"Hello, Pogo," I said with false charm. "Oh, well, I'm Wildclown, a private detective, I'd like to speak to Pogo. Not there? Have him call me, it's important and may benefit us both." I gave my number and hung up. Pogo knew just about everybody in Greasetown. Pogo did more than pimp. The fact that he boosted his profits by trafficking drugs like Greaseasy, and syncrak, told me that he had the acquaintance of a few chemists, to say the least. I remembered Pogo telling me once that he had people working for him that were trying to develop new 'chemical entertainment' as he called it. If you can't talk to a reputable scientist, try a disreputable one.
Elmo came in. He was carrying three tall Styrofoam coffee cups on a cardboard tray. I took one of them and poured three steaming ounces into a dirty glass that had stood for months on the filing cabinet beside my desk. I replaced the coffee with three ounces of Canadian Club to cool it down, took a taste, and then smiled around a cigarette.
"Excellent work, Elmo." I smiled at the comforting sting of the whiskey and then kicked my boots onto the desk to think. I pushed back until the chair was tipped enough to give me a precipitant weightless sensation. Elmo sat opposite me with a cigarette and coffee of his own. He could become silence, at such times. That was one of the great things about a partner like Elmo: he could sit quietly for hours. He didn't feel a need to clutter the air with pleasant conversation just to pass the time. I could think. I'd often fix my eyes on Elmo and let them glaze over. He didn't seem to mind. A half-hour slipped by. The phone rang.
"Wildclown Investigations." I had almost upset my chair answering.
"Wildclown, you crazy monkeyfucker. It's me, Pogo." The voice was charged with adrenaline.
"Pogo, my friend. How are you this evening?" I could tell he was a little paranoid himself.
"Ah…" Pogo's voice dropped. "It's been bad, real bad. Almost caught one of those bastards that cut me. He lit out on a motorbike before I could lay a knife in him!"
"That is bad." The Brotherhood of White Order had become Pogo's white whale. And with good reason too. He took his disfigurement in stride, but he had vowed revenge. "But you've still taken three of them out."
"Yeah." Pogo seemed to catch his breath. "But he was close." A coughing fit struck him before he continued. "So, what you want?"
"Pogo, we have known each other a while, am I right?"
"Yes, yes, you could call it a while-a year or so." The voice continued with strain. "You could call it that."
"Pogo, I need some information about science, scientists, and laboratories. Not the developing, procuring or trafficking of illegal substances, but about science-genetics, microbiology, that type of thing. I believe you may have people in your employ that could answer a few questions. Or failing that, may have a direction in which to point me." Pogo knew my feelings about drugs. The Pandora's box was open. I would be there to count survivors, if the whiskey didn't get me first.
"This ain't no Authority fuckover?" It was a rhetorical question. Pogo knew I had no allegiance with any authority. "What's in it for me, Wildclown?"
"You could add to the betterment of mankind. Failing that, you could help me put the screws to some local nasties." Local nasties was a term I used specifically to set Pogo off. He always talked of competing local nasties when he was ripe and paranoid with the effects of his own products.
"Local nasties! Oh, fuck, sure Wildclown." He fell silent for a moment, but in the background I could hear the persistent car-start sounds of giggling.
"Can I talk to someone tonight? What is it, eleven-a little after?"
"Oh sure, we're open twenty-four hours…" Again the giggling. "But I got to straighten up first." There followed a lot of coughing and the sounds of partial regurgitation. "Yeah, Wildclown. I'll, I'll send a runner over. He'll take you to my scientists…" More giggling and coughing.
"I appreciate it…"
"Don't worry about it, Wildclown. You've been good shit to me, even if you are one crazy monkeyfucker!" Giggling ensued. "Besides, if you can take down a local nasty. Hey, fuck I'll help put the boots to him. Just don't push my scientist around or anything. He'll help-no shit. I'll ask around-microbiology, ge-genetics-try to find out who to send you to." Pogo laughed spasmodically. "Hey, you ain't thinking of cloning yourself are you? I couldn't take that." I made sure I laughed patronizingly that time. Finally he chuckled. "Give me some time."
I thanked Pogo and hung up. I looked at Elmo. "I believe the ball is rolling again."
Chapter 28
The runner was a lean whippet of a dead man. He wore a tight-fitting suit covered by a long, loose trench coat of the same dark purple. A broad-brimmed hat sat low over his eyes. I could tell by the unbalanced way he walked that he carried a cannon in his left armpit. He had a dark Spanish complexion that, despite his dead state, still added a sultry carnality to the set of his liquid eyes and leering thick-lipped mouth. He introduced himself as Moreau. Moreau was a runner. A runner was someone who carried money or drugs. Moreau looked capable of taking care of himself.
"Come on, Dick." He used the nickname. "We gotta meet our fella real soon. It's awful late to need a scientist, ain't it? You need an abortion or something? Haw! Haw!" He smiled carnivorously then looked at his watch. I knew if it were accurate, the big hand would be pointing at the twelve and the small hand at the one.
"My personal vibrator broke down," I grumbled glibly. I knew that runners did not trust anybody. It was their job. I guess a detective still represented some kind of law to them. He would have to get to know me.
"Haw, haw," he laughed. "Personal vibrator-you ain't taking some sort a stab at me there, are you, Dick?" He drew near me, a menacing angular shadow. His long thin fingers worked like pliers.
"Just making light, Mr. Moreau. It keeps my spirits up, this late at night." I showed him the palms of my hands, shrugged.
"Oh, haw, haw! Try coffee, Dick! It's safer…" He gestured to Elmo. "The nigger coming?"
I looked at Elmo. I had forgotten he was black. "My partner's coming." Elmo appeared unperturbed by the racial epithet. He was used to prejudice based on the fact that he was dead. Race had all but slipped into the background. Maybe Moreau was nostalgic. I gestured. He followed.
The runner led us down the stair and out. "Where's your car?" The Chrysler leaned wearily against the curb like it was dying. I gestured to it. Moreau stifled a chuckle as he opened its bullet-riddled passenger door. "This ain't no fucking car. This is a traffic accident!" He insisted on sitting in the back seat. I took the front passenger, but sat sideways with my hand near my gun. Elmo drove.
"Waterfront," Moreau hissed. "A boat. The Clementine. Pier 74."
Elmo nodded absently and gunned the car ahead.
"So, how's business?" I watched the dead man in the shadow. I wanted to keep an eye on him. "Good?"
"Hey, I don't talk about fucking business!" Moreau shouted. He talked with both hands and I could see the thick butt of a. 45 caliber revolver echo his movements through his coat. "No fucking business. I told Pogo, I don't talk about business!"
"No problem." I shrugged. "I just get tired of talking about the weather. You know, rain, rain, rain, rain…"
We contented ourselves with staring at each other for the rest of the trip. Moreau would flare his eyes; I would flare mine. I realized we were a pair of local nasties.