When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) đ
- Author: G. Wells Taylor
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I pulled on the whiskey and let the hot bite in my throat burn my mind onto different tracks. If this Simon fellow was at the treatment center he would know that someone knew something about Jan Van Reydner. Mr. Adrian, as president, was not likely taking calls for Simon, so I was pretty sure he was the same man. Iâd soon see. In preparation for my role as Gingold the Sublime, the dead mime, I had smeared gray makeup onto my hands until they were sufficiently ghoulish. I had also done my best to introduce curlicue crispness to my clown makeupâan understated nuance of the âavant-gardeâ. It screamed Paris; it screamed France.
At four forty-five, I pulled off the highway onto an elevated track that ran into an opening in a huge stone wall. This surrounded a gigantic black stone mansion that rose on a natural granite promontory many stories into the cloudy sky. I supposed the wall was to keep peace and quiet in and the discord of the dead out. I listened for the howl of the wolf.
Beside a pair of great iron doors was a parking area. I pulled to a stop. Far below me, I knew that gray, twitching worm-shapes inched their way around the base of the wall. I shuddered against such macabre unreality. My hair tried to stand on end. I felt Tommyâs psyche titter wildly. I let my ears roam over the silence until they fixed upon a distant clicking, whispering sound, like a surgeonâs hand in viscera. I took another snort of whiskey, and fumbled for my cigarettes. Imagination was not always an asset.
The iron doors before me opened suddenly. A long black truck, windowless, except for a slit in its bulbous nose, drove silently by on solid rubber wheels. It reminded me of the old super chief trains I had seen in pictures. The truck picked up speed and left me alone at the closing gates. I imagined the happy dead customers inside, all pink-cheeked and fresh from the Simpson special treatment. Once home theyâd begin their regiment of self-maintenance to wait for the madness that would come for them. I could understand the lack of windows. It just would not do to expose clients to the sights of the Landfill. Insanity would arrive without prompting. I felt a chill go through me as I contemplated the reason Simpsonâs was located in such a neighborhood.
I slipped my gun into the glove compartment and got out of the carâthen began my dead man act. It wasnât hard; I just stiffened my muscles and moved mechanically, and tried to blink slowly and methodically. Watching Elmo every day did more than remind me of my mortality.
There was a brass panel marked âguestsâ fixed with a large red button. I pressed the button, while crushing my cigarette beneath my heel. I felt eyes looking at me. Set in the enormous gates was a people-sized door that popped open automatically. I walked in wondering what could cause such corporate paranoia, as to build these formidable gates. I doubted it was fear of Landfillers. Competition was stiff in the death business.
I entered and was met by a tall, thin man in a black uniform. His jacket had a high martial collar. A white with red-trim shirt blazed underneath. He smiled with pink lips that were puckered pining for motherâs breast. I was amazed at his youthfulness. The skin on his peanut-shaped face looked soft, and seemed to be covered by a light down. I tried to register nothing in my face.
âIâm Gingold the Sublime.â I kept my voice flat.
âI am Tobias, welcome to Simpsonâs Skin Tanning and Preservation for the Deceased, Mr. Gingold.â He smiled with small pearly teeth. I smelled formaldehyde on his breath and pronounced him dead. Simpsonâs did a real job if Mr. Tobias was an example of their work.
âIâm sorry I came in makeup, butâŠâ I put fingers to my cheek. âMy complexion underneath is soâwell, disfigured.â
He nodded, smiled sweetly under a Peter Pan nose, and then laughed with cherubic vigor. âOh, I understandâI understand. I was in such a state myself when I first stepped over into my new life. Have no fear. Please, try to relax. Youâve come to the right place.â He gestured to a small, motorized cart. âIf you please, the courtyard is enormous. Iâll take you to your New Life Host.â
âThank you,â I said and followed him to the vehicle. We crossed a walled enclosure that housed fountains, gabled gazebos and wandering pathways over grass and garden. I wondered how they managed to keep the flowers in bloom. There was plenty of water, but no sun, and with the walls, the courtyard was that much darker. As I sat beside him I felt a pang for a cigaretteâI wasnât sure if it was me or Tommy.
The mansion piled into the sky before us, castle-like with minarets and towers. Lights glowed in many windows, the occasional spectral shadow passed behind curtains. I growled silently, looking at it all. Finally business had found a perfect niche. Death created a steady supply and demand.
I was shown through an elaborate lobby and lounge decorated with a thousand carved angels. Blood-red Persian carpeting covered many hundred square feet of floor and stair. Great leather couches and chairs held quaint positions under potted palm, or by the roaring fireplace you could park a truck in. At the foot of ornately carved columns, corpses reclined in wheeled divans and chairsâa few had books or magazines. Some were bandaged from head to toe; all had a thoroughly antiseptic smell about them. There was also the distinct aroma of money. Tobias led me past three dead people engrossed in a discussion about religion and up a broad staircase with gilt banisterâthen to a huge set of doors.
Embossed in the brass was an elaborate reproduction of Bruegelâs, The Triumph of Death. I wasnât an art expert. This particular painting had become the rage since the Change. In it, people ran, terrified, through a scene not unlike my image of the Landfill. Mobs of skeletal demons performed imaginative butchery upon the livingâa hanging here, a decapitation there, here a skull, there a skullâeverywhere a skull-skull. Everyone died in the picture, peasant, businessman, saint and king. No matter where the people ran, they diedânone with dignity worth mentioning. Briefly, I imagined a figure in a clownâs greasepaint dancing gleefully through the carnage. Tommy grew excited inside me. I felt his erection press the canvas of my coveralls.
âBeautiful,â Tobias whispered when he saw my attention upon the doors. He fluttered hooded eyes. âMr. Adrian is a collector of rare art. He had that made from the original.â He gestured to the doors. âMorbid to the timid living, perhaps, but there is no shame in death; and, we are all aware of the denial that life is.â He pushed lightly upon the doors and they swung silently open.
âMr. Adrianâs office.â He bowed slightly sending a shock of black hair over his brow.
I left him and entered the room. Its corners were lost to me in black shadows. I followed a tender glow from ceiling lamps until I saw the shape of a man behind a huge desk. It grew out of the darkness like an oil tanker. It was so big he would have to walk to the ashtray. I stood for a moment in feigned awe and studied Mr. Adrian in the soft light.
His head gleamed slightly over a synthetic tan. Hair curled in golden ringlets from an exposed crown. He looked at me with sharp blue eyes that were set close to a large nose. His shoulders were square and as he smoked, thick arms flexed beneath his trim-cut jacket. He wore dark greenâoddâbecause everyone else I had seen who worked in the place was in black from head to toe.
âHave a seat, please.â He sketched a line in the air with cigar smoke. As I pressed my buttocks against the thick leather cushion, I noticed a familiar aroma. Adrian started talking.
âI donât know who you are, or the purpose behind that ridiculous makeup; but Iâve been in this business long enough to know a dead man when I see one. Youâre not dead and because you lied about that, I assume youâre not really Mr. Gingold.â
âAnd youâre not Simon,â I said, trying to figure out how to play the scene. âMind if I smoke? I couldnât help but notice the scent of your cigar. Expensive?â I lit a cigarette and watched its smoke dance on my hand like a cobra. It swayed slowly.
âNot really, Dutch, Henry Winterman Cafe Cream Mild. Iâm growing impatient.â He seemed to have perfect control of his voice. He added just enough volume and emphasis to make it as much a threat as if he held a gun in his hand.
âWildclown,â I drawled, slowly puffing smoke in an effort to seem in control. âIâm a private detective.â
âAnd the purpose behind that ludicrous outfit?â
âDetective disguise number 118. The dead mime costume, Iâm surprised no one has used it on you yet.â
âDonât be flippant, Mr. Wildclown. Youâll find Iâm not predisposed to humor. I have friends with certain authority.â He smiled as he said âauthority.â I began to feel like a rat in a barbecue.
âIâm not trying to be flippant. Iâm trying to avoid being rude.â I could feel Tommyâs indignation growing within.
âCertainly,â Adrian breathed with a tangible change in tone before saying to himself. âRefinement before all elseâŠâ He looked at me evenly. âWould you like a drink?â
âI never met one I didnât.â
âScotch, isnât that the usual drink of detectives,â he said scornfully as he ordered two gins neat from the intercom, and then leaned back in his enormous chair to study me. I met his gaze with as much fire as I could muster without letting Tommy out.
A few moments of study passed before the silence was broken by the whoosh of a door opening, followed by an annoying tick-tock of footsteps. A secretary clacked in on high stiletto heels she would need a ladder to get into. She had our drinks, gave one to Mr. Adrian, one to me. A twinkle of light, and I noticed a strange black and bronze charm hung from a red chain at her wrist. It looked like a swastika set in the oval part of an Egyptian ankh. I couldnât place it. Her eyes were dark. Her lips puckered and red. I smiled. She wrinkled her nose at me and left.
I looked at my drink, clinked the ice cubes a few times, and nonchalantly sniffed it. I couldnât smell any poison. It tasted like gin. I looked through the glass rim and saw Mr. Adrian looking back at me through his. I dropped ash on the floor, muttered an apology.
âWhat do you want, Mr. Wildclown?â
âOh, you know, run of the mill kind of stuff. For instance, did you hear a baby cry last Thursday night at the Morocco Hotel?â His eyes flared white. Iâm sure mine must have. I didnât ask the question. Tommy had slipped it through all my personal defenses and placed it on the tip of my tongue where it couldnât help
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