Paul wanted to lay down some ground rules; it was how he'd always worked, he said. He told me he could deal with existing in someone else's body, and he could even deal with living a solitary life in his Brain Hotel room until needed. But one thing Paul could not deal with was being unable to control the assignment.

“You want me to do the best work possible?” he asked. “Fine. Let me do the work. I don't need a straw boss. I don't even need the occasional piece of advice. Let me do things my own way."

A reasonable request. However, I had to lay down some ground rules of my own.

“One,” I said. “The Association investigation is top priority. If I need our body, Goddamnit, I'm taking our body."

“Even at the risk of abandoning our one paying client?” Paul asked.

“Paying clients are good for one thing and one thing only: cash. If we're forced to, we can find cash somewhere else. But a missed opportunity to collect evidence against the Association can never be regained. Every day that ticks by with the Association still in power is one less day the American public can feel safe.” Sure, I was laying it on thick, but the situation warranted exaggeration. I had to tame this hired gun before he did something regrettable.

“Two, you surrender the body when I say. No fights. It's useless anyway, and it only pisses me off."

I looked at Paul to gauge how pissed off he was getting. It didn't seem to phase him. Maybe to him, this was merely a business conversation. I used the silence to take a sip of the Brain scotch. Much better than the stash I had in my office-after all, this was scotch how Old Tom remembered it, not me. God, to think of the years of sweet, drunken bliss that man had seen.

Paul interrupted my reveries. “I understand. And now I want you to promise me two things. One, when I ask you to tune out, you tune out and trust me. I promise not to compromise the investigation one bit. Hell, I want those pricks to pay for what they did to me as much as you do. But I can't function knowing that you can storm in at any second. I'm a human being, man! I have things I need to take care of. There's stuff in my brain I need to work out on my own. In the real world. Not in here. I have to know I still exist."

Jesus. This was the closest thing to a buddy-buddy talk Paul and I had ever had. I wanted him to elaborate on the things he needed to “take care of.” I didn't want to stop him when he was on a roll. I nodded.

“Okay. Secondly, when it comes time to take down the Man, you let me take my pound of flesh. I've been dreaming about it for a long time now. I wish I'd had the balls to do it before, when I had the chance."

I didn't know what “Man” Paul was referring to. But I played it cool, letting him think I did, and agreed to both his demands. Yes, I should have asked him, point blank, who the “Man” was and finally started to piece things together. Was “The Man” this J.P. Bafoures? What was his real name? Where did he operate in Vegas? But the moment I admitted I didn't know much, I'd lose Paul's respect. I'd lose him.

“The Man will be yours,” I said. Then, scrambling to think of something neutral to say: “I want justice served.” I made a mental note to bring up the “Man” in the future. Subtly.

There was a song I didn't recognize playing on the jukebox-a male and female duet, something about them having “the time of our lives… never felt this way before.” I noticed The Ghost of Fieldman sitting in the corner, drinking something clear like Fresca, and munching on a basket of popcorn. I didn't have any proof, but I was convinced he'd been messing with the jukebox.

We finished our drinks and left the bar.

Fifteen

First Days on the Job

The rest of the day was uneventful except for the note I found taped to my apartment door. It was from Amy Langtree, saying she stopped by to borrow a colander. I should have found her persistence annoying and intrusive, and I should have done something blunt to stop this whole thing from blossoming. Like, bought a cheap wedding ring from a pawn shop and started flashing it around, or asked her where I could score good dope and a blow job, or started babbling and drooling in her presence, or picked at my nose or ears, whatever.

She was clearly fixated on someone who was not me. I was wearing a dead man's face, for goodness’ sake. We'd barely spoken a dozen sentences to each other. My soul clearly predated hers by a generation or two. And now she wanted to drain her spaghetti with one of my kitchen utensils?

Still, Amy Langtree could be useful. She was a local. She lent me the appearance of normality. If I took the time to develop this friendship, and there was ever trouble down the line, she would be an important character witness-could perhaps buy me enough time to make an escape. I starting thinking about how to ask her out for something non-threatening, like lunch, or a walk through the historical sites. Something like that wouldn't necessarily lead her on.

Then I remembered, this all had been decided for me: Paul needed to use my body most of the time. Clearly, I had to cool things off even before they began.

There were other things to work out, too-things like financial priorities. Until Gard's first check cleared the bank, we had a little under $200 on which to live. I thought we should spent a bit on foodstuffs-hot dogs, bologna, bread, cans of vegetables and soup-and hang on to the rest. But Paul insisted we go out and buy a new suit. “You want to show up as a representative of the Brown Agency wearing these costume-shop specials?"

“We're not from the Brown Agency,” I said. “We're freelance."

“Okay, then we'll look like shabby freelancers."

As usual, I was in control of the body, and Paul was appearing to me in the bathroom mirror. “What's shabby about my gray suit?” I asked. I'd bought it from a consignment shop in Sherman Oaks seven years ago. Top of the line men's fashion-a real dandy. I didn't care for the atrocities I saw in men's magazine's these days.

Paul sighed. “Where do I start? It's about as hip as an elbow. It has lapels skinnier than David Bowie's ass. It has tapered cuffs, for Christ's sake. I've beaten people up for less offensive things than wearing that suit."

“Granted,” I said, “it's a bit conservative. But do you think our client will give a shit?"

Paul stared at me.

“Okay, she probably will. But where are we going to find the money? Until our first paycheck clears…"

“Use the $200 we've got stashed away at Girard Bank."

“And in three days, when we're starved for a nice piece of meat, we won't have a coin to our name."

“The check will clear by then."

“I never trust banks."

Maybe I was worrying too much about the money, but I'd never dipped this low in my life. In Nevada, there'd always been a quickie nudie photo gig or an unpaid hotel bill to earn me enough cash for the week. Here in Philly, I didn't know a soul. I'd placed my entire financial future in a philandering lawyer.

Plus-and this is embarrassing to admit-I was hoping to spend some of my dwindling funds on a couple of new albums. I was tired of the music I'd already listened to over and over in my head. It was useless to count on the radio-it usually took a few repeated listenings for a tune to stick, and have you ever tried to break through those listener request lines? I'd have more luck taking down the Association with a weapon found in a Cracker Jack box. Music was one of my passions; work was bleak without it. But could I tell Paul that? No way. In the real world, a new suit mattered much more than a new Bread album.

Of course, it turned out not to matter. Paul went out and bought two suits for the bargain-basement price of $160. I don't know where he bought them-or if it was entirely legal-because I woke up from a nap and walked downstairs to the lobby to find Paul modeling one of them in a mirror. That is, watching myself on the Brain Hotel lobby screen, modeling one of them.