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

Galaxy Tower was big, and designed in such a way that it appeared poised to launch itself into space. Tall, and glass-covered, it glittered when the light hit it—even Greasetown’s weak rain-swept facsimile of sunshine. It rose one hundred stories on the North end of town where Main Street entered New Garden. The lower floors held offices; the upper reaches cradled expensive apartments. Its giant glass doors looked tall enough to shatter under their own weight. I pulled up onto a long black necklace of asphalt that swooped around its base. A tall man in scarlet tunic—brass buttons gleaming—walked quickly to the car. He glanced at me like I was unworthy of the golden epaulets on his shoulders, then climbed into the Chrysler with a disgusted sigh, and drove it none too gently to a large car-covered square of black top about a half mile away. He parked it. I walked up to the mammoth doors and felt a powerful rush of air as they opened automatically before me. I sauntered across the lobby and to a reception desk. Towering arches of steel and glass met high above the reception area. A crystal chandelier the size of a tugboat hid their point of interception from me.

The desk was a wide violet oval with a hole cut in the center. Within, a black woman with depthless eyes smiled professionally through pink lips. Her perfume was lilac. She wore a crisp sky blue suit and lavender shirt. My eyes were drawn to a thin silver chain that formed a suspension bridge across the deep, dark gorge between her breasts. I lifted my gaze and smiled back. I could tell by the look on her face that she thought I was a joke.

“I’m here to see Mr. Demarus.” I removed my hat. “I’m Wildclown, a private detective.”

“Really,” she smirked looking me up and down. “May I see your clearance?”

I slapped idly at my pockets. “Oh, clearance, right.”

She frowned. “Mr. Demarus occupies the penthouse suite. I’m afraid no one is allowed to visit any floors above seventy-five without a security clearance.”

“I know. It’s in the mail, I’m told,” I said, looking around the enormous lobby. “I’m in security myself. I know how these things work.” I leaned over the desk and saw a closed circuit TV monitor. “I see! That looks like a standard, uh—A-131 security admission setup with red filtered monitor and high-speed access thingy, there…you give the green light with those buttons. They’re slick. That’s slick.” I pointed at a panel bearing about thirty buttons beside a coffee cup smeared with lipstick. “All the security runs through the main desk.”

“What was your name again?” She looked genuinely suspicious now and had placed a hand on her telephone receiver.

“I’m sorry. I’ll make sure my clearance is in order before I return. Thank you very much.” I started to walk toward the main door as though I were really sorry. “Keep up the good work.”

“Just a minute, sir…” She was cut off by a shrill voice singing.

“Keep right on to the end of the road, keep right on to the end…”

I threw a corner of my eye at the receptionist. She was looking to the rear of the lobby where Elmo had staggered through a fire exit. He had entered right on schedule. I could see that he had dowsed himself with the whiskey I had left with him—his lank hair was pasted to his skull, his jacket hung from one arm, and his shirt was rumpled and untucked. He flung his head back and drank from the bottle. “When your day be long, let your heart be strong…” He cackled like a drunken witch, then sat down hard on the tiles. He fumbled around with the bottle, and slowly tried to regain his feet. The receptionist hurried away from her desk toward Elmo saying, “Hey! Hey, you can’t…” He crawled across the floor, mumbling to himself. I moved quickly to the desk, scanned the panel, pushed the last ten buttons, and then hurried to the elevator. Luckily the car was waiting. I jabbed the button for the penthouse and soon left the receptionist behind with Elmo. He was just breaking into his rendition of ‘Mammy!’

It was a little past seven when we first approached New Garden’s impressive skyline. The money that abandoned the real world had migrated north to the New Garden business district. It fluttered in the air, that money. You could fill your lungs with it. There were breezes of cash—gusts of green. And in the places it had settled, glass towers were growing. So far, Galaxy Tower was the largest and most prominent, though cranes atop the stumps of gargantuan rivals promised more. All the new growth and activity was centered there. It was the core—a lot of green had landed here. Main Street south, or Greasetown proper, still held the ancient City Hall and a large nest of green-roofed government buildings but it was just a matter of time before all reputable institutions and businesses shifted to this moneyed end of the metropolis. Elmo and I had approached Galaxy Tower, and then drove by it nonchalantly, formulating a plan. Elmo could pick any lock—at least I’d never seen one beat him—so our plan was for him to jimmy a rear entry door, and enter through the back of the lobby pretending to be as drunk as a lord. He would provide a distraction.

The elevator purred around me, the faraway hiss of an air exchanger was my only company. I appreciated the lack of Muzak. The elevator stopped only once to allow an elderly Asian on. He wore a heavy wool coat and scarf that smelled like cats. He rode for two floors then got off on the twentieth. The higher the elevator climbed, the more isolated I began to feel. I wanted to surprise Mr. Demarus, but I didn’t want to die in the process. Things would happen fast. I knew I would be one hundred floors from the street, and help—if any was coming. My plan was full of risks, but I had my professional pride to think of. I still resented being used. I had to steady myself then, not against the motion of the elevator, but against the notion that someone