When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (good books for high schoolers .TXT) 📕

The office was its usual depressing self. The single picture on the wall was crooked, and the ballerinas practicing in it were ready to cartwheel out into the waiting room. I left them. Something about their unbalanced state complimented my mood. I motioned for Elmo to sit, then jiggled the bottle of Canadian Club at him. He shook his head. I nudged his portion into the glass after mine. Waste not…the whiskey set its teeth in my tongue and hung there for a moment like a bulldog. I smiled at Elmo, emptied the glass, and then replaced the four ounces or so. I took another mouthful then lit a cigarette. I moved over and opened the blinds. Night was falling fast; it doesn’t have any other speed in Greasetown. I resumed my seat.

“Boss?” Elmo’s voice broke my silent contemplation of another drink.

“Yes, Elmo.” I twisted my head toward him. I had been staring distractedly at a streetlight outside the window. I realized it had been on continuously for the last month. That was fine, because I knew when it burned out, it would be off continuously for a month or so.

“What are we d-doing?” He seemed nervous, as he usually did when questioning the boss. I had tried to encourage him to be a little more democratic about our relationship, but he looked at me like I had run over his grandmother. Elmo liked things the way they were. Anyway, whenever Tommy was in control he had a way of undoing my efforts with his insane bombast.

A whole day had passed, all I had done was walk down the street for coffee and a sandwich, tried to straighten my files, and leafed through a nudie magazine looking for interesting articles. I glanced at the clock on my desk. Ten-thirty, Wednesday evening and I was still waiting for Tuesday’s paper.

“We’re waiting, Elmo.” I grimaced wickedly. “We’re playing chess.”

“Chess?” Elmo’s eyes looked at me incredulous.

“Basically, I’ve finished all the moves I want to make.” I laughed with Tommy’s strained and frightening mirth. “We’ve been led along for a while, and the longer this case, or cases, go on, the more I see conspiracy. Since I’ve only suspicions about who is involved, I’ll wait. I can afford to, and hope one of the conspirators will grow impatient, and make a move. Either that or they’ll get another detective. I need to know more, so I know whose toes to step on.”

“Oh,” Elmo nodded and lit a cigarette. “We’ll w-wait.”

“It’s the best thing.” I leaned back in my chair and burped—hot and acid. What was it about alcohol? Why could they never hide its poison nature? I never made the attempt, but even in those gigantic tropical drinks with the beach umbrellas, coconuts and fruit spears, you could taste its distinct toxic flavor. Unless the body held some sway still. Like a dog trained to sniff skiers out of Swiss avalanches, perhaps the body was trained to nose and dig out poisons. A lengthy memory of hangovers was testimony to its poisonous effect upon the body; but I drank it anyway. As I eyed its dangerous amber spirit, I felt something equally menacing rise within myself. I understood the relationship. It was that strange human impulse towards death that had us murder old dogs and cats with cataracts—that murderous pity of the human race—that made me drink. Humanity, the bifurcated beast—the mad dog that strained at Darwin’s leash with as much desire to survive as destroy itself. Drink made it plain. Our survival mechanisms assured our destruction. I upended the glass, and drained it. At least I understood the relationship. That’s why I drank it straight.

The phone rang. I smiled knowingly at Elmo and lifted the receiver.

“Wildclown,” I said. At the back of my mind, I could feel Tommy all stretched and rubbery with the alcohol.

“This is Inspector Cane.” The voice came hard and harsh.

“Inspector Cane. How wonderful of you to call.” I blew smoke from a fresh cigarette.

“No fucking around, Wildclown.” I’m sure I heard him snarl. I know I imagined him showing his teeth. “We found your friend, Adrian.”

“My friend…” I sat upright now. “Where? How about Van Reydner?” I conjured up my mental picture of her—all eyes and breasts—or was it breasts and eyes.

“No. Van Reydner’s still a no-show.” He went quiet. “I want to talk to you.”

“Sure, but where’s Adrian?” I began to smell complicity again.

“Take the Western Highway for about an hour. I’m still at the scene.” He hung up.

I hung up. At the scene. Not likely a traffic accident. That would be too easy. Murder? I emptied my glass, then looked at Elmo.

“Out onto the highway west, Elmo. Want to come?”

I could see fear and loathing in his sad and cold dead eyes. His dead lips formed an ugly frown. He nodded.

“Good!” I smiled, as I quickly took another shot of Canadian Club, secreted its long dark length in one of my oversized pockets, and then led the way out the door. It might have been the whiskey thinking, or Tommy, but I genuinely hoped I wasn’t too late to talk to Mr. Adrian—maybe push his broad white teeth down his throat.