“He won't be able to chat with anyone,” Paul said. “Ever again."

Uncomfortable pause. They all looked at each other. It was too much for Richard. He was probably imagining his disbarrment hearings.

“Pardon me,” he said. “I have to visit the boy's room. Please make Paul at home, will you sweetheart?"

With that, Richard left. Susannah decided that making Paul at home entailed standing up, slinking across the carpet and taking a seat next to him.

“Have I ever seen you before, Mr. After?” she asked.

“I wouldn't think so."

“You look familiar."

“I shouldn't. I'm not from around here."

“Neither am I."

She took a drag from her cigarette, then blew smoke. “I suppose people tell you you look like somebody they know all the time."

“Not usually."

She paused. “You're a hard one, aren't you?"

Paul shrugged.

“I like that,” she said. “I honestly do."

Susannah stared at Paul for a while, not sure of how to place him. I tell you, the man was a Grade-A professional. I'm not sure a usual member of Stan Wojciechowski's crack detective team-namely, me-would have been able to face this task unmoved.

She tried a different approach: Big Boss Woman. “How many hours you going to devote to me?"

“As many as it takes."

“That's not an answer, Paul. I enjoy details."

“I enjoy working alone."

“I'll need you whenever Richard's not around. Days mostly, when he's at the firm. And some nights."

“What do you mean, need me?” Paul asked.

As if on cue, Richard returned from the bathroom. “Well, are we happy, Susannah?"

“I'll need a schedule,” she said to him. “I need my freedom."

“Of course,” Richard said. “Paul, you can start being Ms. Winston's guardian angel tomorrow morning. I'll send a car for you."

“Whoah,” Paul said. “What is this? Some kind of fraternity prank? If you want a babysitter, I'll give you the number of my eight-year-old niece in Toledo."

Richard's eyebrows lowered-undoubtedly, his patented kill-a-jury-with-my-sincerity look. “But Mr. After, this is the job. Until you find this madman, she's going to need some protection. She's quite safe here in the hotel-I've seen to that. But I need someone to be with her when she's shopping, or having lunch out in the city, or even walking around Rittenhouse Square."

“How many hours are we talking?” asked Paul, forcing every word out of his lips.

“As much as she needs,” he said.

Paul finished his drink then stood up. “I've heard enough."

Damn! I ran over to the lobby microphone and nailed the button. Easy there, Paul. Take it easy.

“This is a bunch of crap,” he muttered, mostly to himself, but still audible.

“What?” barked Richard.

Hey! I yelled. What the hell are you doing?

Paul stood still for a moment, thinking it over. I'd like to think it was my stern voice that kept him from flipping Richard the bird and storming out of the room. But most likely, Paul realized that without this job, we would be homeless. Brain Hotel and all. He didn't strike me as the type that enjoyed rooting through garbage cans for dinner.

“This tonic,” Paul said. “This tonic is crap."

“But it's Schweppes!” Susannah protested.

Richard ignored her. “Do we have an arrangement, Mr. After?"

“I suppose I'll be seeing you tomorrow morning, Ms. Winston,” Paul said.

“As if it's a bad thing?” Susannah asked. “Richard, I'll show Mr. After to the door. Could you refresh my drink? No ice this time."

“Sure, my peach.” He looked at Paul. “So we're square?"

“As a box,” Paul said.

In the hallway, Susannah looked at Paul, then finally touched his cheek as if she were blind and trying to see with her fingertips.

Richard called from the other room: “You want ice, sweetheart?"

“No, I don't, sweetheart,” she called back, rolling her eyes. She looked at Paul. “I think you're going to like the time we spend together."

Paul didn't say anything.

“Did you ever meet anyone who reminded you of an ex-girlfriend, Paul?"

“Pardon?"

“And feel you want to fuck that person because they looked-perhaps even vaguely-like someone else?"

“No."

Susannah smiled.

“See you tomorrow, Ms. Winston."

Fourteen

Drinks at Tom's Holiday

“My God, is she something,” I said, speaking into the lobby microphone. I must have scared Paul. On screen, the perspective snapped to the right.

What? Oh. You. Nice fucking job. I though you were a private detective, not a babysitter!

“Funny, it didn't seem you minded the assignment too much a few seconds ago."

Screw you. You saying I can't handle her? Jesus Christ-I'm doing your job. Your incredibly pathetic job.

I waited a moment to let Paul realize how ridiculously he was acting. “Have you calmed down yet?"

Get out of my head, he said. He continued walking, then suddenly stopped and looked deep into the mirror. It gave the chilling effect of him looking directly at me, sitting in the Brain Hotel lobby. I wasn't used to it.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

Do you know this Susannah Winston from somewhere?

“No,” I said. “Not exactly my type. Like my women educated and truthful. Why do you ask?"

She said I looked familiar. Hence, you look familiar.

“But don't forget, we're wearing the face of a dead man. It's highly unlikely my client ever met this fruitcake."

I suppose, said Paul. God, everything's so fuzzy. Sometimes I lose grip on who I am. You kept me in that room for so long I don't know what's up or down. I mean, I could have been married to that nightmare, for all I know.

“Not likely,” I said. “You're an assassin from Las Vegas, remember? It doesn't leave much time for a personal life."

You know, you could let me out more often. I feel like I'm going crazy in here, sometimes.

“Welcome to life after death, Paul."

Without warning, another voice spoke up. It was the Ghost of Fieldman. He was standing next to me in the lobby, worming his way into the silver mike.

“Paul,” he said, “it's possible you're experiencing a retroactive memory."

“Stay out of this,” I warned.

The Ghost of Fieldman stuck his tongue out at me. “All of this time you've been with the Collective, you haven't heard a rational explanation for your state, have you?"

Paul asked, I suppose you have one?

I couldn't believe this. A mutiny, right in the middle of an assignment. “Do yourself a favor, Paul. Tell him to crawl up his own thumb."

“The Collective here runs the show without the slightest inkling of his own internal workings,” said the Ghost. “I, however, know how it all works."

You do? Paul asked.

The Ghost cleared his spectral throat. “All of us-that means you, me and Mr. Farmer here-are trapped in a soul nexus of the deep future. We're not alive right now. We are simply recreations of our former selves, resurrected by computers from the far future. But our computer-generated simulations are blurring together by accident-I suspect we're still in an experimental stage, and the thinkers who have brought us back are unable to give us proper boundaries."

Paul nodded, as if he understood perfectly. Fieldman?

“Yes, Paul?"

Lay off the LSD. Paul turned his attention to me. Let's go have a drink, Del. We've got some arrangements to make.

After laying my physical body down for a rest back at 1530 Spruce Street, we met at Old Tom's. Paul and I walked into the bar, waved hello to Tom, and parked ourselves into one of the faux-leather-padded, oak-tabletop booths along the right wall. We both ordered a drink-Brain Chivas and a Schmidt's chaser-then got down to business.