Suckers. Part 13

"Hey, old caretaker guy!" I yelled. "Where does this slide go?"

"Go to h.e.l.l!"

"I told you, it wasn't me. I had asparagus on my pizza. Does it smell like asparagus?"

"Go to h.e.l.l!"

I rubbed my chin. Maybe old caretaker guy was trying to tell me that this slide went straight to h.e.l.l. I didn't really believe him. First of all, I didn't see any flames, and there wasn't any smoke or brimstone or screams of the d.a.m.ned. Second, h.e.l.l doesn't really exist. It's a fairy tale taught by parents to make their kids behave. Like Santa Claus. And the death penalty.

Still, going down a pitch black slide in a mausoleum wasn't on my list of things to do before I died. My list was mostly centered around Angelina Jolie.

"This does smell like asparagus, you b.a.s.t.a.r.d!"

A glanced over my shoulder. Old caretaker guy was hobbling toward me, his drippy asparagus mop raised back like a baseball bat-a stinky, wet baseball bat that you wouldn't want to use in a baseball game, because you wouldn't get any hits, and because it was soaked with urine and stinked.

I decided, then and there, I wasn't going to play ball with old caretaker guy. Which left me no choice. I took a deep breath and dove face-first down the slide.

When I was ten years old, my strange uncle who lived in the country took me into his barn and showed me a strange game called milk the cow. The game involved a strong grip, and used a combination of squeezing and stroking until the milk came. I remember it was weird, and hurt my arm, but kind of fun nonetheless.

Afterward, we fed the cow some hay and used the fresh milk to make pancakes. When we finished breakfast, we watched a little television. It was a portable, with a tiny ten-inch screen.

Many years later, my strange uncle got arrested, for tax evasion. So I have no idea why I'm bringing any of this up.

The slide was a straight-shot down, no twists or curve. The dive jostled my grip and my key light winked out, shrouding me in darkness, like a shroud. I had no idea how fast I was going or how far I traveled. Time lost all meaning, but time really didn't matter much anyway since I'd bought a TiVo. Minutes blurred into weeks, which blurred into seconds, which blurred into more seconds. When I finally reached the bottom, I tucked and rolled and athletically sprang to my b.u.t.t, one hand somewhere near my holster, the other cupped around my boys to protect them, not to fondle them, even though that's what it might have looked like.

I listened, my highly attuned sense of hearing sensing a whimpering sound very near, which I will die before admitting came from me, even though it did.

I'd landed on my keys. Hard.

When I stood, they remained stuck in me, hanging from my inner left cheek like I'd been stabbed by some a.s.s-stabbing key maniac. I bit my lower lip, reached back, and tugged them out, which made the whimpering sound get louder. It hurt so bad I didn't even find it amusing that I now had a second hole in my a.s.s, and perhaps could even perform carnival tricks, like p.o.o.ping the letter X. That's a carnival I'd pay extra to see.

I found the key light and flashed the beam around, reorienting my orientation. I was in some sort of secret lower level beneath the mausoleum. Dirt walls, with wooden beams holding up the ceiling, coal mine style. To my left, a large wooden crate with the cryptic words TAKE ONE painted on the side. I refused. Why did I need a large wooden crate?

Noise, from behind. I spun around, reaching for my gun, and a dark shape tumbled off the slide, ramming into me and causing my keys to go flying, blanketing me in a blanket of darkness.

The ensuing struggle was viscous and deadly, but my years of mastering Drunken Jeet Kune Do Fu from watching old Chinese karate movies paid off. Just as I was about to deliver the Mad Crazy Hamster Fist killing blow, my attacker got some sort of weapon between us and smacked me in the face. The blow staggered me, and I reached up and felt the extensive damage, my whole head bathed in warm, sticky liquid that smelled a lot like asparagus.

Then a light blinded me. A real flashlight, not the d.i.n.ky one I had on my keys. I squinted against the glare, and saw him. Old caretaker guy. A light in one hand. His mop in the other.

I spat, then spat again. My mouth had been open when he hit me.

"I'm a private detective. My name is McGlade. I'm on a case."

"Does your case involve p.i.s.sing on my floor?"

I spat again. I could taste the asparagus. And the p.i.s.s. It tasted like I always guessed p.i.s.s would taste like. p.i.s.sy.

"Listen, buddy, you're violating federal marshal law by interfering with my investigation. Climb back up the slide and go call 911. Tell them there's a 10-69 in progress, with, uh, malice aforethought and misdemeanor prejudicial something, rampart."

My knowledge of cop lingo didn't galvanize him into action.

"Climb up the slide? How?"

"Hands and knees, old man."

"I'll get all dirty."

"You're a janitor."

"I'm a caretaker."

"You clean up in a cemetery. Dirt shouldn't bother you."

The flashlight moved off of my face and swept the area.

"What is this place? Some sort of secret lower level under the mausoleum?"

I spat again. "No duh."

"Look, there's a crate."

Old caretaker guy waddled over to the wooden TAKE ONE box, opened the top, and pulled out a brown robe.

"I guess we're supposed to take the robes."

"Obviously."

I walked over, grabbing a robe for myself. It was made out of felt, and had a large hood. A monk's robe. Or rather, a store-bought Halloween monk's costume.

Old caretaker guy put his on, and as he was tugging it over his head I gave him a Crazy Hamster Elbow to the chin. He went down, hopefully in need of some facial reconstructive surgery. I scooped up his flashlight, located my keys, and limped down the tunnel.

I followed the path a few dozen yards into the darkness, ducking overhead beams when they appeared overhead, keeping an eye peeled for rats, and giant spiders, and that guy I was supposed to be following, I think his name was Fred or George or something common and only one syllable. Maybe Tom. Yeah, Tom.

No, it was Fred.

The air down here was cool and heavy and smelled like asparagus p.i.s.s, but for the most part it was clean. That meant ventilation, either in the form of an exit, or an air osmosis recirculator, and I'm pretty sure that osmosis thing didn't exist because I just made it up.

The tunnel ended at a large metal door, the kind with a slot at eye-level that opened up so some moron could ask you for a pa.s.sword. Which is exactly what happened. The slot opened, and a pair of eyes stared out at me, and whoever belonged to those eyes asked for a pa.s.sword.

"Tom sent me," I said.

"That's not the pa.s.sword."

"Tom didn't say there was a pa.s.sword."

"Tom who?"

"Tom," I improvised, "from Accounting."

"How is Tom?"

"Good. Just got over a cold, still kind of congested."

"It's great you know Tom, but I'm not supposed to let you in without a pa.s.sword."

I was tempted to give him a Three Stooges eye poke through the slot.

"Look," I reasoned, "why else would I be down here?"

"I have no idea. Maybe you got lost."

"I'm wearing the robe." I did a little sashay to emphasize the fact.

"Maybe you're a cop."

"I'm not a cop."

"How do I know that?"

"Because I don't have a badge. You want to frisk me to check?"

"No. You smell like pee-pee."

I set my jaw. "Doesn't anyone ever forget the pa.s.sword?"

The eyes shrugged. "Sure. Happens all the time."

"So what happens then?"

"I ask them for the back-up pa.s.sword."

I drew my Magnum, jammed it in the slot.

"Is the back-up pa.s.sword open the f.u.c.king door or I'll blow your head off?"

"Yep that's the pa.s.sword."

He opened the door. I considered smacking pa.s.sword boy in the head, and it seemed like a good idea, so I gave him a little love tap with the b.u.t.t of my pistol. When he fell over, I gave him another little love tap in the stomach, with my foot. This made my a.s.s hurt even more, so I kicked him again, which hurt even more, so I kicked him again for causing me pain, and again, and again until the pain got so bad I had to stop, but I didn't, I kicked him once more.

Then I wandered through a short hallway and into a large open area, roughly the size of a woman's basketball court, which is the same size as a men's basketball court, but a woman's court has bouncing b.o.o.bs. I noticed little details like that. Unfortunately, this room didn't have bouncing b.o.o.bs. It had a dozen-plus boneheads in robes, all carrying flashlights, standing around and chanting something monkish.

I wormed my way into the group and considered the camera in my pocket. Mrs. Drawbridge had hired me to take pictures of her husband acting nutty. This qualified, but it was too dark to make out any details, and a flash might cause attention. Plus, these jamokes all had their hoods on, making positive ID pretty impossible.

I scanned the room, seeing if I could find Tom. I spotted him through my clever detective technique of looking around, and noticed his bag from the hardware store, still clenched in his hand. Maybe I could get up close, shove the camera in his face, get a quick snapshot, then run away.

"Attention, everyone!"

The chanting stopped. One of the wannabe monks had his hands up over his head, his knuckles brus.h.i.+ng the dirt ceiling. Everyone stared at him.

"Let us form the sacred pentagon, and pray to Anubis, G.o.d of the dead, to bless the ceremony this evening. All hail, Anubis!"

"All hail, Anubis!" the monks chanted in reply.

Then we all arranged ourselves in a five-sided square around something in the center of the room. As I probably should have guessed-but didn't because I was too busy rubbing my painful throbbing a.s.s-in the center of the room was a coffin.

The head monk shouted, "Who shall be the first to partake in the carnal pleasures of beyond the grave?"

I looked around, wondering what idiot would be stupid enough to bone a corpse, then found myself shoved into the center of the circle.

"My friend will go!"

I spun around, aiming the flashlight. It was old caretaker guy, a big grin creasing his face.

"This first has been chosen!" head monk bellowed. Two other monks-big ones-grabbed my arms and escorted me to the coffin.

"Guys, I'm new here. I'd sort of prefer to wait until next time before violating any dead people."

I tried to pull away, but these monks had supernatural strength. The weight of the situation began to weigh on me. s.e.x with a cadaver wasn't on the list of things I wanted to do before I died, unless the cadaver was Angelina Jolie.

Then I stopped struggling, because I realized this had to be some kind of joke. Like a hazing prank, and when the coffin opened a stripper would pop out and blow me. That made a lot more sense than a society of necrophiliacs meeting secretly under one of Chicago's largest cemeteries. Right?

I smiled, hoping the stripper had big t.i.ts, not even protesting when I was depantsed by one of the hulky monk guys. They also took my gun. I figured that was okay-I only needed one type of gun to handle a hot stripper. You know what I mean.

My p.e.n.i.s. I'm talking about my p.e.n.i.s.

"Okay." I clapped my hands together. "Let's do this."

Another monk opened the coffin, and I stared in grinning expectation at a naked dead man.

"That's a guy," I said.

Head monk came in close and whispered. "Couldn't find girl this time. It doesn't matter. Death is death. It's all a turn-on. You're here to get laid, right?"

I eyed the body. A chubby bald white guy, late fifties. The Y cut across his chest indicated he was autopsied. Death was probably a heart attack, based on the size of his gut.

"I'm actually not really feeling it right now," I said.

"We can flip him over, if that helps."

"I don't think it will help."

"How fresh is it?" someone in the crowd yelled.

"Planted eight days ago," head monk answered.

The crowd cheered.

"I got sloppy seconds!"