Secret Dead Men by Duane Swierczynski Read Free Book Online

apartment, a country getaway..."
    "Maybe later."
    "Okay, okay. You want to see the lobby?"
    "Anything important there?"
    "Of course. There's a movie screen that allows you to look out into the real world through the eyes of my physical body."
    Brad narrowed his eyes. "What's there to see now, if you're here talking to me?"
    "Nothing, I guess. My real body is taking a nap."
    "Sounds exciting."
    I ignored that. "There's also a microphone on the lobby desk, in case you need to reach me while I'm in the real world."
    "It connects to a telephone, or something?"
    "No. You speak into the microphone, and I can hear it in my head."
    Brad thought about this for a moment. "Doesn't it get confusing? Hearing all those voices?"
    "Ah. Which is why there's only one microphone. Want to check it out?"
    "Not particularly."
    "Alright--then how about the restaurant? One of the souls here used to be a gourmet chef for one of the best casino restaurants in..."
    "I'm not hungry. Which shouldn't surprise you, seeing that I don't have a stomach anymore."
    Christ. This was going nowhere. I took a seat next to him on the couch. For a while, we both sat there, looking at the pale green walls, scratching our noses, readjusting ourselves on the couch--the usual timewasters. Finally I said: "Brad, I know this is all a rude shock to you, but time is a factor here. I need to know a few things. Things I'm sure you'll want to tell me. Things that will help make things right."
    Brad turned to me. "What things?"
    Was this partial amnesia, or was he being difficult? "You know. Things about our mutual friends. The Association."
    "The who?"
    "The organized crime syndicate that operates out of Las Vegas."
    "That's what you call it? I guess it's a good enough name. The Association. Why, sure. I kind of like it."
    "I'm glad."
    Pause.
    "Well?" I asked.
    "Sure, I could tell you ... things . In fact, I could tell you quite a bit about that particular crime organization."
    I set my jaw, waiting for him to fill the silence. Finally, after years of fruitless searching, I would know the truth.
    "But first," he continued, "I need you to do something for me ."
    This caught me off-guard. "What?"
    "I want you to find the bastards who killed Alison."
    "That's what I want, too. Once we nail the organization..."
    "No," Brad interrupted. "Not the organization . The two individuals. The assassins. The prick who shot Alison in the throat, and the cunt who sliced me up."
    In other words, Brad Larsen wanted me to solve his murder.
    * * * *
    Brad insisted on telling me his version of events first. It was fine with me--I'm sure whatever Dean Nevins had pieced together left much to be desired. I poured Brad a glass of Brain scotch--an approximation of Chivas Regal--I'd brought for the occasion. It was a lesson I'd learned from my reporting days: keep your sources well-fed and well-lubed.
    "Sure you're not hungry?" I asked.
    He gave me a funny look. "Not much point eating, is there? I'm dead."
    "Not true. Life inside the Brain hotel can be exactly like the real thing, if you work at it. Do things as you normally would. This includes eating, drinking, sleeping, shaving, showering, shitting ... the whole thing. Take it from a man who's been here a long time. It helps." Another reporter's tip: build some "we're on the same team" camaraderie.
    In this case, however, it didn't work.
    "Do things as I normally would?" Brad repeated. "Let's see. Normally, I'd wake up in the morning and kiss my wife Alison on the forehead. Normally, I'd ask her if she wanted cereal, or something else, like eggs or French toast. She'd have to help me, of course, because I always end up burning the pieces on the stove."
    I could see where this was heading, but I though it best to let him get it out of his system.
    "Normally, we would plan our day together--maybe go for a walk, or pack a lunch and walk up the creek bed to read and talk and hang out. Normally I would kiss my wife, maybe even make love to her, and normally