Read Online Secret Dead Men by Duane Swierczynski - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Duane Swierczynski
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each call is flipped over to an answering service in Sherman Oaks, California. I called the service every three days to skim through requests--mostly to decline, sometimes to keep certain contacts alive. This time, though, I actually needed something. I had been staying in yet another Henderson fleabag motel, and was getting tired of the scenery. I cracked open my last can of Fresca and dialed the phone. The gravelly-voiced girl on the other end of the line answered.
"Hey ... Mr. Mojo Wojo! How are you, my man?"
"Uh," I said. "I'm fine. I'd like you to list my telephone calls--service requests only, please."
She ran through the job prospects and locations. Between each she paused to audibly pop her gum. I stopped her on the sixth.
"Where was that last one?"
"Philly, Mr. Wojo. This one was passed down from Brown yesterday. An attorney named Richard Gard called asking if you could fly out there later this week."
I remembered my earlier clue, from Fredric: You might want to watch the Bicentennial. Something about it felt right. Could Loogan and Farrell have some Philly scam that had kept them there all this time?
"Did he mention the particulars?" I asked.
"Just that it's a security consult."
Easy stuff. Lawyers needed muscle every so often. Nothing too strenuous, to be sure. It would give me time to check the city for signs of Loogan, while rebuilding my bank account. "Phone Mr. Gard and tell him I'll be on the next available flight."
"You got it, handsome. Hey--you ever going to take a job out here in L.A.? I'm dying to meet you in person." She was forever flirting with me, this Sherman Oaks girl. I didn't understand it. She'd never seen me before.
"You never know," I said.
* * * *
There wasn't much to pack--I kept my personal belongings to a minimum. I could fit everything I owned into two cardboard boxes and a large lawn-sized green plastic trash bag. The bag was for my clothes--one gray suit, three pairs of trousers, one pair of denim jeans, four button-down dress shirts, two ties and enough underwear and socks for nearly two weeks. In one box I kept a Swiss army knife, two pistols, ammunition, a magnifying glass, a lighter, one 4-ounce drinking glass, a wood backscratcher and other assorted tools of the trade. In the other I kept clippings and notes, as well as a couple dozen favorite albums. The record player was a separate unit with its own cover and handle.
I stored everything else in my Brain library. I knew someday I would have to present evidence to a judge in a court of law, and it bothered me that I couldn't crack open my brain for everyone to read. But I guess when the time came, I could always rent a Dictaphone and hire a stenographer. Maybe even the Sherman Oaks girl would lend a hand. I'd take her out to a beef and beer dance to celebrate.
I chuckled at the thought, then sealed both boxes with large strips of masking tape. I stuffed a stray pair of black dress socks in my trash bag, then spun the bag and twist-tied it. There. Packed.
All that remained was to slip the front desk a final payment, another call to the Sherman Oaks girl to let her know I'd be travelling, a walk to my nearby travel agent to retrieve my tickets, and ... Oh, yeah. The important business of taking everything else--random notes here and there, doodles, old clothes--out to my Datsun and blowing the thing to smithereens.
Paul After, soul #13, had shown me a neat variation on the Molotov cocktail a few weeks back. Even though I eventually built the thing, I didn't know how it worked. Paul had guided me through, piece by piece, using ordinary items available from any decent hardware store.
It was a flashy way to make an exit, but necessary. This way there would be no trace of me. No trail for anyone to follow. Not the FBI, not the Association, not even my mother, God rest her soul. Everything I owned would go with me to Philadelphia.
I collected a trash bag full of the things I was torching and stuffed it in the trunk of the
"Hey ... Mr. Mojo Wojo! How are you, my man?"
"Uh," I said. "I'm fine. I'd like you to list my telephone calls--service requests only, please."
She ran through the job prospects and locations. Between each she paused to audibly pop her gum. I stopped her on the sixth.
"Where was that last one?"
"Philly, Mr. Wojo. This one was passed down from Brown yesterday. An attorney named Richard Gard called asking if you could fly out there later this week."
I remembered my earlier clue, from Fredric: You might want to watch the Bicentennial. Something about it felt right. Could Loogan and Farrell have some Philly scam that had kept them there all this time?
"Did he mention the particulars?" I asked.
"Just that it's a security consult."
Easy stuff. Lawyers needed muscle every so often. Nothing too strenuous, to be sure. It would give me time to check the city for signs of Loogan, while rebuilding my bank account. "Phone Mr. Gard and tell him I'll be on the next available flight."
"You got it, handsome. Hey--you ever going to take a job out here in L.A.? I'm dying to meet you in person." She was forever flirting with me, this Sherman Oaks girl. I didn't understand it. She'd never seen me before.
"You never know," I said.
* * * *
There wasn't much to pack--I kept my personal belongings to a minimum. I could fit everything I owned into two cardboard boxes and a large lawn-sized green plastic trash bag. The bag was for my clothes--one gray suit, three pairs of trousers, one pair of denim jeans, four button-down dress shirts, two ties and enough underwear and socks for nearly two weeks. In one box I kept a Swiss army knife, two pistols, ammunition, a magnifying glass, a lighter, one 4-ounce drinking glass, a wood backscratcher and other assorted tools of the trade. In the other I kept clippings and notes, as well as a couple dozen favorite albums. The record player was a separate unit with its own cover and handle.
I stored everything else in my Brain library. I knew someday I would have to present evidence to a judge in a court of law, and it bothered me that I couldn't crack open my brain for everyone to read. But I guess when the time came, I could always rent a Dictaphone and hire a stenographer. Maybe even the Sherman Oaks girl would lend a hand. I'd take her out to a beef and beer dance to celebrate.
I chuckled at the thought, then sealed both boxes with large strips of masking tape. I stuffed a stray pair of black dress socks in my trash bag, then spun the bag and twist-tied it. There. Packed.
All that remained was to slip the front desk a final payment, another call to the Sherman Oaks girl to let her know I'd be travelling, a walk to my nearby travel agent to retrieve my tickets, and ... Oh, yeah. The important business of taking everything else--random notes here and there, doodles, old clothes--out to my Datsun and blowing the thing to smithereens.
Paul After, soul #13, had shown me a neat variation on the Molotov cocktail a few weeks back. Even though I eventually built the thing, I didn't know how it worked. Paul had guided me through, piece by piece, using ordinary items available from any decent hardware store.
It was a flashy way to make an exit, but necessary. This way there would be no trace of me. No trail for anyone to follow. Not the FBI, not the Association, not even my mother, God rest her soul. Everything I owned would go with me to Philadelphia.
I collected a trash bag full of the things I was torching and stuffed it in the trunk of the
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