When Graveyards Yawn - G. Wells Taylor (robert munsch read aloud .TXT) 📗

named Las Vegas. I didn’t know whether Las Vegas still existed, but if it was like Vicetown in the old days, I could well imagine what had happened to it after the Change. Vicetown was a place to go if you wanted to have things emptied: bank accounts, pockets, over-stimulated imaginations, you name it. I had come down for the latter, when deep in the intoxication of my first possession of Tommy. I could remember a dark woman named Lorna, who had a well-knit frame and plenty of energy.

Those first days had been strange. I had pretty much awakened, fully sentient, whole without a past, floating over Tommy’s head. I could remember the dizzying moments as I flinched mentally—expecting a fall. The following minutes were of extreme angst as I began to realize the unexplainable nature of my presence. I knew who I was, at least what I did, but I did not have a name. I had a sense of ‘I’, but I had no body. I knew that I existed, but I didn’t know where I came from. This was incredibly depressing for a few weeks—I had begun to think I was in hell, following the clown from toilet to liquor store to toilet—then, the first possession happened. One day, I was floating over Tommy like a grumpy little rain cloud—he was cleaning his sinuses with his pinky finger—when he made a frantic phone call and ordered the car around front. We drove a few blocks before he told Elmo to stop the car and let him out.

I remember Tommy running up a flight of steps and into a hotel very much like the Morocco—I remember the terrifying speed with which I was impelled after him. He passed up another flight of steps and then along a hallway to a door. It was open—cigarette smoke hung in the air—jazz music squawked sour in my ears. A heavy-set woman leaned against the frame with exaggerated and somewhat elephantine coquettishness. She batted large fake eyelashes at the clown. The dialogue was depressingly average.

“How are you, big boy?” She ran her hands over her hips. The trip must have tired them out because they hung limp at her sides afterwards.

“How is my little mama?” Tommy had said as he reached out and fondled her breasts.

“Ooh,” she cooed, pushing back against his hands. “Ooh!”

Tommy shoved her into the room onto a bed about a foot wide. I think it was an army cot. I floated overhead watching as he clumsily disrobed her and then mounted. There must be something innately voyeuristic about the human species, because I had to admit that floating overhead while all this was going on was very exciting for me—even though I had no body of my own. Perhaps it excited latent memories. I don’t know. I just remembered the moment I made the startling realization that I could see through Tommy’s skull. Inside was some sort of electrical activity that drew me. The actual transition happened fast. The next thing I knew, I was lying over this woman’s heaving body huffing and panting. I could remember the strangeness of the physical sensations: the half-pain, half-pleasure of the spent orgasm, the cloying musk of my partner, the little nervous aftershocks I was receiving, and even the sad, dead feeling of her over-conditioned hair. I went from that room into a binge of sensation, the Epicurean at large. I became a wandering Hedonist avatar, drunk on the tangible. I ended up in Vicetown with both my wallet and my seminal vesicles empty; or, rather both Tommy’s respectively.

“This h-here, Boss?” Elmo raised a thin arm to a road sign that said Sea Heights, and brought me from my reverie.

“Look for 333,” I said and then mused gloomily.

Alan Cotton must have been doing a booming business selling cosmetics to the dead, because 333 Sea Heights was a sprawling white ranch house that perched incongruously on a tall narrow shelf of rock overlooking the sea. Incongruous, because the design of the building demanded acres of flat farmland around it, not a deep precipitous fall into the pounding surf on one side and a thick apple orchard on the other. Something with a crenellated tower would have fit the location better, and perhaps a low brownstone carriage house—even a second floor. As we drew near, I realized that what it lacked in height it made up for in width. Cotton’s house must have been half a mile long. I pointed to a guesthouse, murmured something about guests then pointed to another. Cotton had done well.

We pulled up to the front. An ornately gardened walkway led to a tall oak front door. A monstrous rosebush grew on either side in wood chips. The drizzle had tapered down a little as we pulled to a stop. I slipped my gun into the glove compartment, smiled at Elmo, and then climbed from the car. “Come on, Fatso.” I sniffed the breeze—salty with a faint aroma of fish. What a strange yet refreshing breeze, I thought.

Elmo busily straightened his suit—an interesting hound’s-tooth number with dark slacks—then ran a comb through his thin hair. Poor bastard, I thought. Elmo had class; it was obvious. To have a boss that clomped around in army boots and greasepaint must have horrified him. But, he never complained. I walked up to the front door, rang the bell, a second passed and it opened.

I could tell from the first glimpse that he was the butler. The jaundiced complexion and permanent sneer on the fellow behind the door also told me he was a snob. His eyes had an unfeeling metallic gleam. His tuxedo was covered in minute black and white checks, with a topcoat that stopped at the waist.

“I’m sorry,” he hissed. “We do not accept solicitations.”

“Oh good,” I said. “Because I didn’t bring any.”

“Well, sir,” he continued, squeezing his eyes at me. “If you have business here, I suggest you use the servant’s entrance and speak with the house manager.”

I smiled, clenched my fists, and then smiled again. “I’m here to see Mrs. Cotton. I suggest you fulfill your job specs, and see to our comfort…”

“Now, I’ve had enough…”

“Am I wrong,” I cut him off. “Or is one of us here, a servant.” I glared at him. “I’m Wildclown, a detective. I have an appointment with Mrs. Cotton.” I held up my license.

His eyebrows jumped to the top of his head when he looked at it, and then fell to a serious line over his eyes. “Mr. Wildclown, of course,” his voice held a minute inflection of professional remorse. “Please come in.” He swung the door back to reveal a long oak-paneled hallway that stretched away from us in three directions. Elmo and I entered.

The butler gestured to a spread of leather chairs. “Here gentlemen. If you would please wait while I announce your arrival.”

“Thank you.” I smiled. Everybody was happy again. I noticed the butler took the seaward hall. His form became a bending rapier of shadow against the glare of polished wood.

I looked at Elmo. “Nice place.”

“Like a shit house in heaven.” I noticed Elmo’s eyes searching over the lavish carving on the pillars and roof beams.

“Yes, keep an eye peeled for Apostles.” A sudden tock-tock-tock alerted me as a distant form appeared in the glare of the hall. The strangest thing about Mrs. Cotton was the fact that her perfume reached me a full minute before she did. Violets. Mrs. Cotton had somehow managed to make the scent aggressive. The second thing I noticed about her was the look of utter disbelief on her smooth features. Her long face was framed in platinum hair, and her body, to be kind, was thin. Mrs. Cotton in her expensive shimmery dress looked like a chicken-wing wrapped in silk.

“Is this some kind of a joke?” She stopped a good ten feet from us. Her voice honked, goose-like, from her long neck. I winced when the light from the hallway cast her body into sharp relief against the fabric of her dress. I was reminded of coat hangers.

“No, Mrs. Cotton.” I climbed to my feet beside Elmo. “I’m Wildclown, a private detective. This is my partner, Elmo.” He bowed nervously as though he had met the Virgin herself. “As I told you earlier on the phone, I’m working on a case. There was a murder that took place at the Morocco Hotel the same night that your husband met with misfortune. There may be a connection.”

Her eyes narrowed—looked me up and down. “This isn’t a joke.”

“No, Mrs. Cotton. I’m here to ask you some very serious questions.”

“And the makeup?”

I restrained Tommy. “Part of a disguise. Investigating murder can be a dangerous business.” I gave her my ‘I love danger’ smile.

“I see.” Her expression told me she wasn’t convinced. Her big eyes gave me the twice over. “Has the world gone mad then…” She shook her head, then tried a gracious smile. “Do come in for a drink. Excuse me if I ask your partner to wait here.” She turned away and clattered down the hall she had just come up.

I turned to Elmo. “That okay with you, Fatso?”

“That’s cool, Boss. This is g-good enough for me.”

I left him sitting on the couch, a beatific smile on his face as he studied the carvings overhead.