Dead Mann Walking

21

Turned out I’d slept through more than just morning. By the time I was on my way, it was late afternoon. The ride was nothing to speak of. My car was empty. There were flashes through the filthy windows whenever the power lines sparked. The train passed ticky-tack suburbs, trash-strewn woods where teens ran wild, before it squeaked and shuddered into Cherry’s End.

The only thing visible from the station was the forest. I got off the platform and still didn’t see much of anything. Why? Because that’s how Colby Green planned it. A few years ago, there was a court case over whether or not Cherry’s End was even part of Fort Hammer. Green was rich enough to muddy the jurisdiction. Even got his own area code.

The huge stone wall surrounding his property sneaked up on me. That’s hard to manage with something so big, but this was no Collin Hills, protected by cinder block made pretty with a trowel swish. Consumerism is a superficial sin for superficial people. Ninety-nine percent of the folks living at Collin Hills couldn’t tell you what cinder block was made of. Green knew exactly where his Italian marble came from, the city, the quarry, the name of the foreman. Not that he cared about architecture. From what I understood, he was like that with everything. He knew the world inside and out and now wanted to play with it the way a cat likes to toy with a mouse, amused at the way it hovers between life and death.

Which is probably why he likes chakz so much.

I followed the wall maybe ten minutes until I spotted the front gates, iron monsters buttressed by Italian marble columns. Sneaking around a lion’s den seems disrespectful as well as pointless, so I figured I might as well walk up and knock. It is, after all, one of the few places open to chakz.

Adjusting my jacket and tie, I told myself that if I presented the case just so, and he really liked this Nell Parker, at the very least he’d want to take steps to protect his property. Made sense to me. But making sense just made me uncomfortable, the world being fucking crazy.

The gate didn’t get closer as I walked so much as bigger and bigger. When I finally got to the iron, I heard some weird sounds—a bzt followed by a gzt. Peering between the bars, I looked up and saw those bug zappers Jonesey was talking about, bugs swarming, dying, being “reborn.” No rumor, then.

Bzt! You’re dead! Gzt! You’re back!

I hoped to hell he didn’t have any puppies.

“Can I help you?”

I was so busy being horrified I hadn’t noticed the camera and monitor. A round face with a lascivious grin that reminded me of the master of ceremonies from Cabaret eyeballed me from some unknown location.

“My name is Hessius Mann,” I said. “I’m a detective. I have reason to believe someone may try to break into the estate.”

His lipstick smile turned upside down. “Detective? No, no. That’s next week. You must have gotten the wrong schedule! Today it’s Voyage to the Bottom of the Chak! A nautical theme. Oh, well, come on in! The party is just getting started!”

“Wait, I’m not . . .”

The screen went dead; the gates swung open. Dogs barked in the distance. Looked like I’d be entering under false pretenses.

There was a wide, white gravel driveway, but I took a gray stone footpath instead, passing bubbling fountains and major landscaping. I don’t know the names of many plants, but there were lots, different leaves, different flowers, different smells, all neatly arranged.

It wasn’t until I passed some rows of tall hemlocks that the main building punched me in the face, and it wasn’t interested in leaving much space for clouds or sky. I didn’t recognize the architectural style, or even if it had one; I only knew there was a lot of it. So this was Xanadu, or the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, on steroids, if you prefer. I’d seen pictures, but they didn’t do the place justice. The only camera that could take the whole thing in was up in orbit and available on Google Earth.

“In my father’s house are many rooms,” it says in the Bible. Judging from the number of windows, Colby Green was in competition with God.

A few seconds later, I was facing a twenty-foot black slab with a knob. I felt like I should sacrifice a goat to it, but then realized it was a door. It swung open, the clown from the security monitor behind it, wearing an open magenta silk robe. It definitely wasn’t his color.

He winced at the sunlight and gave my arm an old-man grab, the kind that’s stronger than you expect, like it’s holding on for dear life. Then he dragged me into a foyer that could have comfortably held a 747, and twisted me around for a look.

He didn’t like what he saw, but that made two of us. In the quieter light, his grin looked more like a side effect of too many Botox injections. His eyes were still expressive, so I could sort of tell what he was thinking as long as I didn’t pay too much attention to that smile.

“Nice try,” he said, “but we have much, much better outfits in the dressing room. How are you with pole dancing?”

“Hold it. This isn’t a costume. I’m here on business.”

His eyes joined in with the grin. “But you’re a chak.”

“Gee, and they told me at the funeral that I looked so natural.”

“Forgive me!” he said with a chuckle. “Chakz generally only arrive here for one reason.”

“I know, but I’m here for another.”

“A chak. Here for another reason.”

“Someone tells you two and two is four, does it matter who says it?”

“I was never very good at math.”

“I’m hoping your boss is.”

“Ah, well, I’m sure you won’t be disappointed. Mr. Green is good at everything.”

He let go of my shoulder and wiped his hand on his robe, like I was the one who’d have cooties. “He’s in the playground, watching some entertainment with his guests. You’re welcome to try to speak to him. I can’t promise anything. I can’t promise anything at all.” He lowered his voice to a giggly whisper. “I can’t even promise you’ll be permitted to leave.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind. Which way? Do I need a map?”

“A guide to fashion, perhaps. You’re sure you don’t want to freshen up just a bit?”

“Nah. Under the circumstances, I think I’m better off sticking out, don’t you?”

He flared his nostrils. “I get your point. And believe me, you do. I’ll take you there, but I’d wait until Nell finishes dancing. She’s his favorite.”

“Oddly enough,” I said. “That’s what I’m hoping.”

He gave me a shrug that said he didn’t understand and couldn’t care less, then led me down an arched hallway three times wider than my office. It was lined with life-size statues, all with an erotic bent. Some involved men and women, others animals, some both. When the hand on one statue moved to stroke itself, I nearly jumped out of my wrinkly skin. They were animated, like those figures in Disneyland’s Hall of Presidents. Did Green think it funny?

When I started, the gnomish doorman sneaked a peek to see if I had any further reaction to the decor. When I didn’t supply any, he trotted along, a little disappointed, then opened another set of doors into what had to be the “playground.”

It was big, of course. The lighting was intentionally soft, almost dim. The arched ceiling, a floor or two up, was covered with twinkling lights in the shape of constellations, only, like the statues, they were animated, so that, you guessed it, it looked like the stars were screwing. The rest of the space was part stage, part pool, part recreation area. There were jungle gyms, swings, all sorts of toys, but no one under thirty was playing with them. No one living, anyway. The stage area, aside from three silver poles and a black velvet curtain, was empty at the moment. There was plenty going on everywhere else.

The smell of chlorine from the pool was strong, but not nearly strong enough. For the first time since I died, I felt like I needed a shower. Like the emcee man said, there was a nautical theme. Chakz were dressed as everything from pirates to cephalopods. Some of the LBs were playing dress-up, too, fish masks and all; others didn’t bother. Among them I spotted some of Fort Hammer’s rich and famous. The only one I could put a name to was the DA, and frankly it would’ve been safer for me if I hadn’t.

My fellow reanimates didn’t look happy. Then again, they didn’t look unhappy, either. Surprising, considering the uses to which their orifices were being put. Mostly, they looked uninterested, even bored. A few glanced my way and gave me a look that seemed to say, What’s the big deal? We’re stone dead already.

That’s why no one ever bothered to make chakking-up illegal. Victimless crime.

Trying hard not to recognize anyone else important, I searched for Green among the mass of entangled flesh. Funny, I hadn’t figured on Fort Hammer’s own Caligula being all by his lonesome, but he was. He was in the shallow end of the pool sitting in a half-submerged lounge chair. His open robe floated around his fiftysomething gut, chlorinated water lapping at the matted hairs on his belly.

Aside from an obvious penchant for eating, he was in good shape. Even if sex was his only vice, you’d think he’d have caught something by now, but he didn’t look ravaged by drugs or illness. The hair seemed real, and he looked younger than Misty. Not young at heart, though. I expected giddiness, like the emcee, but Green had a predatory stillness. He wasn’t quite as motionless as a chak could get, but close enough.

I made my way toward him, dodging couples, triples, and quadruples, trying not to step on anyone, ignoring invitations to join in. Other than Green, the only other people in the room “uninvolved” were two thugs leaning against one of the columns that lined the room and held up the faux heavens. They were dressed in black, wore sunglasses, had black hair, square jaws, the whole Reservoir Dogs look.

As I neared Green, one came forward and patted his jacket pocket to let me know he was there. I gave him a nod, then knelt by the edge of the pool near the main man.

“Mr. Green,” I said.

There was lots of noise in the room, grinding, heaving breathing, gasps, but when Colby Green turned toward me, a few drops of water fell from his hair and I could hear them hit the pool. The bat-black of his eyes sized me up like an hors d’oeuvre, something interesting enough to taste even if he was full. I think it gave me a small sense of how Misty felt out on the streets.

Before he could decide on his own what to do about me, I started talking, fast. “My name’s Hessius Mann. I know it’s unusual, but I’m a detective. I’ve got good reason to think—”

A piano song interrupted, playing over hidden speakers. The music was electronic, intentionally tinny, and vaguely familiar. Green put a finger to his lips and nodded toward the stage as the recorded lyrics began.

Got a feelin’ it’s all over now—all over now, we’re through.

Took me a second, but I placed the tune. It was the closing theme from All in the Family, an ancient sitcom. That’s the kind of crap I have no trouble remembering. If that weren’t strange enough, a female chak, pale as paper or maybe a blue-tinged moon, emerged from the side of the black velvet curtain and strutted to the center pole.

Nell Parker, I presumed.

And tomorrow I’ll be lonesome, remembering you.

Unless it was a ton of makeup, or the lighting, she was in great shape. The only thing that looked fake was the bowl-cut hair, bleached beyond platinum to match the alabaster outfit. The lighting gave her face some grayer patches, even a swipe or two of charcoal black, but the only real color on the stage was the green in her eyes. The color had to be fake, contacts, but they looked great, stuck out like emeralds on a sandy stretch of beach.

She spun and gyrated. The line between the folds in her dress and the curves of her body disappeared into the pattern of her movement. Women’s advocate? Sure, but she must’ve been a dancer, too. Strong hips, small breasts. Not boyish in any way, and there wasn’t anything missing. Not a bit of rot. One of the lucky ones. Oh, there were signs that she was a chak, but only two. Her eyes were a bit too sunken, and her expression was dull, detached, absent, echoing the ennui all the chakz here had.

A pole dance is about voyeurism. Look but don’t touch. You watch the dancer enjoy her own sexuality. Toss a chak into the mix and it’s something different. She swooped, flipped, and tumbled at an easy, erotic tempo. One moment her body rippled in a perfect imitation of hunger and longing; the next she spun away with a quick flash of disdain. I thought for a second she was looking at me. But, like a pro, she’d made eye contact with everyone.

I think I could guess what she meant to Green. It was echoes, all echoes, but so perfect she blurred the line with the real thing. That was his fascination, the line between the living and the dead. He wasn’t the only one. I barely noticed when the song ended. Barely heard it when a voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Ms. Parker will be back shortly to join in the fun.”

She flitted away, her eyes’ green sparkle lost in gray as she passed through the black velvet curtain. Before it floated closed, I noticed a circular staircase behind it.

Booth used to tell me that detective work should never, ever be personal. The cold formula’s the important part: two and two equals four. It doesn’t matter if it’s two apples or two oranges, two drug addicts or two helpless infants. Best not to pay attention to anything else. The moment you think you can have feelings and do the work is the moment you’re about to make your worst mistake.

Colby turned toward me. “Now, what was it you had to say?”

I didn’t answer. I was too busy watching the air she’d left behind.