The Dead Love Longer: A Novella Read online

  ***

  2.

  The clerk blinked. The clock on the wall had actually moved backwards three minutes, as if I had encountered Diana in a past life.

  "Did you see her?" I asked her.

  "See whom?"

  "Never mind. It's my problem, not yours."

  "And you got plenty of them." She tapped my dossier. "I don't think you can get to your happy place."

  "I can do it. I have a lot of willpower."

  "It takes more than willpower. It takes faith."

  "I thought you said religion was so much horseclabber."

  "Faith isn't the belief in invisible deities or dead things. Faith is a belief in life."

  "Well, I guess I can't believe in life anymore, can I? I mean, I've always played the cards I was dealt."

  She pursed her pale blue lips and began sliding my folder toward the edge of her desk. It scooted off and plopped into a trash can I hadn't noticed before. I hadn't noticed it because it hadn't been there.

  "Hey, hey, hey," I said, rushing forward on feet that felt like feathers. I dug around in the trash can and pulled out the papers. They were stained by some old coffee grounds, dregs of a spilled beer, and a banana peel, but still legible. I slammed the file down on the desk, pissed at Diana, scared that somebody wanted a piece of my soul, angry that someone was probably getting away with murder at my expense.

  Life was unfair, because I was dead. Life was sacred, because the living said so. Life was beautiful, because death was as honest as a mirror. All I had were some broken memories and a lingering mental image of Lee, but I had a desire that no spiteful spouse could ever wipe away.

  I stood and leveled a finger at the clerk. "I've got a lot to look forward to. I've got to get to heaven. I want it. Just tell me what I have to do."

  She sat back and tented her fingers, and her lips slithered into a reptilian smile. "Why, Mr. Steele, I believe there's hope for you yet. But I can't tell you what to do. You have to figure that part out for yourself."

  Hope.

  If ever a word deserved to be wrapped in gaudy gold foil, it was that one. Hope, the thing that got the living up in the morning, that put strong men on their knees, that melted the hearts of ice queens. The word that drove us to take the next breath, at least those among us whose lungs still worked.

  She slid some papers toward me and gave me a pen. I spent what seemed like ten years filling out my application for heaven, though heaven's official name turned out to be The Bright Place, Inc. It had a pretty nifty logo, too, the letters "BP" with the sun rising over them.

  "Say, what's the deal?" I said. "I thought Christians had cornered the market on heaven. Isn't that why they say God sent Jesus into the world? What about nirvana, Valhalla, paradise, and all that?"

  The clerk's wiry hands pressed together as if she wanted to slap me but was forced to follow protocol. She regained her composure and feigned patience. "Jesus died for the sins of those who believe in Jesus. Others have their own way of shedding their earthly burdens. Buddha, Satan, Higher Power, Dora the Explorer, Jiminy Cricket, whatever gets you through the night. It all goes to the same place. Now, please, pretty please, get on with the paperwork before I waste another couple of eternities on this case."

  "Merry Christmas to you, too," I said.

  When I finished, I gave the forms back to her, accidentally brushing her fingers. Her flesh was cold.

  She noticed my shocked expression. "Titanic victim," she said with some pride. She checked over my application.

  "Un-huh...un-huh…" she muttered under her breath as she read. "Okay, we can work with this. Ready for your assignment?"

  "Assignment?"

  "Yeah? Didn't life teach you anything? If you want something, you have to work for it. It's not as easy as getting on your knees and sucking up to some invisible deity."

  I nodded. "Just tell me what to do."

  "You've got to go back and solve your own murder. And you've got to do it before your funeral."

  "Back?"

  "To Earth," she said, distracted, already thumbing through the next file.

  "Does that mean I get to be alive again?"

  "You were barely alive when you were alive, if you know what I mean. You never knew how to live."

  "But I'll be real?"

  "You'll be able to interact with the world of the living. But it will cost you."

  Well, that was nothing new. And the afterlife wasn't shaping up as any great shakes in the "free ride" department, either. But at least I'd have a chance to nail down one last case. Justice always prevailed, at least on the TV shows.

  "What's the cost?" I said. As far as I remembered, I'd left behind a couple of hundred in my bank account, an ashtray full of change in my car, and some cheese dip from Thanksgiving in my fridge. Not much when facing a cosmic debt.

  "You'll find out," she said. "That's part of your job."

  A nobody like me doesn't end up with holes in his coat for no good reason. If solving the case meant Lee and I had a chance, then I was anxious to tackle it. And, I must admit, a little old-fashioned revenge is always a pretty good motivator. I didn't like loose ends, especially when my own end was blowing in the eternal breeze.

  "Give me the facts," I said, falling ever so easily back into my old profession. Finally, something normal. Like fear, it was familiar and safe.

  "There are no facts. That's why we need you, so we can get the records squared away on your murderer."

  "Say, wait a second," I said. "I thought you guys already knew everything."

  "I don't know nothing until somebody sends me a memo," she said by way of dismissal.

  ***

  3.

  Just like that, like magic or some film editor's trick, I was flat on my back, my chest burning and my lungs gurgling. My mouth was filled with the taste of lead and copper, my head was a plastic bag stuffed with thorny cotton. I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling of my apartment. You could see faces in the stucco swirls, if you looked hard enough. One face, actually. Diana's, multiplied by twenty. She seemed happy to see me dead.

  I arose, a real ghost this time, not some heavily burdened human who was a few thousand sit-ups in arrears. I looked around quickly, hoping to catch the perp in the act. But I should have known I wouldn't pass my test of faith so easily. This had been no close-range assault.

  The room was the same as I had left it, except one wall was pocked with four gashes in the Sheetrock. One of the bullets had passed through my Pet of the Month calendar, right through the beagle that was Mister December. Another had sheared my little artificial Christmas tree, cutting a plastic candy cane in half. The clock on the wall said five minutes until four, and it appeared to still be ticking. That gave me a great deal of comfort, though it meant my opportunity to solve the case and save my soul was ticking away with it.

  The wall with the holes was to the north, so the bullets had come from the south. Through the open window. I drifted to the window and looked out. Los Angeles was spread out beyond me like broken toys on a brat's bedroom floor.

  The sharpshooter must have been in one of the buildings across the street. A motel, one of the old fake-adobe kind that rented rooms by the hour, was the most obvious choice. But as a detective, I'd learned that the most obvious choice was often the wrong choice. I'd learned that lesson as a man as well, at least when stepping into the snake pit known as womanly love.

  I scanned farther. The used bookstore and the Armenian food joint were on ground level, and my digs were on the second floor. A Scientology church had some Hubbard books arrayed under a neon star in the front window, but the church appeared to be locked up tight. The angle was all wrong for a good clean shot from any of those places. I shifted my gaze to the right. The Hollywood Hype. Bingo.

  The Hollywood Hype was one of those combo deals, a tacky souvenir shop on the bottom and suites upstairs. Four windows faced me, leading into rooms named for movie stars. The Marilyn Monroe suite, the James Dean, the Ginger Rogers, and
so forth, the sorts of places that tourists gobbled up so they could brag to their friends back home about getting lucky in Marilyn's room. Each room was tastelessly decorated with old publicity stills and commemorative towels, the kinds of "unique" items that the Hype management hoped the guests would steal as souvenirs. Then they could ring a hefty charge onto the tenants' credit cards.

  I was about to go to the door and head for the stairs when I remembered that I was a ghost. It took a little mental effort, but I put my hand through the wall. Cool. I was going to enjoy this case. But I wondered about the "cost" the afterlife caseworker had warned me about.

  I looked around my apartment, then down at my body. I looked dopey, my mouth open as if I'd been asked an algebra question. My fly was half-open, a button was missing on my shirt, and I had ring around the collar. And I wasn't quite as handsome as I'd always thought. Nothing like being dead to give you a whopping dose of reality.

  A red blotch was spreading out across the frayed carpet. I knelt and checked my pockets, just the way I would do if the body were someone else's. The good thing about being a ghost was that I wouldn't have to worry about leaving fingerprints. Of course, they would be mine anyway, and presumably my fingerprints were all over my stuff.

  Cigarettes. A butane lighter. A few dollars. Very few.

  And a note. Of course. I remembered it now, jotted down on torn wrapping paper. Handwritten, in jagged cursive: "Meet me in the lobby. 4 p.m."

  I glanced at my wristwatch. It was spinning backwards, so I checked the clock on the wall. 3:58.

  Sirens were blaring, still six blocks away and caught in the permanent rush-hour traffic. I was almost tempted to stay and wait for the cops. But what would I tell them? I still didn't know my limits, or how I'd be able to interact with the living. Besides, I had a feeling I had to solve this thing on my own. Which was okay. I always liked working alone.

  Except in one certain endeavor. Lee's photograph was on top of my television, and she was much better than any sitcom diva. I went across the room, moving my legs out of unneeded habit. Could I lift the photograph?

  Time to test my powers. You'd think they'd give you a user's manual when they sent you back. But I guess this was part of the test. You had to earn it, baby. That was what faith was all about.

  I found that if I concentrated hard enough, if I believed, then my ether would harden just enough to actually function in my former reality. I lifted the photograph and brought it to my lips. She tasted of dust when I kissed her.

  Something rumbled under the floor and a blast of warm air crossed the room. I thought it was the heat pump kicking on, but even in late December, Los Angeles can throw you into a sweat. The con men, sexual predators, and street gangs can do that. But this was spawned by no earthly source.

  "So that's the bitch, huh?" came Diana's voice from the air ducts.

  I didn't have time to argue with my late wife. I was about to be late for an appointment. But you can imagine the comfort it gave me, knowing she'd be looking over my shoulder at every turn. Just like during our marriage.

  With great effort, I returned the photo and took one last look around. Nothing here that I would need. Still, it gave me a creepy feeling to drift through the wall for probably the final time. Just when you think you've come to accept your lot in life, or even in death, reality comes along and slaps you in the face.

  I was in the lobby right at four. The desk attendant was bored, and he looked like a goober in his little red vest. He'd sneered at me that time I'd locked myself out of my room in the middle of the night, caught in my underwear. I thought about playing a trick on him, taking advantage of my invisibility and spooking him good, but I didn't want to waste my energies.

  4:01. While I waited, I tried to guess who would show up. I put two and two together, and came up with either three or five. Math was never my strong point.

  4:02, and the bell jingled above the lobby door. The attendant raised one eyebrow, then faded back into his all-consuming funk. He should have looked closer, or else he was gay, because she was a knockout.

  Hair that hung like black silk. One of those Anastasia fur hats. A leopard-skin dress whose familiarity with her curves brought out the animal in me. Legs that went all the way down to the floor, and back up again. I know, because I checked twice just to make sure.

  Her eyes were almost as pretty as Lee's, and nearly the same color. She looked at the stairs and the elevator, then clutched her purse to her chest. She was anxious and scared. And in a hurry.

  I went around the corner and composed myself while out of sight. I took on flesh and form, and I felt pretty good for a dead guy. I flexed my fingers as if they were in gloves. I was almost normal again, except for the headache I got from concentrating myself back into corporeal existence. And my jacket still had the holes in it. If there was any spiritual cost besides underarm stench, then I assumed I was running a tab somewhere up there on the heavenly ledgers.

  I walked into the lobby as if I'd just come from the restroom. "Meet me in the lobby?" I quoted from the note.

  She nodded. "Richard Steele?"

  "In the flesh."

  "Hi, I'm Bailey DeBussey."

  A porn star's name or a budding actress. Usually the same.

  She glanced at the door to the street outside. The sirens were louder now, audible even over the Muzak strains of "O Christmas Tree" that permeated the lobby, and the attendant snapped out of his stupor long enough to rubberneck. "Let's go out the back way," she said, taking me by the elbow.

  I'd never minded a woman's taking charge, especially if she might become a client or lover. The closing of the door sounded frighteningly like one of Diana's patented hisses of disapproval. We went into the alley behind the apartment building. A wino was leaning against the dumpster. I tossed him all my spare change and wished him happy holidays. Having no need of money was a freeing experience, especially when the cash registers were going full guns all across the city, ringing in the season.

  "God bless yaz, suh," he said, flashing me three yellow teeth with his grin.

  "I think I'll need it."

  "Over there," the impatient Bailey DeBussey said, pointing across the street.

  She took my hand and led me through a gap in the chain-link fence. We went across a parking lot into what used to be called a coffee shop. Now it was a "casa de cafe." Same deal, only guys like me didn't hang out there anymore and coffee was three bucks a cup. Still, any port in a storm.

  We were seated as the first of the police cars pulled up to the Hollywood Hype. It would take them a while to find my body. Maybe even a day or two, after Lee called five or six times and received no return call. For a moment, I regretted my casual treatment of her. But in a way, I was glad to delay the breaking of her heart. Because, unlike a lot of women I'd known, she had one.

  "So why the mystery?" I asked the woman after she had ordered a cappuccino. I didn't order anything myself, because I wasn't sure how food or liquid would play in my newly fabricated body. Plus I didn't know how long I could hold this human act together. I kept expecting something strange to happen, like the wall opening and spilling out a horde of deranged demons.

  "I wasn't sure if I could trust you," Bailey said.

  Trust? Me? I had a pretty decent rep, if she'd even gone to the bother of a background check. If she had received a personal reference, I'd need to worm the information out of her somehow. I figured I'd play the tough guy. I'd watched the Sam Spade movies like almost every two-bit gumshoe, and the rule of thumb was to cut gorgeous dames quick and cold and hard like you would the diamonds that were supposedly a girl's best friend.

  I almost wished I had a cigarette to mutter around. "Well, at my rates, you better learn to trust me fast, because the meter is running."

  "It's..." She fluttered those long eyelashes and studied the cracked polyurethane coating of the table. "It's my husband."

  Husband? A looker like her, and she can't keep a man faithful? Made you wonder about the human
race, at least the male half of it. But I'd handled dozens of adulteries for divorce court. Those were bread and butter for private investigators, and rarely were more dangerous than the occasional indignant middle finger flashed in anger. That kind of case had never earned me a lungful of hot lead.

  "Is he running around on you?" I was blunt, because my flesh could dissolve away at any moment, and then some wet-nosed waitress would be selling an eyewitness account to Sightings or Unexplained Mysteries, probably pitching a screenplay at the same time.

  "Nothing like that," she said, and there were honest-to-goodness tears in her eyes. Tears. In Los Angeles. Who would have thunk it? But this was a female, and tears come to them as conveniently as lies did. Only men know how to cry, and believe me, we keep it in the dark whenever possible.

  "What is it, then?" My head ached. I felt like death warmed over, which I suppose I was.

  "It's these," she said, pulling three printed-out digital snapshots from her purse. She waited until the waitress brought her steaming drink before sliding them across the table. "I need to know where he got them."

  I glanced at the photos and was about to ask which "he" she meant when I felt myself go lightheaded. My stomach did a flip and my feet felt as if they had fallen asleep. I was losing it. My tab was coming due.

  "I got to go," I said. "I'll keep these and get in touch later." I pushed the photos into my pocket, then stood and hurried to the door. Clean-cut yuppies and actors-in-waiting stared at me from their booths. I felt like a stack of clothes, nothing more.

  Bailey called out as I battled with the front door. "I love you, Richard. See you at your place?"

  I thought maybe I'd misheard in my panic to leave, and that word "love" added to whatever panic I was experiencing at the time. But then she yelled, "Lee can't keep us apart."

  I staggered into the street. I wasn't sure if I had gone out the door, or through it. I hope I was in the shadows by the time I fully dissolved. Only the wino behind my apartment building knows for sure.

  ***