Suddenly the office darkened. The day had been perfectly clear, I would have sworn to that, but a cloud had crossed the sun just the same. The man on the other side of the desk was at least ten years older than I was, maybe fifteen, his hair almost completely white while mine was still almost all black, but that didn't change the simple fact--no matter what he was calling himself or how old he looked, he was me. Had I thought his voice sounded familiar? Sure. The way your own voice sounds familiar--although not quite the way it sounds inside your own head-when you hear it on a recording.
He picked my limp hand up off the desk, shook it with the briskness of a real-estate agent on the make, then dropped it again. It hit the desk-blotter with a plop, landing on Mavis Weld's telephone number. When I raised my fingers, I saw that Mavis's number was gone. In fact, all the numbers I'd scratched on the blotter over the years were gone. It was as clear as . . . well, as clear as a hardshell Baptist's conscience.
``Jesus,'' I croaked. ``Jesus Christ.'‘
``Not at all,'' the older version of me sitting in the client's chair on the other side of the desk said. ``Landry. Samuel D.
Landry. At your service.'‘
V. An Interview with God.
Even as rattled as I was, it only took me two or three seconds to place the name, probably because I'd heard it such a short time ago. According to Painter Number Two, Samuel Landry was the reason why the long dark hall leading to my office was soon going to be oyster white. Landry was the owner of the Fulwider Building.
A crazy idea suddenly occurred to me, but its patent craziness did nothing to dim the sudden blaze of hope which accompanied it. They--whoever they are--say that everyone on the face of the earth has a double. Maybe Landry was mine. Maybe we were identical twins, unrelated doubles who had somehow been born to different parents and ten or fifteen years out of step in time with each other. The idea did nothing to explain the rest of the day's high weirdness, but it was something to hang onto, damn it.
``What can I do for you, Mr. Landry?'' I asked. I was trying like hell, but my voice was no longer quite steady. `Ìf it's about the lease, you'll have to give me a day or two to get squared around. It seems my secretary just discovered she had pressing business back home in Armpit, Idaho.'‘
Landry paid absolutely no attention to this feeble effort on my part to shift the focus of the conversation. ``Yes,'' he said in a musing tone of voice, `Ì imagine it's been the granddaddy of bad days . . . and it's my fault. I'm sorry, Clyde--really. Meeting you in person has been . . . well, not what I expected. Not at all. For one thing, I like you quite a bit better than I expected to. But there's no going back now.'' And he fetched a deep sigh. I didn't like the sound of it very much.
``What do you mean by that?' My voice was trembling worse than ever now, and the blaze of hope was dying. Lack of oxygen inside the cave-in site which had once been my brain seemed to be the cause. He didn't answer right away. He leaned over instead, and grasped the handle of the slim leather case leaning against the front leg of the client's chair. The initials stamped on it were S.D.L., and I deduced that my weird visitor had brought it in with him. I didn't win the Shamus of the Year Award in 1934 and '35 for nothing, you know.
I had never seen a case quite like it in my life--it was too small and too slim to be a briefcase, and it was fastened not with buckles and straps but with a zipper. I'd never seen a zipper quite like this one, either, now that I thought about it.
The teeth were extremely tiny, and they hardly looked like metal at all. But the oddities only began with Landry's luggage. Even setting aside his uncanny older-brother resemblance to me, Landry looked like no businessman I'd ever seen in my life, and certainly not one prosperous enough to own the Fulwider Building. It's not the Ritz, granted, but it is in downtown L.A., and my client (if that was what he was) looked like an Okie on a good day, one which had included a bath and a shave. He was wearing blue jeans pants, for one thing, and a pair of sneakers on his feet . .
. except they didn't look like any sneakers I'd ever seen before. They were great big clumpy things. What they really looked like were the shoes Boris Karloff wears as part of his Frankenstein get-up, and if they were made of canvas, I'd eat my favorite Fedora. The word written up the sides in red script looked like the name of a dish on a Chinese carry-out menu: REEBOK.
I looked down at the blotter which had once been covered with a tangle of telephone numbers, and suddenly realized that I could no longer remember Mavis Weld's, although I must have called it a billion times only this past winter. That feeling of dread intensified.
``Mister,'' I said, `Ì wish you'd state your business and get out of here. Come to think of it, why don't you skip the talking and just go right to the getting-out part?’
He smiled . . . tiredly, I thought. That was the other thing. The face above the plain open-collared white shirt looked terribly tired. Terribly sad, as well. It said the man who owned it had been through things I couldn't even dream of. I felt some sympathy for my visitor, but what I mostly felt was fear. And anger. Because it was my face, too, and the bastard had apparently gone a long way toward wearing it out.
``Sorry, Clyde,'' he said. ``No can do.'‘
He put his hand on that tiny, cunning zipper, and all at once Landry opening that case was the last thing in the world I wanted. To stop him I said, ``Do you always go visiting your tenants dressed like a guy who makes his living following the cabbage crop? What are you, one of those eccentric millionaires?’
`Ì'm eccentric, all right,'' he said. `Ànd it won't do you any good to draw this business out, Clyde.'‘
``What gave you that ide--'‘
Then he said the thing I'd been dreading, and put out the last tiny flicker of hope at the same time. `Ì know all your ideas, Clyde. After all, I'm you.'‘
I licked my lips and forced myself to speak; anything to keep him from yanking that zipper. Anything at all. My voice came out husky, but at least it did come out.
``Yeah, I noticed the resemblance. I'm not familiar with the cologne, though. I'm an Old Spice man, myself.'‘
His thumb and finger remained pinched on the zipper, but he didn't pull it. At least not yet.
``But you like this,'' he said with perfect assurance, `ànd you'd use it if you could get it down at the Rexall on the corner, wouldn't you? Unfortunately, you can't. It's Aramis, and it won't be invented for another forty years or so.'' He glanced down at his weird, ugly basketball shoes. ``Like my sneakers.'‘
``The devil you say.'‘
``Well, yes, I suppose the devil might come into it somewhere,'' Landry said, and he didn't smile.
``Where are you from?’
`Ì thought you knew.'' Landry pulled the zipper, revealing a rectangular gadget made of some smooth plastic. It was the same color the seventh-floor hall was going to be by the time the sun went down. I'd never seen anything like it.
There was no brand name on it, just something that must have been a serial number: T 1000. Landry lifted it out of its carrying case, thumbed the catches on the sides, and lifted the hinged top to reveal something that looked like the telescreen in a Buck Rogers movie. `Ì come from the future,'' Landry said. ``Just like in a pulp magazine story.'‘