I found a photostat of a driver's license that was blackened at the edges and badly damaged. I also found a faded photograph of Mr. Cotton from the 1970s-slick comb over and pop bottle lenses. Mary must have been working on the case and dug it up from somewhere before the gag order came down.
As I looked at an Authority photo of the crime scene, and the red hamburger that was Mr. Cotton, I realized someone must have provided Cotton's picture. No one would be able to identify the body. I looked at the driver's license again. 333 Sea Heights, Vicetown. I thought back. Mrs. Cotton claimed she had not spoken to anyone but Authority. So someone in Authority must have delivered the outdated photo to the newspaper. That meant someone was in favor of unearthing the truth. Ms. Redding's friend again? The copy of the license could be easily obtained from the licensing bureau.
I pocketed my notes, and the memo to Harker, put the baby file to bed and returned to Ms. Redding's desk. I looked down at her over the cubicle wall. "You're beautiful when your nostrils flare like that," I said. It was true. Such sensual twitching held an irresistible carnal attraction for me.
"You romantic." She could tell I was about to leave. "Can I come by later?"
"I'll be out," I said harshly. "I'll call you though."
She looked crestfallen.
"Sorry, but I'm a very busy little clown. Thanks for the use of the records." I looked around at Mary's co-worker's gaping mouths. I couldn't resist. "It's an old story, clown meets girl, girl meets clown."
I left, not really feeling bad about Ms. Redding. She was almost a hundred years old, after all. I caught the little owl fellow waiting for the elevator. I clomped up and leaned over him. He shrank from me.
"Excuse me, I wonder if you could answer a question?" I said this with only the slightest trace of rancor.
"Yes." He gulped down a big lump of air.
"What does Morris do in the Morgue?"
"Oh." The fellow's bulging eyes blinked wide. "He's the librarian. He keeps our records straight."
"How long's he worked at the paper?"
He gave me the owl's eyes. "Since the Change."
"Thanks," I said, turned away, and then braced myself for the Muzak assault I was about to undergo.
Chapter 37
It was Thursday evening and getting dark. I had eaten a sandwich, and then left Elmo at the office to play secretary. I took the Chrysler, though my destination wasn't far. That's how people get big asses. It's not that I have, or Tommy has one, but that's how it happens. Suddenly we can't go anywhere without our cars. I walked into a dark room. There was a dim gleam of brass horns on a stage across from me. The music they played was sultry and rhythmic, it reminded me of sex. Tommy's psyche responded typically. I felt flushed and momentarily appreciated the makeup. I sauntered up to the bar-I'm good at sauntering-past dim tables and dark guests. I could feel their glances as I passed. Leaning heavily on the counter I ordered a scotch from a woman with rusty hair who wore a quadruple string of pearls that would give an ox back problems.
When she set my glass on the bar, she gave me a 'why don't you grow up look,' which was rare in Greasetown. Most people just look dazed or frightened. Then she grinned like a hungry grizzly bear and returned to her cigarette where it smoked beside the ale spigots.
The drink was a little too warm for me. I downed half of it before my stomach jumped like I had sword-swallowed a cattle prod. I set the glass down, and peered through the gloom at the band. I had been told by accounting at the Gazette that Jimmy Harker musician, alias James Harker journalist, had given up the search for truth for a life of late nights, women, and applause. Looking around the place, I realized Jimmy would need infrared vision to see any women here.
He was playing with a band called the Swing Dogs. I had called a few bars and asked the managers about them. On my fourth call, I was directed to a place named Crisco's. So far, Crisco's was little more than a big collection of dark. They must have saved millions on cleaning staff. My boots glided like hockey skates over the damp floorboards. There was something on them that slid like oil, but stuck like glue when you stopped moving.
Harker had a moustache and a ponytail-the woman in accounting had said-played trumpet, and very well, by the sound of it. I realized that in the darkness, I'd have as much chance of seeing a moustache as I would of seeing heaven. For once, I didn't have a cigarette. I opted instead to repetitively clear my throat-it was scorched. I listened to the music and tried to imagine what had brought me here. The band stopped in the middle of a song. I heard them confer in muffled tones, then someone laughed. They picked up where they left off. They were warming up. Their first set probably wasn't until nine or nine-thirty. I glanced at a bar clock set in a huge replica of a popular beer-there was frost on the bottle and everything. It was eight-thirty. The band stopped again, a drummer let his frustration out through a snare drum. I shared his angst. Why was I at Crisco's watching the Swing Dogs looking for Jimmy Harker to ask him about babies and strange names like Owen, and Grey? A cold finger of fear had its way with me.
What was driving me now? I was supposed to find out who had killed Cotton. I guess all the baby talk, the Regenerics, and the phantom baby stories were beginning to work on me. For a moment, I began to wonder who was in control. Tommy had been acting strangely. It had started during the Billings' case. For two years we worked well together. I took over and I didn't hear a peep out of him, now…he seemed to be aware of my actions. That strange dream of mine: What was that all about? There was something out of whack. Tommy had been quiet for so long now. He seemed to approve of the direction the case was taking. But what direction was that? I definitely wanted to know who sliced Adrian up, but I wasn't being paid for that. It was obvious that the cases were related. I had to caution myself. Hold on, Detective. You're not taking this strange New World for granted. You're fighting the flow. Next you'll be wondering who you really are. You're the Detective that's all that matters. Cotton can wait; you've got to go with your gut.
The music stopped. It was replaced with the loud hush of crowd noise. The lights came up. I think someone lit a candle. I could just make out the dim forms of the musicians leaving the stage-flitting through a rustling curtain at the back.
I turned to the barkeeper and caught her staring at me. I motioned her over.
"Say, beautiful," I sang. I wasn't stretching a point. She was pretty enough behind over-done makeup and her figure was solid and panther-like beneath the gaudy purple spandex. "The musicians have a room back there?"
"Do I know you?" she said, her head tilting from side to side.
"Do you have to know me to answer me?"
"I just get this feeling about you." She squinted.
"Every kid loves a clown," I answered glibly. I couldn't believe how little patience I had. "Do they stay back there between sets?"
"Yeah," she continued to stare then smiled again. "You look like someone I knew. Without the makeup." She laughed and sucked on her cigarette. "That's where they stay. They aren't allowed to drink until the last set." She laughed. "Like anybody's gonna enforce that one…"
"Do you know Jimmy Harker?"
She smiled. "Sure, nice ass on the guy."
"Good," I sneered. "I'll just look for a nice ass."
I left the bar and crossed to the stage only stumbling twice. I pushed the curtain aside and walked into a small room. A toilet roared from a tiny alcove at the back lit by a blinding fluorescent light. A tall, slim black man walked out. His hand twitched like a spider on his fly.