The Chrysler's hubcaps screeched against the curb as I slid its long battered body to a halt. While I lurched up the steps to the office, the singer with the rabbit under her dress sang a song in the back of my mind: "Since my baby went away." I moved past Elmo where he sat looking bored in the outer room, and in minutes was pacing the eight feet of dirty carpet I kept in front of my desk to impress customers. The whiskey wasn't doing its job. The back of my head had begun to throb again. The front of my head had joined in too. Elmo entered, his puzzled look crossed my bloodstained clothing but disappeared with a shake of my head. He sat silent in his chair like a deep dark secret. Cigarette smoke sketched clues in front of him.
I phoned down the street for coffee, lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk. I was frustrated. I always got that way when a case broke. I may have completed the puzzle, but there was a real anticlimax in the way Authority dealt out justice. This was the hard part. Who could I trust with my news? True, I didn't have Van Reydner, but I as much as had a confession from Mr. Adrian. Since the lawyer had hired me to get the guy who killed him, our business would soon be concluded. My problem was finding some way of bringing Mr. Adrian to justice. The plain truth of it was exactly as Mr. Adrian had stated. He, like most powerful people in history, was above Authority. What that meant was he owned a piece of it. That was probably why Billings had wanted me to kill his murderer outright. The lawyer's professional pragmatism must have told him that some people simply owned too much of the law to be subject to it. And even the worst, most hardened criminal could slip through the cracks on a technicality. The truth was I had an impulse to kill him myself. I could say he really hadn't treated me very well; but where he had power I had none. It was a long afterlife to spend in a cell.
Still, I had to do something, if for my own sake alone. Mr. Adrian had just tried to kill me for getting too close. He would try again, unless I could draw attention to myself. There were enough rival factions in Greasetown that friction from one, or the possible reaction of another, often stayed the hand of more aggressive groups. I had done Authority favors before. Perhaps I'd try my hand again.
I dialed the operator. "Authority, Criminal Division, please."
The phone rang. Then a stern voice. "Authority, Crimdiv."
"Hello, I'd like to speak to Inspector Cane."
"Just a moment. I'll put you over to records."
More canned Muzak. Of all the things we could have left behind in the old world, why not…
"Inspector Cane, who's speaking."
"Hello, Inspector Cane. It's Wildclown. I know we didn't exactly hit it off at our last meeting; but I remember you saying I should call with information. And I'd like to report an attempted murder."
"I'll come to your office."
"Don't we usually do this kind of thing at headquarters? Besides it's kind of late."
"I work late, Wildclown."
"What time is it now?" I knew it was ten-thirty, the clock on the desk said as much. But I couldn't resist asking. He seemed like the type who would hate that kind of thing.
"Just after ten-thirty." His voice was a petulant hiss. "I'll be there at eleven."
"Fine," I said, hung up, and then looked across the desk at Elmo. "It's the best we can do, Fatso."
He nodded sadly.