Mind you, these five souls and the tiny bit of information they supplied were the net result of eight months’ work. Why so long? I couldn't very well waltz back into Vegas wearing Brad Larsen's face. Once I switched to Larsen's face, my own-that is, the face of Agent Kevin Kennedy-was lost forever. How was I to know Brad was going to hold out on me? To recopy, I would have needed a photograph of Kennedy, and I made it a point of destroying all pictures of myself. Or any of the selves I've been. Not that I was eager to endure the special hell of face-changing again.

So I hung on the outskirts-shit towns like Laughlin, Cooper's Mill and Hagertown. I crept back into Henderson for my personal belongings one night in October, and kept them in the trunk of my car. I switched cars three times on the trip back from Illinois; Doug really came through for me. I ended up with a used ‘72 blue Datsun, purchased legit from a dealer in Flagstaff.

I made it a point never to stay in one place too long. I left a trail only the most dedicated schizophrenic could follow. I even spent a couple of uncomfortable nights in the backseat of the Datsun, in the middle of the cold desert, to stay loose. Okay, maybe I spent those nights in my plush (and seldom-used) king-sized bed in the Brain Hotel while I had other souls baby-sit my physical body. But I woke up with the cramps and kinks. I think I can claim the hardship.

Why so paranoid? Three letters: F, B and I. They weren't amused to discover Agent Kevin Kennedy had been scamming the Las Vegas office for months. I didn't realize how easy it was to make the Bureau's “Ten Most Wanted” list. I was slightly comforted by the fact that I was wearing a different face; the likelihood of the Feds figuring it out was next to nil. Yet, paranoia still got the best of me. Every time I relaxed with a can of Fresca and a corned beef sandwich, I'd be struck with the horrid feeling that a rogue FBI sniper was yards away, lining up a shot. My cleaned-out skull would be quite a prize in Dean Nevins’ office. KEVIN KENNEDY, the faux-gold etching would read. THOUGHT HE COULD SCREW WITH ME, SEPTEMBER 1975.

Meanwhile, the soul of the real Kevin Kennedy, inside the Brain Hotel, never forgave me for ruining his professional reputation. How dare I corrupt his office? How dare I soil the Kennedy name? (I figured it was a cheap shot to bring up Chapaquiddick.)

To further complicate matters, I caught the mother of all stomach bugs in February. Knocked me right out for two weeks straight. It took everything I had to suck down chicken bullion and stale crackers. I was off real food and drink for another two weeks after, and I still can't look a boiled hot dog and beans the same way again. Solve a murder case? Heck, I couldn't even solve the problem of how to keep solid food down. There went a month and change.

Brad was becoming increasingly pissed that I was taking so long to track down his killers. When I asked him for the tiniest morsel of Association skinny to speed my search, he refused. “A deal's a deal,” he said. “And nothing I know will help you find my killers any faster. Believe me. If I did, I'd do it myself."

So, all told, the hunt for the Larsens’ killers was turning out to be quite pathetic, considering a.) I knew the killers’ names, and b.) I had one of the victim's souls absorbed into my own brain.

Plus, I was running out of money.

Nine

Sherman Oaks Gold

Despite the amazing powers my brain seems to possess-the ability to change my face, collect a soul, inventory and sustain countless unique intellects-I still have trouble managing a dime. To properly conduct an investigation of this magnitude, you need thousands of dollars. Right now, I had a little over $900 in my checking account. My MasterCard was nearing its limit, and this was my 5th card. Not everyone I collected had proper credit. If I wasn't careful, I would have a collector after me.

So, sometime around June, I came to the realization that I had to accept some freelance work. Good thing a couple of years ago I'd hung out my own P.I. shingle under the name “Stan Wojciechowski” (about as far from “Del Farmer” as you can get) in a variety of outlets-from racing newspapers to legal journals, and eventually, as a backup vendor for the internationally-renowned Brown Agency in L.A. That was a real coup, considering this P.I. stuff was only a sideline. I've met guys who would sell their left lung to be on Brown's backup list.

No matter the outlet, each call is flipped over to an answering service in Sherman Oaks, California. I called the service every three days to skim through requests-mostly to decline, sometimes to keep certain contacts alive. This time, though, I actually needed something. I had been staying in yet another Henderson fleabag motel, and was getting tired of the scenery. I cracked open my last can of Fresca and dialed the phone. The gravelly-voiced girl on the other end of the line answered.

“Hey… Mr. Mojo Wojo! How are you, my man?"

“Uh,” I said. “I'm fine. I'd like you to list my telephone calls-service requests only, please."

She ran through the job prospects and locations. Between each she paused to audibly pop her gum. I stopped her on the sixth.

“Where was that last one?"

“Philly, Mr. Wojo. This one was passed down from Brown yesterday. An attorney named Richard Gard called asking if you could fly out there later this week."

I remembered my earlier clue, from Fredric: You might want to watch the Bicentennial. Something about it felt right. Could Loogan and Farrell have some Philly scam that had kept them there all this time?

“Did he mention the particulars?” I asked.

“Just that it's a security consult."

Easy stuff. Lawyers needed muscle every so often. Nothing too strenuous, to be sure. It would give me time to check the city for signs of Loogan, while rebuilding my bank account. “Phone Mr. Gard and tell him I'll be on the next available flight."

“You got it, handsome. Hey-you ever going to take a job out here in L.A.? I'm dying to meet you in person.” She was forever flirting with me, this Sherman Oaks girl. I didn't understand it. She'd never seen me before.

“You never know,” I said.

There wasn't much to pack-I kept my personal belongings to a minimum. I could fit everything I owned into two cardboard boxes and a large lawn-sized green plastic trash bag. The bag was for my clothes-one gray suit, three pairs of trousers, one pair of denim jeans, four button-down dress shirts, two ties and enough underwear and socks for nearly two weeks. In one box I kept a Swiss army knife, two pistols, ammunition, a magnifying glass, a lighter, one 4-ounce drinking glass, a wood backscratcher and other assorted tools of the trade. In the other I kept clippings and notes, as well as a couple dozen favorite albums. The record player was a separate unit with its own cover and handle.

I stored everything else in my Brain library. I knew someday I would have to present evidence to a judge in a court of law, and it bothered me that I couldn't crack open my brain for everyone to read. But I guess when the time came, I could always rent a Dictaphone and hire a stenographer. Maybe even the Sherman Oaks girl would lend a hand. I'd take her out to a beef and beer dance to celebrate.

I chuckled at the thought, then sealed both boxes with large strips of masking tape. I stuffed a stray pair of black dress socks in my trash bag, then spun the bag and twist-tied it. There. Packed.

All that remained was to slip the front desk a final payment, another call to the Sherman Oaks girl to let her know I'd be travelling, a walk to my nearby travel agent to retrieve my tickets, and… Oh, yeah. The important business of taking everything else-random notes here and there, doodles, old clothes-out to my Datsun and blowing the thing to smithereens.