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 exactly like me?"
I don't, I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. You're seeing your own face. Happens a lot at first. In reality, we're wearing the face of a recent murder victim. I'm tracking down his killers.
“Why wear the guy's face?"
I've found it can help speed the investigation.
“Who was he?"
A man named Brad Larsen. He was also set to testify against your former employers.
“Was he a good-looking guy?"
Don't worry. The villagers won't come after you with torches and pitchforks.
Paul squinted. “If you say, so. But it's still damn weird. All I see is me."
It happens to everybody. It's too much of a shock to see your own consciousness in another man's face. Or so the theory goes. I saw myself for a long time until I came to terms with everything.
Paul grunted and dabbed his/my cheeks with a hand towel. He finished dressing us in a white shirt, red necktie, and gray suitcoat-the most stylish items in my limited wardrobe. I could sense Paul hated it, as if he was forced to wear his older brother's hand-me-downs. But until we received our first paycheck, there wasn't much we could do about it.
“Interesting choice,” spoke a voice behind Paul, in the real world. It was the Ghost of Fieldman, whose image was distorted by the rays of sunlight peeking through the curtains. “Not everyone would put that ensemble together."
“Can't you shut him up?” Paul asked me.
If only.
We arrived early, so Paul took the opportunity to stroll around the square for a few minutes. Rittenhouse Square was a well-heeled neighborhood, despite the scruffy kids in dashiki shirts playing beat-up guitars in the park. Giant apartment complexes, hotels and office buildings lined the four sides of the park, and every body and thing seemed to gravitate toward it, being the only patch of green for blocks and blocks. William Penn may have had a brilliant plan in mind when he first cooked up the city grid, but he didn't give much thought to green open spaces.
Soon, it was time for our appointment, and I surrendered control of my body. Watching Paul operate my body was an education. Every motion was studied, whereas mine were automatic, unthinking. Take entering the hotel. I would have marched right up the front desk, asked for Richard Gard's room, then taken the elevator to the correct floor. A straightforward, let's-go-to-work approach. But not Paul.
Paul walked into the hotel bar first. Slowly, as if he were too bored to be doing anything else. The bar was right off the side of the lobby; a dark, oaky-looking room. While I didn't exactly know what Paul was thinking-it was more like I possessed deep intuition about Paul's intentions rather than direct knowledge-I knew he was checking for signs of Gard. Why would Gard be here and not upstairs? Good question. It's not one I would have immediately asked.
Paul walked directly to the bar and took a seat. He looked at the bartender, then to the guy at his right. Sweaty, young, in a very fashionable tweed suit, though wrong for this time of year. Blonde hair falling in every direction but the correct one. He kept looking at the door, waiting for people to pass his line of vision.
Finally, Paul tapped him on the shoulder. “Mr. Gard."
The man started, then wiped his brow with a cocktail napkin and recovered. “Mr. Wojciechowski."
“No,” said Paul, “I'm his senior associate. Paul After."
They shook hands. I received a sensory flash: sweaty palms. Ugh.
“Mr. Wojciechowski is seeing to some urgent business in Nevada,” Paul explained. Good boy. Keep the famous Mr. W. shrouded in mystery. Clients loved that.
“I understand.” Gard took a drink, then seemed as if a light bulb had gone off in his thick blonde skull. “How did you…"
Paul finished the sentence. “Know you? Come, now. I assume you're going to pay me a lot of money to predict what's coming next."
Damn. Mr. Mofo Disco Detective.
Gard seemed impressed, too. “Care for a drink?"
“In a moment,” Paul said. “First, I'd like to know why you are down here, in this bar, instead of upstairs in the room number you supplied my associate. Seems like you're up to more than sneaking a peek at the hired help."
“I admit, that was part of it. But there's also bit of preface to your job. The clerk at the front desk was supposed to send you over."
“What preface?” Paul asked.
“Before you meet Susie, I wanted to make this perfectly clear: no matter what I say upstairs, no matter how aloof I may seem, your loyalties will remain with me completely. You will run every single decision by me. You will not move a finger without my knowing about it. Everything begins and ends with me."
Paul nodded. Seemed fair to me, too. Gard was footing the bill.
“Upstairs, you are going to meet a woman who is my mistress. I demand complete discretion as well as respect in this regard. She is going to ask for your assistance. You are going to give it. You are also going to give her the impression you are working for her, not me."
Paul smirked. “I am to win her confidence. And, of course, I am to report everything to you."
“You're quick,” Gard said.
And you're a sweaty goofball.
Paul glanced at himself in the mirror, as if he could hear me. Could he?
“Now how about that drink, eh?” Gard asked. “Take a few minutes, then come upstairs as planned. I'll introduce you and you can begin your assignment.” He placed a hand on Paul's back. An uncomfortable jolt went through both of us. “Henry! Give this man whatever he likes.” A pug-nosed, white-haired man in a bow tie raised his head.
“A Shirley Temple, please” Paul said.
“A hard-boiled man like yourself?” Gard laughed.
Paul didn't answer the question. He told Henry not to forget the cherry. Gard shook his head.
“Oh, by the way.” Gard fished a check out of his suit pocket and placed it on the bar. “For today's meeting. I'll mail a check for double that every week, as agreed."
Paul didn't look at the check. I wanted him to, but I couldn't exactly force his eyes down to the bar top. “Thanks."
Richard was left holding the conversational bag, so he decided to leave.
There was a lot to learn from Paul.
I tuned out while Paul was enjoying his Shirley Temple and wandered back to my office. I could have ported myself there, but that kind of thing became disorienting after a while. The more the Brain Hotel seemed like real life, the better.
I poured myself a glass of Brain Chivas Regal and read through a notebook of some Association notes from last year. The notes were perfect; exactly as I'd recorded them months ago. But the Chivas was only as good as I remembered it.