Stefan Petrucha - Dead Mann Walking

The next clear sensation was my execution, the needle sliding into my arm, fishing for a vein, the sense of relief that it was all over. But it wasn’t. Next thing, it’s a few months later and I’m staring at the herpes sore on the lower lip of a chain smoker. He’s giving me my ten-minute exit interview, explaining how I was one of the “lucky” ones. A grave diggers’ strike left me on ice, refrigerated for three months. Between thick, wet coughs he says that with the right makeup, if I kept the lights low, I’d almost pass for a liveblood.

Never tried it. Kept forgetting.

He hands me my wallet and the little green vial I had in my pocket when I was arrested. Inside the wallet was sixteen bucks and two condoms. Lenore and I had been trying to have a kid, but when I didn’t get a raise, she decided to wait.

The flashbacks retreated. Turgeon was still talking in his high, sweet voice. “Your fellow detectives were so eager to convict you, some DNA evidence was kept hidden from the defense. Between that and irregularities in your arrest and trial, you were exonerated and restored. Most people still think you’re guilty.”

He paused. His eyes flared as if he felt guilty about dragging all this up, but he didn’t say anything else. I figured that meant it was my move.

“Is there a question in there?”

He rubbed the brim of his hat. “Well . . . did you do it?”

I leaned back and twisted my head. Something in my neck cracked. I hoped it wasn’t bone. “I’ll answer you, but first, I like to know who I’m working with, too.”

Turgeon pulled out an envelope and tossed it on the desk. It slid a little before coming to a halt against a crack in the veneer. I didn’t have to pick it up to see it was stuffed with hundreds. Decent amount for a liveblood detective. For a chak? A fortune.

“I don’t know what sort of cases you usually get, but I’m certain this isn’t one of them. Your police background makes you perfect for what I need. I don’t care if you lied to the jury, but I can’t take the risk that you’d lie to me.” He moved his shoulders in what seemed an apologetic fashion, then lowered his voice to a boyish hush. “So, did you kill your wife?”

“Honestly?” I told him. “I don’t remember.”

“In the court transcripts you say you were innocent.”

“Did I? I’ve read them a few dozen times, but a chak’s memory, right? I get flashes, but the actual moment? A total blank.”

That’s why I never went looking for her real killer. I’m afraid I’ll find out it’s me.

He zeroed in on my eyes. Like that would help. Idiot, you can’t read chak eyes. It’s like watching someone zoned in front of a TV or video game. They don’t call it a zombie look for nothing. You can’t tell a thing by looking at our eyes.

I met his gaze nice and steady, but it was like that lame wolf whistle I gave Misty, going through the paces out of politeness . . . acting, like a friend of mine says, as if , in this case as if I were still alive. Turgeon’s eyes were a weird baby blue, the color so consistent he must have been wearing contacts. Funny thing to be vain about, but beauty’s in the eye of the beholder.

Finally, he said, “I believe you,” as if we were in his no-girls-allowed tree house, making some kind of pact.

A man of many pockets, he pulled a photo from one. It was a head shot, posed, showing a square-headed forty-year-old with close-cropped curly hair, a few lines on his face, and a decent smile. The top button of his blue shirt was loose, the collar not completely ironed, so whoever he was, he wasn’t anal. Into himself enough to pose for a head shot, though.

“Frank Boyle,” Turgeon said. “His father, Martin, was a close friend of my firm’s founder, Mr. Trent Derby. Martin Boyle passed away last week from lung cancer and left all his money, a considerable sum, to his eldest son. I have to find him and let him know about his inheritance.”

It was starting to make sense.

“Let me guess. Frank’s a chak, right? On the streets somewhere, no known address?”

Turgeon nodded. “Exactly.”

“Even so, why hire me? Why not a liveblood, or go to the cops?”

He rubbed his hat again. “It’s complicated. He has a living brother and sister who are both contesting the will. They’re people of influence who wouldn’t think much of . . . getting rid of a chak to preserve their fortune. Mr. Derby is concerned that they may have already reached out to the local police and any real . . . uh, liveblood detective in the area. Sorry, no offense.”

“None taken. I get your point. They’d never hire a chak, right?” I drummed my fingers on the envelope and tried to look as if I were thinking about it. “You’re leaving out the other complication. Frank might be feral.”

Turgeon made a funny little swallowing sound. “Naturally, that’s a concern.”

“Natural’s got nothing to do with it.” I laid my palm on the envelope. “I get paid whether he is or not, long as I find him for you before the sinister siblings?”

He nodded at the money as if embarrassed it was too little. “That’s for accepting the job. I’ll pay the same if you find him first, feral or not. Time is of the utmost. You have to start now. I need . . . I . . . expect immediate action. They can’t be allowed to find him first.”

I flipped through the bills. It was more than I’d guessed. I looked up into Turgeon’s eyes, trying to suss him out. Mostly he looked nervous, which pretty much matched his story.

I picked up the envelope. I started to put it in my jacket pocket, forgetting there was a tear in the bottom. Before it fell into the lining I pulled it out and shoved it into the top desk drawer, trying to make it look like that had been the idea all along. The drawer stuck. I cursed under my breath until I got it closed.

“You’ll take the case?” Eggman asked.

“Hey, you’re the Eggman. Goo goo g’joob,” I said.

I don’t think he got the joke.

2

When Turgeon said now , I didn’t realize how much he meant it. I offered to do some digging and call him in twenty-four hours, but he crossed his arms over his belly.

“I need results tonight . Frank Boyle may be in immediate danger, Mr. Mann,” he said. After a beat, he lowered his head and tried to suppress a giggle. “Mr. Mann . . . Sorry . . .”

Yeah, the name Dad left me gets big yuks sometimes. I got into so many fights when I was a kid, they mistook me for the neighborhood bully. At least, I like to think they did. Part of the reason I joined the force was because Officer Mann or Detective Mann sounded better. Didn’t always help. Once during a bust, a dealer, all buff and full of tattoos, saw my badge and said, “Jeepers, Mr. Mann!” He and his buddies had a real laugh riot until I coldcocked him with my nine-millimeter. He nearly lost an eye.

Police brutality? Nah. Mr. Mann brutality. Maybe I was the neighborhood bully.

These days, no pride to hurt. Hell, I had a hard enough time thinking of myself as a real detective. I sat there until Turgeon composed himself. I figure if he pays me enough, he can call me whatever he wants.

“I’ve got a couple of sources I can check out,” I told him. “Misty can make you some coffee. I’ll be back soon.” That seemed to satisfy him.

Maybe the big rush should’ve set some bells off, but between wincing about my name and thinking about the dead presidents crammed in my desk, I was distracted. I snatched the head shot and left Misty to babysit. I kind of wished she had some car keys to jangle in front of him.

I trudged down three flights of interior squalor to get to the squalor on the street. The sun had pretty much said screw this and was headed home. A yellow Hummer was parked right in front of my building, a piece of gold in a toilet bowl. I figured it belonged to Turgeon. The only working streetlamp crackled like it was spitting the light on the sidewalk.