“The Man will be yours,” I said. Then, scrambling to think of something neutral to say: “I want justice served.” I made a mental note to bring up the “Man” in the future. Subtly.
There was a song I didn't recognize playing on the jukebox-a male and female duet, something about them having “the time of our lives… never felt this way before.” I noticed The Ghost of Fieldman sitting in the corner, drinking something clear like Fresca, and munching on a basket of popcorn. I didn't have any proof, but I was convinced he'd been messing with the jukebox.
We finished our drinks and left the bar.
Fifteen
First Days on the Job
The rest of the day was uneventful except for the note I found taped to my apartment door. It was from Amy Langtree, saying she stopped by to borrow a colander. I should have found her persistence annoying and intrusive, and I should have done something blunt to stop this whole thing from blossoming. Like, bought a cheap wedding ring from a pawn shop and started flashing it around, or asked her where I could score good dope and a blow job, or started babbling and drooling in her presence, or picked at my nose or ears, whatever.
She was clearly fixated on someone who was not me. I was wearing a dead man's face, for goodness’ sake. We'd barely spoken a dozen sentences to each other. My soul clearly predated hers by a generation or two. And now she wanted to drain her spaghetti with one of my kitchen utensils?
Still, Amy Langtree could be useful. She was a local. She lent me the appearance of normality. If I took the time to develop this friendship, and there was ever trouble down the line, she would be an important character witness-could perhaps buy me enough time to make an escape. I starting thinking about how to ask her out for something non-threatening, like lunch, or a walk through the historical sites. Something like that wouldn't necessarily lead her on.
Then I remembered, this all had been decided for me: Paul needed to use my body most of the time. Clearly, I had to cool things off even before they began.
There were other things to work out, too-things like financial priorities. Until Gard's first check cleared the bank, we had a little under $200 on which to live. I thought we should spent a bit on foodstuffs-hot dogs, bologna, bread, cans of vegetables and soup-and hang on to the rest. But Paul insisted we go out and buy a new suit. “You want to show up as a representative of the Brown Agency wearing these costume-shop specials?"
“We're not from the Brown Agency,” I said. “We're freelance."
“Okay, then we'll look like shabby freelancers."
As usual, I was in control of the body, and Paul was appearing to me in the bathroom mirror. “What's shabby about my gray suit?” I asked. I'd bought it from a consignment shop in Sherman Oaks seven years ago. Top of the line men's fashion-a real dandy. I didn't care for the atrocities I saw in men's magazine's these days.
Paul sighed. “Where do I start? It's about as hip as an elbow. It has lapels skinnier than David Bowie's ass. It has tapered cuffs, for Christ's sake. I've beaten people up for less offensive things than wearing that suit."
“Granted,” I said, “it's a bit conservative. But do you think our client will give a shit?"
Paul stared at me.
“Okay, she probably will. But where are we going to find the money? Until our first paycheck clears…"
“Use the $200 we've got stashed away at Girard Bank."
“And in three days, when we're starved for a nice piece of meat, we won't have a coin to our name."
“The check will clear by then."
“I never trust banks."
Maybe I was worrying too much about the money, but I'd never dipped this low in my life. In Nevada, there'd always been a quickie nudie photo gig or an unpaid hotel bill to earn me enough cash for the week. Here in Philly, I didn't know a soul. I'd placed my entire financial future in a philandering lawyer.
Plus-and this is embarrassing to admit-I was hoping to spend some of my dwindling funds on a couple of new albums. I was tired of the music I'd already listened to over and over in my head. It was useless to count on the radio-it usually took a few repeated listenings for a tune to stick, and have you ever tried to break through those listener request lines? I'd have more luck taking down the Association with a weapon found in a Cracker Jack box. Music was one of my passions; work was bleak without it. But could I tell Paul that? No way. In the real world, a new suit mattered much more than a new Bread album.
Of course, it turned out not to matter. Paul went out and bought two suits for the bargain-basement price of $160. I don't know where he bought them-or if it was entirely legal-because I woke up from a nap and walked downstairs to the lobby to find Paul modeling one of them in a mirror. That is, watching myself on the Brain Hotel lobby screen, modeling one of them.
I ran to the silver microphone and pressed the button. “What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I startled him, and it ruined his necktie knot. Hey-whoah! he shouted, and spun around, reaching for a gun on his hip that was not there.
“It's me. Inside."
Paul exhaled. Damn it, I told you not to do that.
“Call it landlord's privilege. You and I need to talk."
"About what?"
“The threads."
Hey, I'm trying to do our job. I deposited Gard's check in our bank account, and went out and made a business purchase. You didn't expect me to go out and baby-sit our client dressed in one of your goofy numbers, did you? Dead or not, I've got a reputation to protect.
“How much money do we have?” I asked.
Seventeen bucks. And speaking of which, you shouldn't let our finances dip so much. It's bad for appearances. What if I need to buy our client a drink?
This was rich. Tough Boy here blew our last couple of Franklins on a new suit, and he was lecturing me on fiscal responsibility. I didn't know how to respond without losing my temper, so I didn't.
“I need the body back, Paul."
Right now?
“Yeah. I've got something important to do. You know I can kick you out in a heartbeat, but I prefer to be an adult about it."
Paul sighed and tightened our fists. Fine. He closed our eyes. I slid into the body and opened them. Immediately I felt the coffin-like suit envelop me. The image in the mirror didn't help, either. God, the lapels on that suit. Enough to rest a cup of coffee and a large Danish on. And these flared pant legs? I'd hate to have to chase somebody down in this thing. Awfully tight in the hips, too. This was why I stopped reading the fashion pages in Esquire back in 1968. Ever since I'd died, menswear had taken a definite turn for the strange.
I pulled the new suit off and changed back into a comfortable pair of slacks and a casual shirt. I combed my hair back down-Paul was forever combing it back in the mother of all pompadours-and checked my wallet, which was left on the desk. Sixteen bucks, the liar. I searched through the new pants pocket and found another dollar.
I left the apartment and bought a big fat Philadelphia-style hoagie-oil, mayo, proscuitto, provolone, onions, peppers, the works-as some weird form of revenge. Cost me $2.95, not counting tax. I should've had a Yoo-Hoo while I was at it.
If we were going to spend all of our money, I was going to enjoy some of it.
Paul, the eager beaver, arrived early for his first day of work. He'd woken up earlier than I-even souls need rest-and as a result, I awoke to the dim awareness that my body was making a pot of coffee. I wandered down to the Brain Hotel lobby and watched Paul on the screen.