It was Thursday evening and getting dark. I had eaten a sandwich, and then left Elmo at the office to play secretary. I took the Chrysler, though my destination wasn't far. That's how people get big asses. It's not that I have, or Tommy has one, but that's how it happens. Suddenly we can't go anywhere without our cars. I walked into a dark room. There was a dim gleam of brass horns on a stage across from me. The music they played was sultry and rhythmic, it reminded me of sex. Tommy's psyche responded typically. I felt flushed and momentarily appreciated the makeup. I sauntered up to the bar-I'm good at sauntering-past dim tables and dark guests. I could feel their glances as I passed. Leaning heavily on the counter I ordered a scotch from a woman with rusty hair who wore a quadruple string of pearls that would give an ox back problems.
When she set my glass on the bar, she gave me a 'why don't you grow up look,' which was rare in Greasetown. Most people just look dazed or frightened. Then she grinned like a hungry grizzly bear and returned to her cigarette where it smoked beside the ale spigots.
The drink was a little too warm for me. I downed half of it before my stomach jumped like I had sword-swallowed a cattle prod. I set the glass down, and peered through the gloom at the band. I had been told by accounting at the Gazette that Jimmy Harker musician, alias James Harker journalist, had given up the search for truth for a life of late nights, women, and applause. Looking around the place, I realized Jimmy would need infrared vision to see any women here.
He was playing with a band called the Swing Dogs. I had called a few bars and asked the managers about them. On my fourth call, I was directed to a place named Crisco's. So far, Crisco's was little more than a big collection of dark. They must have saved millions on cleaning staff. My boots glided like hockey skates over the damp floorboards. There was something on them that slid like oil, but stuck like glue when you stopped moving.
Harker had a moustache and a ponytail-the woman in accounting had said-played trumpet, and very well, by the sound of it. I realized that in the darkness, I'd have as much chance of seeing a moustache as I would of seeing heaven. For once, I didn't have a cigarette. I opted instead to repetitively clear my throat-it was scorched. I listened to the music and tried to imagine what had brought me here. The band stopped in the middle of a song. I heard them confer in muffled tones, then someone laughed. They picked up where they left off. They were warming up. Their first set probably wasn't until nine or nine-thirty. I glanced at a bar clock set in a huge replica of a popular beer-there was frost on the bottle and everything. It was eight-thirty. The band stopped again, a drummer let his frustration out through a snare drum. I shared his angst. Why was I at Crisco's watching the Swing Dogs looking for Jimmy Harker to ask him about babies and strange names like Owen, and Grey? A cold finger of fear had its way with me.
What was driving me now? I was supposed to find out who had killed Cotton. I guess all the baby talk, the Regenerics, and the phantom baby stories were beginning to work on me. For a moment, I began to wonder who was in control. Tommy had been acting strangely. It had started during the Billings' case. For two years we worked well together. I took over and I didn't hear a peep out of him, now…he seemed to be aware of my actions. That strange dream of mine: What was that all about? There was something out of whack. Tommy had been quiet for so long now. He seemed to approve of the direction the case was taking. But what direction was that? I definitely wanted to know who sliced Adrian up, but I wasn't being paid for that. It was obvious that the cases were related. I had to caution myself. Hold on, Detective. You're not taking this strange New World for granted. You're fighting the flow. Next you'll be wondering who you really are. You're the Detective that's all that matters. Cotton can wait; you've got to go with your gut.
The music stopped. It was replaced with the loud hush of crowd noise. The lights came up. I think someone lit a candle. I could just make out the dim forms of the musicians leaving the stage-flitting through a rustling curtain at the back.
I turned to the barkeeper and caught her staring at me. I motioned her over.
"Say, beautiful," I sang. I wasn't stretching a point. She was pretty enough behind over-done makeup and her figure was solid and panther-like beneath the gaudy purple spandex. "The musicians have a room back there?"
"Do I know you?" she said, her head tilting from side to side.
"Do you have to know me to answer me?"
"I just get this feeling about you." She squinted.
"Every kid loves a clown," I answered glibly. I couldn't believe how little patience I had. "Do they stay back there between sets?"
"Yeah," she continued to stare then smiled again. "You look like someone I knew. Without the makeup." She laughed and sucked on her cigarette. "That's where they stay. They aren't allowed to drink until the last set." She laughed. "Like anybody's gonna enforce that one…"
"Do you know Jimmy Harker?"
She smiled. "Sure, nice ass on the guy."
"Good," I sneered. "I'll just look for a nice ass."
I left the bar and crossed to the stage only stumbling twice. I pushed the curtain aside and walked into a small room. A toilet roared from a tiny alcove at the back lit by a blinding fluorescent light. A tall, slim black man walked out. His hand twitched like a spider on his fly.
Two vinyl couches ran the length of the room on either side of me. They were occupied. A man who looked forty sat closest me. His black skin gleamed blue in the weird light. He wore sunglasses that must have made him completely blind in the room outside. He had a whip-like ponytail that grew out of the top of his head and fell down the back like new silk. His moustache was as sharp as a knife. He looked at me, so did the other members of the band. They were a pair of white men of elder years who looked like they lacked the wind to blow their instruments, and another was a big dead Asian. He determinedly strummed a bass guitar. I was amazed at how much mass he had for a dead man. He looked like he Sumo wrestled in his spare time.
"What the fuck you want?" This came from the black fellow I'd caught coming out of the washroom.
"I'm looking for Jimmy Harker. I was told he played with you guys." I smiled.
"So. People tell you a lot of things, I bet," the black man sneered belligerently. "Jimmy only play with himself."
"So, I want to talk to him." I wished for a moment that I had come unarmed. "My name's Wildclown, I'm a private detective."
The fellow with the moustache and ponytail broke out laughing. "A private dick, aw shit man, come on. Who the hell are you?"
"Listen, I just want to ask a couple of questions." Tommy's spirit flashed ire. "Nobody's in any trouble. Does everybody in this town have a chip on his shoulder? You can't buy a newspaper without getting into a fist fight."
The two old men broke out laughing now. They obviously weren't the leaders. I glared at them. There wasn't much else I could do.
"All right, he's a funny, funny clown. Have your laugh." I grinned like an idiot. "Lucky for you, I'm in a good mood today. I'm looking for Jimmy Harker."
The fellow nearest me stood up. He was a good head taller. "I'm Jimmy Harker. Who are you?"
"You play a hell of a trumpet," I said feebly.
"I play sax," he said and I immediately cursed the woman in Accounting.
"Sax, sax. Sorry I get those things mixed up." I pursed my lips. "I'm not a musician."
"So?" He glared at me-let his eyes rake over my form.
"Okay, maybe if I appeal to the wayward newshound in you." I smiled again, threw my chest out-it wasn't old or anything I just threw it out. "I just came from the Gazette. I'm working on the phantom baby case."
His face went blank then it drooped like someone had left it in the sun too long.
"Phantom baby," he said smiling, and shook his head. "Get out."
"I'm serious." I gestured to my clown's face. "Surely to Christ you guys can appreciate an idiosyncrasy. You're artists-God, what's the world coming to when artists get judgmental?"
They all started laughing now-even the Sumo wrestler. His dead lungs thrummed like stretched rubber tires. I smiled. I had nothing else to do. Inside, I could feel Tommy railing for control. I had him though. A full day of detoxifying left him tired. Still, he managed to jerk my gun hand in and out of a fist. The Swing Dogs seemed to take the gesture as a threat. They stopped laughing. Harker came close to me. He pulled off his sunglasses. My arms instinctively bent to catch the flick of a knife. But he didn't have a knife instead he just stabbed me with his eyes. They were hard points of night.
"What the fuck you want?" His voice was serious with a fragile edge of fear. I wanted to exploit that fear, but that kind of manipulation can turn on you quick, when you're in the back room of a bar with a bunch of guys you don't know.
"Just to ask you a few questions. That's all. Then, you go back to your life, Harker. I'm not out to get anybody." I turned up both hands palms empty as proof.
Harker's eyes flickered with something like recognition. "Ask." He slid his sunglasses on.
"A man came in two-three years ago, he was somehow connected with a kidnapping. His name was either Grey, or Owen, maybe both. Wanted info on the baby. Here." I handed him the memo I'd picked up at the Gazette. He looked at it, and I noticed his shoulders round, his head tilt slightly to one side.
"Well shit!" He cocked his sunglasses at me.
"What?"
"That's funny." Harker looked at me again, grinned. "Guy's name was Owen Grey. I think he used to work for Authority, before he was a nobody. He sure as hell wasn't Authority anymore. I must have talked to him twelve times in all. He just showed up one day, asking questions about the phantom baby. Said he was a detective. Personally, I think he was a goddamn drunk-always smelled of booze. But hey, live and let live right? The Change has been hard on everyone. Anyway, he said he was looking for a missing girl. Some rich kid, parents looking for her. I let him look at the files, why not? Son of a bitch tried to use me as a library though, came back quite a few times. Couldn't guess why he was interested in the baby."
"What's funny about that?"
"I was trying to think who you reminded me of?" He slapped the note. "Him. The way you talk."
"It's the detective shtick." My scalp was crawling. "Do you know the name of the girl he was looking for?"
"Oh, shit. No. Two or three years ago, damned if I can remember." He shook his head, handed the memo back.
I held fingers up. "Two or three years? Which?"
Harker rubbed his chin. "A little over two I think-yeah, just before I packed it in. Isn't that right, Chang?"
The big Oriental nodded, holding up two thick fingers.
"Do you know where I can find Grey?" I watched my dim reflection in Harker's glasses.
"No. He disappeared. I remember him coming in for the last time. He seemed really nervous, looked funny on him since he was such a big guy-tall as you but much heavier. One of those glass garglers, two-fisted palooka types, you know. Anyway, he came in that time looking scared, wanted to talk to me-I was on the crime beat back then. I sat down with him, even gave him a cup of my coffee. He suddenly lost interest in talking though because he drank it, and left."
I could feel adrenaline pounding through my veins. "What did he tell you?"
"Nothing." Harker shook his head, then resumed his seat on the couch. He picked up his saxophone, his hands fingering the keys nervously. "He drank the coffee, and left. I never saw him again."
I stared at him. "Nothing, he just disappeared."
"Poof." Harker made a disappearing cloud motion with his hands.
"And he never gave you a contact number, an address where he worked? You were a reporter, you must have kept a notebook."
"You don't keep a notebook that long. Christ, you go through a hundred a year. Couldn't tell you a number. Sorry." He paused, scratched his head. "Gritburg comes to mind. But that's a guess."
I gave him one of my cards. "Thanks," I said, and spun on my heel to leave-then stopped. I threw an eye over my shoulder. "You said Grey sure as hell wasn't Authority anymore. I suppose that was based on the poor sap's wardrobe?"
"No, Grey was a good dresser, plain but good. I just knew he wasn't from Authority, because I only talked to one guy at Authority about the phantom baby."
I felt sweat soak my back. "Who?"
"Inspector Borden. Called him every time we got anything on it."
My jaw died. Then I managed, "I suppose they're still doing it, at the Gazette." I continued to stare over my left shoulder. "Calling."
"Hey, it was one of those things. You do what Authority wants." He couldn't hide the wounded pride in his voice.
"Thanks." I left, and in seconds found myself in the street. My brain was aching with all the little cogwheels turning at once. My stomach was a block of ice as I drove back to the office.