive, but the resulting chaos buoyed his spirit enormously.
The knock came again. Nelson put away the notebook and locked the drawer.
“Come in,” he said.
The door opened and McCloud came in with a brown paper bag. When Nelson saw it, his spirit did a malevolent little pirouette. But he was careful not to show it.
“Yes, McCloud?” he said in the tone of the management book when referring to “Harried Enthusiasm,” which was meant to convey that while you were very busy, you were glad to make time for the employee’s no doubt fascinating idea, news, or query. Because he despised everyone he worked with, it wasn’t Nelson’s strongest management voice. He made a note to work on it when he wasn’t completing the database.
“I have the items you wanted,” McCloud said.
“And no one saw you collect them?”
“No, sir. I was very careful. You made it clear how important it was to keep things on the TQ.”
“QT,” said Nelson.
“Sorry. I’m dyslexic.”
“I know. We’ve discussed it before.”
“Have we? I don’t remember.”
“Trust me, we have.”
The reason McCloud didn’t remember was that the discussions always took place when he was under hypnosis. During some of those trances, Nelson had tried to rewire McCloud’s brain several times, always with disastrous results. He started speaking backward. He broke into sea shanties. He forgot English completely and spent a whole work shift inventing a new language that consisted mainly of obscene hand gestures and chasing his fellow workers around with a fire extinguisher. Still, the dyslexia worked in Nelson’s favor. As long as other mooks innocently followed his instructions to divert a message here and there, McCloud could collect them without being able to read any. It made McCloud an integral part of his plans.
“You are plausible deniability personified,” said Nelson.
McCloud thought for a minute. “Is that good?”
“Wonderful. Now what do you have there?”
McCloud set the bag on the desk. “The correspondence you asked for. I hope it’s the right ones.”
Nelson upended the bag. Several corporate and even a few personal birthday cards fell out. All were addressed to Zulawski.
“Perfect,” Nelson said. He put the cards back in the bag. “Now, here’s what you’re going to do next. Remember the squid you took from Bayliss’s desk?”
“Yes. I have it in a tank in the storage room.”
“Good. At the end of the shift, when everyone else is gone, you’re going to pack up the squid. Then tomorrow, you’ll get someone else to route it to the ECIU.”
McCloud looked puzzled. “All right,” he said finally. “Is there anything else?”
“Yes. When you’re done packing the squid, you’re going to take all of Bayliss’s office supplies that we’ve been gathering, box them up, and send them to the audit department.”
Now McCloud looked distressed. “I don’t understand why you want me to do that.”
“Of course. Let me explain it to you,” said Nelson, coming around the desk.
He put a finger on McCloud’s forehead. “Macho Taco Guy Lombardo,” he said. McCloud blinked vacantly.
“Now, I want you to forget the conversation we just had, but I want you to remember to pack the boxes I told you about.”
McCloud smiled. “Sure thing, boss.”
“Once you’ve packed them, you’re going to feel refreshed and happy. When you do, you’re going to forget about the boxes, too. Understand?”
“Sure thing, boss.”
“Good.”
Nelson put his finger on McCloud’s forehead and repeated the hypnotic phrase. McCloud sagged for a second, then straightened and looked his usually idiotic, chipper self.
“Did you want anything besides the bag?” he said.
“Nothing. You did a great job,” said Nelson. He steered McCloud to the door, following him out to the mail room. As soon as McCloud went back to his regular duties, Nelson took Zulawski’s birthday cards to the shredder and tossed them in.
The crazier I can make one of them, the crazier he’ll make the other.
Nelson stood by the machine until every card was thoroughly sliced, diced, and chewed to bits.
That’s Zulawski taken care of for the moment.
Now, what can I do to Vargas?
13
There wasn’t much light in Minerva Soleil’s storefront psychic reading parlor. There were, however, heavy drapes, crystal balls, tarot cards, Tibetan prayer flags, and statues of a dozen saints. The walls were festooned with pictures of Orishas, Bodhisattvas, a Kabbalah Tree of Life, and old spirit photos with the ghosts of lost loved ones leaking ectoplasm into the air. Around them, in the subtly unsubtle pattern Minerva had worked hard at, were yellowing images of her with big-name movie and television stars of the fifties and sixties. On her good days, she felt that the space projected an air of calm but powerful spiritual power. On other days—most days, actually—it felt like she was running a flea market in the Wicked Witch of the West’s garage. But the knickknacks hid the cracks and water stains in the wall plaster, so they were a dusty necessity.
“Are you in contact yet?” said Mrs.
Caroline Barnett. “Is Scotty there? What does he say?”
Probably “Quiet, you old bat.” He probably danced a jig when he died.
“He’s close by,” said Minerva in a low, soothing voice. “I can see him.”
“Oh, good. What does he want me to do with all that jewelry in the safe-deposit box? I mean, diamond rings and pearl necklaces. He didn’t steal it, did he? He promised he’d given up that kind of thing.”
“She’s quite the Chatty Cathy, isn’t she?” said Dross, Minerva’s spirit guide. Dross was a ghost and spoke to Minerva in her head. He was the only dead person she could stand.
Minerva answered him in her head. “Will you tell me something useful already? Mrs. Methuselah is giving me a rash.”
“I’m working on it,” said Dross. “Scotty isn’t as spry as he used to be. Neither am I, come to think of it.”
“Cry me a river. We need this job.”
“Calm down. I . . . Wait. Here he is.”
“Thank fucking Jesus,” said Minerva without thinking.
“But Scotty is Jewish.” said Mrs. Barnett. “And an atheist. Why would you be talking to Jesus?”
Minerva heard Dross snigger.
Just my luck. The old biddy hears like an airedale.
“Not Jesus,” Minerva said. “Jeeves. Jeeves-us. An old Roman spirit guide. Very powerful. Very wise.”
“My goodness. The people you know. It must be very exciting.”
“It’s like being shot out of a spiritual cannon into a net of angels.”
“My goodness.”
Dross sniggered again. And coughed. Minerva never heard a ghost cough before. If she wasn’t so busy trying to keep Little Miss Chatterbox here happy, she would have asked him about it.
“Tell her Scotty says, ‘What does she want?’” said Dross. “And, ‘oh God, I can’t shake her; even here?’”
“Scotty says he loves you and misses you.”
“Really?” said Mrs. Barnett. “He never talked that way when he was alive.”
Minerva nodded sagely. “Death has a way of giving some people access to the true emotions they didn’t have in life,” she said.
“Ask him about the jewelry. It makes me nervous. I thought about having it appraised, but knowing Scotty’s past, I’m afraid that might not be wise.”
“I’ll ask him.”
“He wants her to go away,” said Dross. “He’s whining up a storm.”
“Oh, and find out about the air-conditioning warranty. I looked in the filing cabinet, but I can’t find it,” said Mrs. Barnett.
Let this work or kill me now, God, thought Minerva.
“I think she’s kind of sweet,” said Dross. “Tell her I think she’s sweet.”
Minerva thought, “Listen, I want those jewels, but we need to convince her it’s Scotty’s idea.”
“Hey. We’ve been doing this for fifty years. I know the scam.”
Minerva was about to tell him to get his ectoplasmic ass in gear when he broke out into another coughing fit.
“And is Peaches there with him? She loved to curl up on Scotty’s lap,” said Mrs. Barnett.
“Hmm,” said Minerva.
“Quick, ask him about Peaches,” Minerva thought. “I need to give Mrs. Dingbat something.”
“Peaches is fine,” said Dross. “Barking and humping angel legs in the celestial dog park.”
“Your little dog is fine. She’s with him right now,” said Minerva with a reassuring smile.
Mrs. Barnett looked at her quizzically. “Peaches was our cat,” she said.
“Really?” said Dross. “Hang on.” He disappeared. There was nothing in Minerva’s head but a deep dismay. Still, there had been other hiccups over the years. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
“I didn’t mean your dog. I meant Scotty’s dog. The stray he adopted in Heaven.”
“Scotty was allergic to dogs. He hated them,” said Mrs. Barnett. “Our neighbor’s Pomeranian brushed against his leg and I had to take him to the emergency room.”
“But he likes them now,” said Minerva hopefully. “And so does Peaches. They play together.”
Mrs. Barnett’s eyes narrowed. “Peaches hated dogs more than Scotty.”
Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
When Dross popped back into Minerva’s head, she could swear he was out of breath. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “And don’t be mad.”
“What about the warranty?” said Mrs. Barnett.
“I think he’s the wrong Scott Barnett,” said Dross.
Minerva’s dismay expanded like a panicked puffer fish.
“It’s funny when you think about it,” Dross said. “I mean how many Scott Barnetts can there be that are married to a Caroline? Well, at least two.”
“Ask him if he knows anything about an air conditioner or jewelry,” thought Minerva.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Yes. Do that.”
“Well?” said Mrs. Barnett. “What does he have to say?”
“It will take just a minute. He’s thinking. Sometimes these earthy matters slip the spirit’s mind when they’ve been gone for a while.”
“It’s only been two weeks.”
“That’s a long time for ghosts.”
“Is it?” said Mrs. Barnett, impatience and perhaps something darker in her voice.
Minerva’s puffer fish of dismay was growing into a hammerhead shark of dread.
“Okay. I double-checked. He never stole anything,” said Dross. “I doubt if he was ever sober enough. He’s just a lush who wants to play cards with his buddies.”
“Have you checked behind the filing cabinet?” said Minerva. “Scotty thinks the warranty might be there.”
“That was the first place I looked after I couldn’t find it,” said Mrs. Barnett.
“Also, you should bring the jewelry to me so I can do a spiritual cleansing . . .”
Mrs. Barnett jumped to her feet. “I knew it. That’s all you wanted all along, you faker.”
“No. You don’t understand. I’m not a faker,” said Minerva. “I’m talking to the dead right now.”
“You don’t talk to anyone,” said Mrs. Barnett, snatching up her purse.
“I’m psychic. I have a spirit guide and everything.”
“Psychic? So, you can see into people’s minds?”
“Oh! I’m good at that, remember? Quick, tell her yes,” said Dross.
“Of course,” said Minerva. “What would you like to know?”
“What’s my middle name, my favorite food, and the number I’m thinking of?”
“Annette, pizza, and seven,” said Dross.
“Annette, pizza, and seven,” repeated Minerva.
“Louise, Thai fried rice, and four,” said Mrs. Barnett.
“Wow,” said Dross. “First the wrong ghost and now this. It’s not my day.” He broke into a coughing fit.
Minerva’s dread, dismay, and everything else deflated. It wasn’t like this in the old days. There had been limos. Parties in the hills. Invitations to movie premieres. Steve McQueen and Elizabeth Taylor never asked her about air-conditioner warranties. Why did she have to deal with this kind of crap now, at her age?
“I’m going to lay it on the line, Mrs. Barnett,” said Minerva. “When a woman finds a secret stash of jewels in her dead husband’s safe-deposit box, they’re stolen. Period. Dot. End of sentence. But I know people that’s not a problem for . . .”
“That’s what this whole thing has been about, isn’t it? The jewels?”
“Pretty much,” said Minerva wearily.
Mrs. Barnett walked to the front of the parlor and flung the street door open. The L.A. light that flooded into the place was blinding. Minerva put up a hand to shield her eyes.
“What do you say, Mrs. Barnett? I can set up a meet for tomorrow.”
Mrs. Barnett was a blur in the light. “I ought to call the police, you big faker.” Then she walked out, disappearing into the light like a ghost. r />
“Fuck me,” said Minerva.
“Well, that was rude,” said Dross. “Huh?”
Minerva didn’t reply.
“Oh, don’t be like that. Look, I’m sorry,” Dross said. “It’s just that it’s all getting harder these days.”
“What’s getting harder?”
“This. The gags we pull. The gaffes. The cons. The old switcheroo.”
“We didn’t always have to play tricks on people, did we?” Minerva thought. “We imparted great spiritual truths.”
“Well, we told them if their movie was going to bomb and if their spouse was banging anybody on the side. But yeah, it was the truth.”
“Good times,” thought Minerva.
“We were great back then, but . . .” Dross broke into another coughing spell. “Neither of us is what we used to be.”
“Your point being?”
“I’m thinking about hanging up my spirit-guide spurs and retiring.”
“You’re a ghost. What are you going to retire to?”
“Ghosts can retire. They retire all the time.”
“To do what?”
“Ghost stuff. You wouldn’t understand.”
Minerva’s dismay returned, this time in hobnail boots.
“You’re serious?”
Dross wheezed. “I’m afraid so. Look we had a good run . . .”
“Stop right there,” thought Minerva. “You sound like Carl when he handed me the divorce papers.”
“Ouch. Sorry.”
“I just need one big score. Stick around that long.”
“I’m can’t, Minerva,” said Dross softly. “I have to go.”
“Can you give me the lottery numbers, at least?”
“I couldn’t even tell Thai fried rice from pizza in an old lady’s noggin. You think I’m up to lottery numbers?”
“How about a horse? I’ll get the racing form.”
“Good-bye, Minerva.”
“Wait . . .”
She felt a void in her head where Dross usually was.
Minerva walked to the front door, closed and locked it. From a tin Santa Muerte on her altar, she took out a fat joint. She lit it off a candle with Saint Jude on one side and a picture of Keith Richards taped to the other.