Read Online Secret Dead Men by Duane Swierczynski - Free Book Online
Authors: Duane Swierczynski
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gonna explain to me why I don't see no Saint Peter?"
George, former aide to a corrupt Henderson councilman, was soul #10. I collected him thinking I'd learn all sorts of insider goodies about local corruption. But once inside the Brain Hotel, George refused to speak. All he did was oil-paint Revolutionary War scenes. And he couldn't even get the historical details right--many of the British Redcoats wore Timex wristwatches. He also sang drinking songs to himself, usually loaded on a bottle of Brain gin he'd cooked up in his room. The only Association info he supplied came in the form of parody folk ballads he played on his Brain guitar:
"Their victims, my friend
They're swinging in the wind
Their victims are swinging in the wind."
Useless!
Fredric, soul #11, was not much better. He'd been a bookie when he was alive, and stole money from a couple of his clients to pay for his girlfriend's Tijuana abortion. Somebody caught him, and chopped off his arms. Inside the Brain Hotel, he replaced them with a set of ripping, hairy guns capable of tearing a Manhattan phone book in half. But he never used them, except to hoist a mug of Brain beer at Tom's.
Fredric claimed to know something about the Larsen murders. "You might want to watch the Bicentennial," he'd said, then clammed up when I pressed him on it. Watch the Bicentennial. Great. That was about as useful to me as "Remember the Bastille."
* * * *
On the useful side was soul #12: Lynda, a dead hooker I'd picked up in Laughlin. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure she was killed by the Association. She could have been one of those random dead hookers you run across from time to time.
But she did have an important piece of info: the name of the Larsens' killer. "Oh, that would be Ray," Lynda said. "Ray Loogan. He was braggin' about it. Couldn't have been more than 24 or 25. He didn't seem to ever have to shave. Guy got iced 'round Labor Day, you said? Had to have been Ray."
I was surprised. This Loogan punk sounded like someone you sent to dislocate somebody's grandmother's shoulder, not take out a government witness five states away. But he must have impressed somebody higher up. This was a great gig for a guy his age--especially if he pulled it off.
Since I had the victim's soul in my head, I can only confirm Ray had been successful.
Lynda went on to tell me that Loogan's bosses had sent along a babysitter named Leah Farrell to keep an eye on him; she had to bail him out of a mess somewhere along the line. (Killer Number Two, no doubt.) But Lynda couldn't tell me exactly what the mess was, or if Loogan had been penalized (read: whacked) for it. She only heard Farrell had been out of Vegas for months, helping Loogan with unfinished business.
The luckiest acquisition was #13, a soul named Paul After. He was a hired gun who'd been double-crossed and decided to turn state's evidence. The evidence? Nothing as good as what Brad Larsen had, apparently. Just some tax nonsense. Paul thought he could use the cooked books to bargain for higher rates. The negotiations ended when Paul's employer sent a lawyer to the meeting with a semi-automatic pistol. Blammo. That was the end of Paul. And the beginning of our relationship.
So naturally, Paul had good reasons to want to work with me. He wanted his bosses--who I assumed to be the Association--burnt like toast. He was also Grade A professional muscle, unlike the rest of the B-List schlubs I'd been collecting.
* * * *
Mind you, these five souls and the tiny bit of information they supplied were the net result of eight months' work. Why so long? I couldn't very well waltz back into Vegas wearing Brad Larsen's face. Once I switched to Larsen's face, my own--that is, the face of Agent Kevin Kennedy--was lost forever. How was I to know Brad was going to hold out on me? To recopy, I would have needed a photograph of Kennedy, and I made it a point of destroying all pictures of myself. Or any of the selves I've been. Not that I was
George, former aide to a corrupt Henderson councilman, was soul #10. I collected him thinking I'd learn all sorts of insider goodies about local corruption. But once inside the Brain Hotel, George refused to speak. All he did was oil-paint Revolutionary War scenes. And he couldn't even get the historical details right--many of the British Redcoats wore Timex wristwatches. He also sang drinking songs to himself, usually loaded on a bottle of Brain gin he'd cooked up in his room. The only Association info he supplied came in the form of parody folk ballads he played on his Brain guitar:
"Their victims, my friend
They're swinging in the wind
Their victims are swinging in the wind."
Useless!
Fredric, soul #11, was not much better. He'd been a bookie when he was alive, and stole money from a couple of his clients to pay for his girlfriend's Tijuana abortion. Somebody caught him, and chopped off his arms. Inside the Brain Hotel, he replaced them with a set of ripping, hairy guns capable of tearing a Manhattan phone book in half. But he never used them, except to hoist a mug of Brain beer at Tom's.
Fredric claimed to know something about the Larsen murders. "You might want to watch the Bicentennial," he'd said, then clammed up when I pressed him on it. Watch the Bicentennial. Great. That was about as useful to me as "Remember the Bastille."
* * * *
On the useful side was soul #12: Lynda, a dead hooker I'd picked up in Laughlin. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure she was killed by the Association. She could have been one of those random dead hookers you run across from time to time.
But she did have an important piece of info: the name of the Larsens' killer. "Oh, that would be Ray," Lynda said. "Ray Loogan. He was braggin' about it. Couldn't have been more than 24 or 25. He didn't seem to ever have to shave. Guy got iced 'round Labor Day, you said? Had to have been Ray."
I was surprised. This Loogan punk sounded like someone you sent to dislocate somebody's grandmother's shoulder, not take out a government witness five states away. But he must have impressed somebody higher up. This was a great gig for a guy his age--especially if he pulled it off.
Since I had the victim's soul in my head, I can only confirm Ray had been successful.
Lynda went on to tell me that Loogan's bosses had sent along a babysitter named Leah Farrell to keep an eye on him; she had to bail him out of a mess somewhere along the line. (Killer Number Two, no doubt.) But Lynda couldn't tell me exactly what the mess was, or if Loogan had been penalized (read: whacked) for it. She only heard Farrell had been out of Vegas for months, helping Loogan with unfinished business.
The luckiest acquisition was #13, a soul named Paul After. He was a hired gun who'd been double-crossed and decided to turn state's evidence. The evidence? Nothing as good as what Brad Larsen had, apparently. Just some tax nonsense. Paul thought he could use the cooked books to bargain for higher rates. The negotiations ended when Paul's employer sent a lawyer to the meeting with a semi-automatic pistol. Blammo. That was the end of Paul. And the beginning of our relationship.
So naturally, Paul had good reasons to want to work with me. He wanted his bosses--who I assumed to be the Association--burnt like toast. He was also Grade A professional muscle, unlike the rest of the B-List schlubs I'd been collecting.
* * * *
Mind you, these five souls and the tiny bit of information they supplied were the net result of eight months' work. Why so long? I couldn't very well waltz back into Vegas wearing Brad Larsen's face. Once I switched to Larsen's face, my own--that is, the face of Agent Kevin Kennedy--was lost forever. How was I to know Brad was going to hold out on me? To recopy, I would have needed a photograph of Kennedy, and I made it a point of destroying all pictures of myself. Or any of the selves I've been. Not that I was
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