When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) 📖

I looked up at the sign. The letters comprising ‘Arizona’ were painted to resemble something soft left too long in the sun. They melted and dribbled in yellow trickles over the word ‘hotel.’ A bright sun hung in the top right corner of the sign. Sweat was jumping from it in big fat drops.

One look at the Arizona Hotel and I was reminded of the Morocco—minus the Arab dome. In place of that, a rickety yellow and brown awning covered the walkway that led to the entrance. The fabric was torn in many places and the whole thing groaned so much in the breeze that I had to imagine the howl it would make in a windstorm. The building itself was run down, dirty, and the windows had been replaced by cardboard in places. We were in Downings again. No Queens this time. Elmo and I climbed the front steps, entered. We walked across threadbare carpet and up to an equally dilapidated front desk. A small East Indian man perched behind it. He didn’t notice us for a second or two, long enough for me to see the title of the book he was reading. Radio Planet. It was a cheap paperback with a tiny man about to battle a gigantic ant on the cover. For some reason the little fellow was wearing panty hose. Maybe that was the best gear to fight giant ants in.

“Ahem!” I cleared my throat. The clerk jumped. “Don’t worry, I’m not a giant ant, you’re safe.” Embarrassed, he threw the novel into a desk drawer and leapt to his feet looking flustered.

“Yes, how can I help you?” He made nervous birds with his hands. They fluttered up and down the front of his red blazer.

“This your first job, man?” I replied glibly.

Suddenly, his eyes registered what he was talking to—a big clown. They squeezed tight as Venus flytraps. “What, who—”

“Where, when and why,” I said and smiled. “But I’ll ask the questions. I’m a detective. Wildclown. I was told to meet someone under Nancy Smith here.” I grinned. “The name…Nancy Smith. I know it’s late, but we’re members of an insomniacs anonymous group. What’s her room number?”

“Oh, er, certainly, just a moment.” He gave me the ‘I’ve seen everything now’ look, then almost ran back to a wall of wooden cubbyholes. His head swayed back and forth like a viper and then a hand lashed out. “Number 602, Nancy Smith.” He looked back and smiled.

“Thank you, a job well done. Uh, would you mind if my friend here waited over on one of the couches.” I gestured to a cheap-looking reception area beside a fireplace that had fake logs burning with sixty watts of light. “I’ll just be a minute.”

“Certainly.” Then he cautioned. “But those magazines are for all our guests…”

We left him. I whispered to Elmo. “You keep an eye open for strange people, anybody we know…anything. I’m in 602 so ring it up at the first sign of trouble. I’ll play this alone.”

“Sure, Boss,” he winked; patted Pigface’s .357 magnum nestled in his left armpit, and then sauntered over to the fake warmth of the fire. I noticed that he sauntered very well himself.

I called to the clerk. “Elevator’s out, right?”

He jumped to his feet again, dropped his book. “Yes sir, you’ll have to take the stairs.”

I knew I’d have to take the stairs. It seemed that whatever had changed the world had evaporated all of the elevator repairmen. Sixth floor. I lit a cigarette and began my climb. I wondered what awaited me. Inside I could feel Tommy’s quiet anticipation. I was asking for it in a way, but my gamble had paid off. I was being led now, that was a certainty. First Cane, now Van Reydner. Of course, there was no way of knowing that Van Reydner had actually sent the message. It could have been the bastards who had butchered Adrian. It could have been anybody with a sharp knife and time on his hands. They could all be waiting up there under Nancy Smith. My mind paused mid-stride when I realized that I hadn’t had a serious drink in about four hours. I immediately made a mental note to rectify the situation as soon as possible.

The lights flickered. I crouched instinctively—my gun out. The fake brass lamps along the stairway gave off a muddy brown light for a few seconds, then grew in intensity. Another brownout—more and more these days. One day the power wouldn’t return. I slid the gun back through my pink skipping rope belt.

The top of the stairs revealed a long hallway that stretched out in both directions, punctuated with many doors. I read the numbers on the closest. The room would be to my left. I moved cautiously down the hall watching the doors as I passed. I kept close to the wall as I walked and soon stood beside 602. Dim light colored the carpet at my feet. I grabbed my gun and quietly knocked with it. No answer. I knocked again and thought about loose ends as I awaited a reply. Nothing.

I remained jammed against the wall, then pushed the door with the gun barrel. It swung inward with an asthmatic creak onto a wide white room. Against one wall was a long couch with wooden scrollwork on its back. A matching chair with red felt cushions sat tight against the end of a big bed with rumpled sheets. Beside the bed was a night table bearing a lamp and a phone. A closet door was open. Hangers were strewn across the floor. I spotted the shriveled snakeskin of a stocking. Red or purple. Somebody had left in a hurry.

I pushed the door flat against the inner wall. No thugs hiding behind it. I took a cautious step into the room. No trapdoor no knives whistling from the assassin’s hand. I crossed to the bed and immediately recognized the smell of baby oil—the same I had smelled in Van Reydner’s room at the Morocco. If she was as involved as Adrian had been, it was unlikely she would open up shop again in Greasetown. She’d have heard about his murder by now and if she hadn’t been involved with it herself—then she’d be in as much danger as he had. Two months had passed since she disappeared. Had she been in contact with Adrian? The fact that she knew about me encouraged me to believe it. If she knew about Adrian did she know who killed him? Maybe she was part of it. All of these ideas kept me sharp, and nervous. Sweat hung in heavy bands under my arms.

Suddenly, I was floating over Tommy’s head, and he was walking toward the washroom. His eyes darted back and forth. His breath came in ragged sobs. I didn’t have time to think about how easily he had expelled me.

“Babies are slippery,” he said to himself. “They’re like rubber monkeys to hold.” His head snapped to the left and the right. He paused and took a tremendous nose-full of air. “They’re loose, they’re twitchy. They’re even stinky.” Once inside the washroom he dropped to one knee and scanned the floorboards. “Nobody has a baby that can keep a bathroom clean. Don’t leave them unattended now. Bathe them, and clothe them, and change them, and feed them. Don’t drop them!” He laughed to himself then gagged out a sob. I tried to take possession, but found a bulletproof wall of purpose. The back of his head was an impervious barrier. Tommy jammed an arm under the sink. He chuckled when his hand came up clutching a badly deteriorated rubber nipple. Using the nipple as a start, I hit Tommy with sex images. I pictured enormous breasts in sheer black silk—burning aureole rising over dark lace like twin suns. His spirit was passive—like he’d finished a task, and was now content to rest. He snatched greedily at the images.

I was suddenly on one knee holding the top of a baby bottle. It was an antique—the nipple looked old, but inside it, I felt a pale dampness. Then, quite by surprise, an elephant sat on the back of my head again. A hot, black blanket covered me. I’m not sure if it was me, the darkness or the elephant that roared. I was swallowed by something.