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

What did Socrates say? Real wisdom is the property of god. Well, I had to agree with him. I liked to think that I had a fairly quick mind; in fact, I tried to make a living by it. But throughout this case or cases I had astounded myself with my lack of foresight. In my defense, I did have the handicap of being a person who couldn’t remember his past, and therefore could hardly draw from it. But that’s just an excuse, my weak justification. Even my system of ‘believe in everything, expect it all,’ didn’t help.

Douglas Willieboy had long since slipped out of his armor. His partner waited outside. Elmo sat beside Tommy on a heavy brown vinyl couch. Willieboy paced, frustrated.

After removing his helmet on the street in front of the Mother of God Cathedral he had tried to talk to Tommy, but the clown was then as he was now, locked in an autistic trance. Willieboy was in a rush because after a quick signal to his partner, he climbed into the Chrysler, bulldozing Tommy into the middle. His partner ran ahead to the sedan, turned it around and headed downtown and on toward the docks.

Willieboy had gestured with Tommy’s gun for Elmo to follow the sedan. Elmo did. Willieboy hissed at him to hurry—his eyes flashing side to side like wayward comets. Elmo hurried. I floated overhead, bemused. I had at this point abandoned trying to make sense of this mess. I made a couple of half-hearted attempts to possess Tommy. His mind was closed to me, so I gave up, and slipped into an empty somnolence—no, correction I sulked. Maybe not thinking would help. Maybe nothing would help. Maybe I didn’t care if anything would help? Willieboy didn’t care. He was silent for the remainder of the trip tapping his teeth with a fingertip.

We had followed the sedan along the river for some time until it quickly veered off onto a side street. Willieboy told Elmo to go straight on toward the harbor. We turned away at the docks, and roared along thin streets between great brick warehouses until we came to the Pangton Fisheries building. It was an enormous pile of bricks that ran on and on, away from us. In front of the Chrysler, a faded mural stretched across the wide loading bay doors. It depicted a smiling man in hip waders pulling mightily on a fishing rod that was bent like a question mark. A huge salmon with crazy eyes leapt from the water. I noticed that some conscientious graffiti artist had added body parts for anatomical correctness. It was obvious, in neon orange and blue, that both were well-endowed boys. I had studied the mural as a minute ticked by. Willieboy grunted impatiently, flashing his eyes at Tommy. Suddenly, the happy fisherman’s stream parted like the Red Sea, the doors squealing on rusty tracks. Elmo drove through without prompting, and came to a halt beneath a vaulted archway of corroded girders. Willieboy signaled to his partner who was cranking the door shut. The other Enforcer had nodded back as Willieboy half-carried Tommy out of the car and up a creaking wooden stairway to an office.

Now over an hour had passed. Willieboy paced the room, ranting wildly. “God damn you, Wildclown. What the fuck is wrong with you? Is it Greaseasy, or what? Syncrak?” He looked desperately at Elmo, back to the clown. “I know you’re pissed, you smell like a fucking whiskey barrel, but I can’t believe anyone can get that fucked up on booze!”

Tommy mumbled something. It was almost a whine. He had drawn his knees up. A string of spittle connected his head to his belly button.

“Fucking loser!” Willieboy punched his fist into his palm. “Fuck!” He kicked a chair. It slid across the floor then dropped like a newborn lamb.

All this time Elmo sat fidgeting in his chair. He had smoked the last of his cigarettes long ago, as he silently endured his own interrogation, remaining the proper captured flyer throughout. Name, rank, and serial number—nothing more. It was soon obvious that Elmo awaited orders.

“What the fuck is wrong with your boss?” It was the umpteenth time the question had been asked. This time, it connected with Elmo. He was growing impatient too.

“He gets like that sometimes. All like his mind’s gone or somethin’. I think it’s how he does his detecting ‘cause he comes out of it all kind of action. But he takes his own time.” He scratched his head, dubious for a moment. “Course I do remember him comin’ round once, I mean comin’ out’a it a lot quicker-like!”

“How?” Willieboy was open to suggestions.

“Well, it’s kind’a embarrassin’. But, I s-suppose…” Elmo rubbed his thin forearm. “I was waitin’ for him to come ‘round once, and so I w-was just kind’a readin’. Well, it was one of them magazines with the naked people, doin’ it…I guess.” Elmo would have blushed if he were alive. “The phone rang and I sat the magazine down in front of him with this woman’s big old, well ‘you-know-what’ stretched over the two pages. I talked on the phone about two s-seconds, and then the Boss just took it from my hand and started talking. Came right out of his c-condition, he did.”

I remembered the time he was talking about. The picture had been of a large blonde woman straddling a camera lens. I had meant to tell Elmo to use that technique if I ever lapsed again. Another bit of quirky memory.

Willieboy smiled broadly then slapped his knee. “Of course! It makes sense with this sick clusterfuck!” He left the office. I listened to his boots on the stairs. Elmo did what he sometimes did when his boss was in a bad way. He reached out and laid his cold hand on Tommy’s. “Wake up, Boss. Wake up now,” he whispered it in a gentle voice like a mother waking her child for school. “I think we’re in trouble.”

Then Willieboy was back. He had a magazine under his arm. He dropped it on the table in front of Tommy. The cover bore a picture of a gorgeous young woman sucking on her index finger. The skin on the finger had been tattooed to resemble serpent’s scales. Butt Violence was the title that ran across the top. Willieboy quickly tore the magazine open to a centerfold of two women wearing the kind of underwear that doesn’t cover anything. They were both bent over in living color. The girls appeared to be blithe and uncaring as they played an impromptu game of hide the weasel.

The inevitably silly caption read:

Natalie knew that they were playing for keeps and called her pretty opponent’s bluff. But Cindy was ready to meet the challenge and made the move to sweeten the pot.

I could see Tommy’s almost immediate arousal flickering beneath the surface of his skull. He had a thing about animals. I began to broadcast old images of Lassie, the uncut version, and in a second was in the driver’s seat. I looked up at Willieboy, then winced. I had stiffened up during the intervening hours of inactivity. I grimaced. “Makeup.” My voice was dead and dry. I shrugged my shoulder as I waited, felt the ghost of a drill bit in the bone and shivered involuntarily.

Elmo had brought the case along. Relieved, he quickly snapped it open and handed it to me. There was a compact mirror at the bottom. Tommy had managed to apply a ghostlike foundation of white before slipping into his coma. I finished drawing on the eyes.

“Shit, you’re about the weirdest Goddamned son-of-a-bitch I ever met, Wildclown. I should’a known Butt Violence would get you going.” He shook his head and set his