Up on the screen, I watched Paul answer the phone. Smug, arrogant prick. I'd given him too much power as of late, and he was taking it for granted, getting too comfortable flipping in and out of the real world as he pleased. I was going to have to crack down hard on that guy, let me tell you. But for the time being, I just watched.
Hello?
There was a pause. I couldn't hear the conversation, but three guesses.
I'll be right over. Paul hung up, and put a jacket on our body.
I slammed the lobby mike button with my palm. “You're not going over there, are you?” I asked.
It's my job, remember?
“Not anymore. We're off the case."
As of when?
“Right now. Call her and tell her you quit."
Paul didn't say anything. He kept combing our hair.
“Look-you knew this day would come. Your time with our favorite oral gymnast is coming to an end. The case is over. We're only two quick soul collections away from leaving this damned city."
And I think Susannah can help us do that.
“How? With more lies? It's not as if she's going to suddenly say, ‘Whoops, I'm sorry, I've been lying to you all this time. Here's the real scoop!’”
She's of more use to us alive than dead, Paul said.
“Who said anything about killing her? I want you to quit."
Paul didn't answer. He walked over to the phone, picked it up, and spun out seven familiar numbers. She answered on the first ring.
It's me, Paul said. I need to ask you a favor.
Favor? I thought.
There was a short pause. Just some time off tomorrow evening, for a few hours. A short pause. Nothing to do with you. A longish pause. I need this, Susannah. An even longer pause. Of course I do. A short, staccato pause. I'll be with you all day Friday. And all night. Through the whole Best of Philly party. An amazingly long pause. Flowers wilted, generations passed, time flowed like a river of maple syrup… Don't worry-I'll protect you, Paul said, and finally hung up the phone.
He walked into the bathroom, splashed some cold water on his face, then looked into the mirror. How's that for a Solomon-like compromise? You happy now?
“You get Gard to pay us,” I said. “Then I'll be impressed."
Nineteen
Macho Cheese
I spent two hours preparing for my first date in over six years. Of course, that last date didn't count. It'd been before I was absorbed from the dead. I was interviewing a female source for a personal finance article I'd been writing. My suggestion was to go out for drinks to talk-I knew this place in the center of town with a cheap drink speciaclass="underline" a double shot of whatever liquor for the price of one. At the time, I'd been fond of gin and tonic. Unfortunately, the place got away with their rock-bottom prices by serving rotgut liquor. Two glasses had me ready to crawl under the table and eat crumbs.
And my source? A short-haired, bee-stung-lipped, four-eyed cutie. She was ready to crawl under with me. I remember stumbling out of the bar, not one important question asked, and heading to a restaurant I knew, hoping some food would sober us up. It didn't, of course, because we ordered drinks first and forgot about the food. We left, but not before my little Deep Throat grabbed a basket of peppermints and flung them into the air. They flew all over the bar area and rained on the ground. I apologized like mad, and she laughed and tugged my arm and pulled me out of there.
We ran into a colleague of mine on the street-a cub reporter out double-checking a few facts for a Henderson nightlife roundup-at which point my source wrapped her legs around me, and started kissing my neck, all in the interest of embarrassing me. Of course, it worked. We ended up in the community park, watching people and sharing a bottle of red wine I'd bought from a grocery shop on the way over. This was when she confessed to still being married and vomited on my lap. “Sweet Pea” was playing on some radio in the background. Within seconds, I felt sobered up and utterly convinced this sick woman was not my “Sweet Pea,” and that she was still somewhere out there, waiting to be found, and I helped her up and cleaned her face the best I could in a public bathroom and brought her back to my apartment and laid her to rest on my couch. In the morning, I felt how cheap the gin had been. Damn cheap. You shouldn't have been allowed to give that swill away. My brain was split in half. And then her husband showed up to pick her up, because she had called him in the middle of the night. It was an uncomfortable morning, to say the least.
Did that qualify as my last date? I don't think so. Needless to say, I was woefully out of practice.
I showered once and tried on a few different variations of the pieces of clothing I owned. Nothing seemed suitable, all of a sudden. Had I gone through life this long with such a shabby wardrobe? God, why didn't Paul pull me aside sooner? I got so sweated up I had to shower again.
Finally, I decided on the most conservative outfit I could have put together: a pair of black slacks and a blue button-down shirt. If only I could have taken Amy Langtree on a date in the Brain Hotel, I could have invented any suit to wear, taken her to any fancy restaurant I dreamed of… But no. This had to be real. Times like these, I didn't envy Paul one bit.
In the real world, I needed money to spend on a date. Since Paul had left me with a little under twenty bucks-and Gard's check had failed to cash, as of panicked phone call to Girard Bank first thing this morning-I'd been forced to bring a bunch of my beloved records and a watch I didn't wear to a pawn shop, which earned me $24. Grand totaclass="underline" 40 bucks. An amount I prayed was enough for a night out on the town. Again, it had been quite a while since I've done this sort of thing. Last time, the drinks were amazingly cheap.
Amy and I sat down at a table in a ridiculously ornate Mexican restaurant, both are wearing hats. She'd picked the place-only a few blocks walk from our apartment building. Two oversized margaritas sat in front of us. A salsa version of “I Fought the Law” was playing in the background. My collector, Robert, would have been mortified. It had been one of his favorite songs.
“I came here last year for my birthday,” Amy said. “I should say, my friends dragged me here for my birthday. Or maybe it wasn't this place. It looks different. There are a million of these places all over, I guess. By the way, when's yours?"
“My what?"
“Birthday, silly."
“Are you asking me my sign?” I asked, with faux suspicion.
Amy laughed. “Yeah, I guess I am. And in the interest of full disclosure, I believe in horoscopes, astral projection, ghosts and fate. Don't worry. I won't ask the year."
“I'm a Gemini” I said. “Sign of the twin.” I wasn't lying-merely understating.
“I'm a Pisces,” Amy said. “A pair of fish. That's a kind of twin, isn't it?
“Kind of.” I looked around, then touched the brim of my sombrero. “You know, I feel kind of stupid in this hat-"
“C'mon, Del. You look muy cute-o."
“I don't feel muy anything."
“Trust me. You're essential cuteness."
We both took a sip of our margaritas. I knew I had to take it easy, lest I hear about it from the boys in the Brain Hotel later. But the damned thing tasted so alive, like biting into a fresh, ripe lime followed by a river of tequila. Old Tom's margaritas couldn't hold a candle to these.