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?
----
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
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?
----
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
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