Philip Kerr - Gridiron

'Come back upstairs,' said Mitch, 'and let's get you fixed up before you go home.'

'I think we could all of us use a drink,' suggested Kenny.

They stepped back into the elevator car and rode up to the twenty-first floor. While Kay attended to her make-up Levine opened the boardroom drinks cabinet and poured four shots of bourbon.

'I believe in ghosts,' declared Aidan Kenny. 'My mother saw a ghost once. And I never knew her to lie about anything. Never even tell a tall tale.'

'You've been making up for her since then,' remarked Levine.

'I'm not lying now,' Kay said firmly. 'It scared the shit out of me and I don't mind admitting it.' She finished her eyeliner and drained the glass before applying some more lipstick.

'What about the foundations?' said Levine. 'I mean, they're thirty feet deep, aren't they? Did we, like, you know, build on top of anything?'

'You mean an old Indian burial ground or something?' said Kenny.

'C'mon, man.'

'This site used to be the old Abel Stearns building,' said Mitch. 'One of those northern carpetbaggers from San Francisco who bought land here and built around the turn of the century. When the company got taken over in the 1960s, the new owners demolished it and the lot lay fallow until a developer came along. Then he went bust and the Yu Corporation bought the site.'

'But before Abel Stearns,' persisted Levine. 'I mean, this area was all Pueblo de los Angeles, wasn't it? Mexicans and Aztec Indians? Why not?'

'Don't let Joan hear you say the word Indian,' said Kenny. 'That woman's the Native American equivalent of the Reverend Al Sharpton.'

'Those Aztecs used to practise human sacrifice. They used to cut their victims' hearts out while they were still alive.'

'Just like Ray Richardson,' said Kenny. 'Anyway Tony, Sam was black. Or rather, African-American. He was no fucking Aztec. An asshole, maybe. What kind of security guard gets himself killed then spooks a defenceless woman like that?'

'Look', said Kay, 'I want you all to promise me something. I want you to promise me that you won't go around telling people what happened tonight. I don't want to turn into the office joke, OK? Will you promise me that?'

'Sure,' said Mitch.

'Of course,' smiled Helen.

Kenny and Levine shrugged and then nodded their acquiescence.

'Let's just hope we can get tomorrow's inspection done without any more mishaps,' said Mitch.

'Amen to that,' breathed Kenny.

Mitch returned to the Gridiron at seven-thirty the next morning. In the bright, flat sunlight it was hard to imagine how anyone could have seen a ghost in the place. Perhaps it was some kind of hallucination. He had read how an LSD experience could make a return visit at any time in your life, no matter how long ago the original experience had occurred, and Mitch thought that this, or something like it anyway, was the most likely explanation.

He'd wanted to call in to see Jenny Bao for her answer on the temporary feng shui certificate. But he was facing a whole day with Ray Richardson and he knew that his principal would arrive before eight. So the first thing he did upon his arrival was to telephone her.

'It's me,' he told her.

'Mitch?' she said sleepily. 'Where are you?'

'At the Gridiron.'

'What time is it?'

'Seven-thirty. I'm sorry, did I wake you?'

'No, it's OK. I was going to call you anyway. I decided to let you have your certificate in time for Monday. But only because it's you. And only because the Tong Shu says that Monday will be an auspicious day.'

'That's great. Thanks, Jenny. Thanks a lot. I appreciate it.'

'Yeah, well, there's one condition.'

'Name it.'

'That I come in some time today and perform a few office warming rituals. To ensure that all evil spirits leave the building and good qi is brought in.'

'Sure. What kind of rituals?'

'It's complicated. Among other things we'll have to take the fish outside. We'll also have to shut down the electrical power for a short while. And a red banner needs to be hung across the signboard outside. Oh yes, the windows will have to be darkened, but then you can do that automatically, can't you? And one more thing. I don't know how you'll manage this — I know you have a very sophisticated fire alarm system. I have to start a fire in a charcoal stove in the doorway and fan it until the charcoal is hot.'

Jesus,' said Mitch. 'What's the charcoal for?'

'It's to symbolize a warm result for Mr Yu's inspection on Monday.'

'I'll drink to that,' laughed Mitch. 'As far as I'm concerned, you can set fire to Old Glory if you think it's necessary. But does it have to be today?

We've got Richardson in all day. Could you come in at the weekend?'

'It's not me who says it has to be done this afternoon, Mitch. It's the Tong Shu , the Chinese almanac. This afternoon is a good day for the performance of ceremonies to banish evil spirits.'

'OK, I'll see you this afternoon.'

Mitch replaced the receiver and shook his head. In the circumstances he had thought it better not to mention what Kay Killen had seen. There was no telling what Jenny might have insisted on then. A full exorcism?

Dancing naked round the tree? how on earth was he going to tell Ray Richardson that Jenny Bao was planning to light a charcoal stove to smoke the devils out of his state-of-the-art building?

Frank Curtis awoke with a start and wondered why he was so depressed. Then he remembered: it was ten years to the day since his brother had died of cancer. Leaving his wife, Wendy, still asleep, he slipped out of bed and went into the study to find the cardboard box containing his photograph albums.

It was not that he needed to look at pictures to be reminded of what his brother had looked like. Frank Curtis had only to look in a mirror to do that, for he and Michael had been identical twins. Looking at the photographs was a way of reminding himself of what he had once been, half of a greater whole.

When Michael died it had been like losing an arm. Or some vital organ. After that Curtis felt he was only ever half a person.

Wendy appeared in the doorway.

'How can it be ten years?' he said, swallowing a lump in his throat the size of a baseball.

'I know, I know. All week I've been thinking the same thing.'

'And I'm still here.' He shook his head. 'There's not a day passes that I don't think of him. When I don't ask myself, why him and not me?'

'Are you going to Hillside?'

'Yeah.'

'You'll be late for work.'

Curtis shrugged carelessly. 'So what? I'm never going to make lieutenant anyway.'

'Frank…'

He grinned. 'Besides, I'm not on until one.'

She smiled back at him. 'I'll make us some coffee.'

'It's not like I need a stone to remember him, y'know? I always think of him like he was.' He shrugged. 'Maybe, after ten years, it's time to let him go a bit.'

But before he left the house, Curtis placed a small lawnmower in the trunk of his car.

Hillside Memorial Park Cemetery was only ten minutes' drive close to the San Diego Freeway and LAX. Every year Frank Curtis made the journey and, with 747s only a few hundred feet above his head, he worked to tidy up his brother's grave. A practical man, Curtis preferred to mark his remembrance with this small act of devotion. Like a penance, he thought. It wasn't much, but at least it made him feel a bit better.

By the time he got to New Parker Center, Curtis was in the mood to be distracted, to get things done and make other things happen. He typed reports, filed them with the relevant clerical officers, filled out his expense claims, reviewed his diary and said nothing.

Nathan Coleman watched his colleague and wondered what had moved him to this rare exhibition of bureaucratic efficiency.