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at Elmo. His eyes were round and his face held disbelief.

“Don’t worry, Fatso.” I gave him my confident look, then sat very still for a while tossing the dice in my mind. I picked up the phone, dialed Authority.

“Authority, Crimdiv. Sergeant Yanik speaking.” This fellow sounded angry.

“Inspector Willieboy, please.” Silence.

A pause while Yanik matched fake names to real ones. “Just a sec.” I was put on hold.

“Yeah, Crimdiv.” Willieboy sounded all business.

“Inspector… I just can’t say Inspector Willieboy with a straight face. I’ll have to stick to Willieboy. This is Wildclown. I’ve got my man.”

“Don’t say anything on the phone. It’s not clean.”

“Which phone, exactly. Yours or mine?”

He paused. “Where have you been? You slipped us again.”

“My driver knows his job better than yours.”

“Can’t argue that. Where can I meet you, I’d like to use another venue.”

“I’ll decide that later. It’s my turn to call a few shots. Just don’t travel too far from your phone.”

“You bastard…” But I cut him off. I smiled. That felt good. I had half a mind to call him back, just to hang up on him again.

Now, the Twelve Stars Group. That was how they were listed in the phone book. They actually had an ad in the yellow pages. “JOIN US FOR EVERLASTING LIFE—HELP US MAKE WAY FOR THE HORSEMAN!”

I dialed the number. The phone made a faraway rattling sound.

“Hello, Twelve Stars Group. Your call is important to us. Please wait for a moment, all of our lines are busy.” I was entertained for a few minutes by an orchestral choir doing something like Handel’s Messiah. Then a female operator answered—she sounded saved.

“Hello, Twelve Stars Group. How may we help you?”

“I’m curious. I recently found a little charm, just a wee little thing. It looks like a swastika cradled in the oval or circular part of an Egyptian ankh. A friend told me that it belonged to you people.”

“Why yes, sir. That is our Eternal Reich symbol…where?”

“Tell Brother Cane, or whatever he’s called, he’s an Authority Inspector in your group that chews brass toothpicks. Tell the ugly little prick, are you writing this down? Tell the ugly little prick that Wildclown has some information about a baby. Tell him I’ll call him back.”

“If you could hold the line, sir, I’ll…”

I hung up and leaned back in my chair. I smiled. I resisted the urge to call back and hang up out of spite. A wave of giddiness surged through me. I had the distinct feeling that I was playing with what remained of my life. I would have to move fast. The King would know where Grey’s office was. After all he had paid rent on it. The finger of doom stroked my chest like an old girlfriend might, if she wanted to get back together. The safari was nearing its completion. The grass was full of tigers, the trees full of pythons and spiders. I was standing hip deep in brush with only one bullet left in my gun.

I grabbed the phone again, dialed the Gazette.

“Ms. Mary Redding, please.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

A second of Muzak. “Mary Redding.” Her voice sounded as fresh and clean as a breeze in Eden.

“Hello, Mary. It’s me.”

“Well, where have you been, Mr. Business? You sure don’t know how to treat a girl. I’ve called and called. Even stopped by your place. Hey, what’s with the Authority transport in front of your office?”

“I hope you gave them my best.” I had expected that. “Friends of yours?”

“Where are you calling from? I’ll play a hunch.” Her tone was playful. I could imagine that fine line between her eyes darken slightly. “I think you’re up to your ass in trouble.”

“I was curious.” I smiled at the receiver. “You mentioned justice to me once, as though you knew something about it, or had in fact seen it at some time. I know that it’s an illusive bird, but was that true?”

“It’s a fantasy of mine, yes.” She paused. “It may be true.”

“Well, other than myself have you ever met someone with a similar concept of justice? Someone, say, in a position of authority. Oh, at this point, I’d take just about anything. An irate meter maid or school crossing guard with a chip on his shoulder?”

Mary Redding laughed, then sobered. “It’ll cost you another date, but, yes, I do know some people.”

She was good. That much was certain. She had only slipped up once, and I had almost missed it. I remembered her then, naked curves and all. She was good in many ways.

“What are you up to?” She had read my silence right. “Something’s going to happen.”

“I’ll call you back…” I hung up catching a muted “When?” from Mary. The order of the phone calls was the tough part. I had to play this perfectly. First a meal, yes, a condemned man always gets his last meal. Then the calls. The King first, he was dangerous, but the key. I called Elmo in.

“Elmo, go round me up a couple of sandwiches—the crushed plankton with dill on rye will do, and a big deli pickle, you know the kind I like.” He nodded and turned to go. I called after him. “Don’t let anyone see you, and don’t take the car.”

He smiled a “Yes, Boss” and was gone. I gazed after him, and then leaned back remembering my night with Mary Redding. Her strength was the most memorable part.

Chapter 56

Galaxy Tower was big, and designed in such a way that it appeared poised to launch itself into space. Tall, and glass-covered, it glittered when the light hit it—even Greasetown’s weak rain-swept facsimile of sunshine. It rose one hundred stories on the North end of town where Main Street entered New Garden. The lower floors held offices; the upper reaches cradled expensive apartments. Its giant glass doors looked tall enough to shatter under their own weight. I pulled up onto a long black necklace of asphalt that swooped around its base. A tall man in scarlet tunic—brass buttons gleaming—walked quickly to the car. He glanced at me like I was unworthy of the golden epaulets on his shoulders, then climbed into the Chrysler with a disgusted sigh, and drove it none too gently to a large car-covered square of black top about a half mile away. He parked it. I walked up to the mammoth doors and felt a powerful rush of air as they opened automatically before me. I sauntered across the lobby and to a reception desk. Towering arches of steel and glass met high above the reception area. A crystal chandelier the size of a tugboat hid their point of interception from me.

The desk was a wide violet oval with a hole cut in the center. Within, a black woman with depthless eyes smiled professionally through pink lips. Her perfume was lilac. She wore a crisp sky blue suit and lavender shirt. My eyes were drawn to a thin silver chain that formed a suspension bridge across the deep, dark gorge between her breasts. I lifted my gaze and smiled back. I could tell by the look on her face that she thought I was a joke.

“I’m here to see Mr. Demarus.” I removed my hat. “I’m Wildclown, a private detective.”

“Really,” she smirked looking me up and down. “May I see your clearance?”

I slapped idly at my pockets. “Oh, clearance, right.”

She frowned. “Mr. Demarus occupies the penthouse suite. I’m afraid no one is allowed to visit any floors above seventy-five without a security clearance.”

“I know. It’s in the mail, I’m told,” I said, looking around the enormous lobby. “I’m in security myself. I know how these things work.” I leaned over the desk and saw a closed circuit TV monitor. “I see! That looks like a standard, uh—A-131 security admission setup with red filtered monitor and high-speed access thingy, there…you give the green light with those buttons. They’re slick. That’s slick.” I pointed at a panel bearing about thirty buttons beside a coffee cup smeared with lipstick. “All the security runs through the main desk.”

“What was your name again?” She looked genuinely suspicious now and had placed a hand on her telephone receiver.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make sure my clearance is in order before I return. Thank you very much.” I started to walk toward the main door as though I were really sorry. “Keep up the good work.”

“Just a minute, sir…” She was cut off by a shrill voice singing.

“Keep right on to the end of the road, keep right on to the end…”

I threw a corner of my eye at the receptionist. She was looking to the rear of the lobby where Elmo had staggered through a fire exit. He had entered right on schedule. I could see that he had dowsed himself with the whiskey I had left with him—his lank hair was pasted to his skull, his jacket hung from one arm, and his shirt was rumpled and untucked. He flung his head back and drank from the bottle. “When your day be long, let your heart be strong…” He cackled like a drunken witch, then sat down hard on the tiles. He fumbled around with the bottle, and slowly tried to regain his feet. The receptionist hurried away from her desk toward Elmo saying, “Hey! Hey, you can’t…” He crawled across the floor, mumbling to himself. I moved quickly to the desk, scanned the panel, pushed the last ten buttons, and then hurried to the elevator. Luckily the car was waiting. I jabbed the button for the penthouse and soon left the receptionist behind with Elmo. He was just breaking into his rendition of ‘Mammy!’

It was a little past seven when we first approached New Garden’s impressive skyline. The money that abandoned the real world had migrated north to the New Garden business district. It fluttered in the air, that money. You could fill your lungs with it. There were breezes of cash—gusts of green. And in the places it had settled, glass towers were growing. So far, Galaxy Tower was the largest and most prominent, though cranes atop the stumps of gargantuan rivals promised more. All the new growth and activity was centered there. It was the core—a lot of green had landed here. Main Street south, or Greasetown proper, still held the ancient City Hall and a large nest of green-roofed government buildings but it was just a matter of time before all reputable institutions and businesses shifted to this moneyed end of the metropolis. Elmo and I had approached Galaxy Tower, and then drove by it nonchalantly, formulating a plan. Elmo could pick any lock—at least I’d never seen one beat him—so our plan was for him to jimmy a rear entry door, and enter through the back of the lobby pretending to be as drunk as a lord. He would provide a distraction.

The elevator purred around me, the faraway hiss of an air exchanger was my only company. I appreciated the lack of Muzak. The elevator stopped only once to allow an elderly Asian on. He wore a heavy wool coat and scarf that smelled like cats. He rode for two floors then got off on the twentieth. The higher the elevator climbed, the more isolated I began to feel. I wanted to surprise Mr. Demarus, but I didn’t want to die in the process. Things would happen fast. I knew I would be one hundred floors from the street, and help—if any was coming. My plan was full of risks, but I had my professional pride to think of. I still resented being used. I had to steady myself then, not against the motion of the elevator, but against the notion that someone

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