“Because you still have your mind, which is connected to your soul. The brain is nothing more than a muscle. Your mind and soul power it."

“So Plato was correct in the Phaedo in that the body is evil and impedes our search for the greater truth?"

“Huh?” I asked. “I'm only trying to explain what's happened to you."

“Yes, I know."

“Okay then.” I remembered Brad had been a college teacher. Jesus, did I hate academics. Always thinking too damn hard about things, trying to describe the world in the most inaccessible, complex ways possible. I preferred journalism: the pursuit of easily-understood fact. Man steals money. Fire destroys building. Mob kills naïve reporter. That sort of thing.

“Okay,” he said, running his hands through his hair. “Here's an easier one. Say I walk out of this room, down the steps, through the lobby and out the front doors of this ‘Brain Hotel.’ What then? Do I float away and go toward the proverbial ‘Light?’”

“No,” I said. “You'd hit a brick wall. The only way out of here is if I allow you take over my physical body. Or if this physical body dies."

“Who gave you the car keys to this joint?"

“Funny you should use that analogy,” I said. “It's how I think of it, sometimes. Anyway, my collector, Robert, entrusted me with the keys. I am behind the wheel, and the sooner you accept it, the better.” I thought maybe I was being too harsh. “Don't worry. I'm a careful driver."

“Oh joy,” Brad said. “What if I kill myself?"

“You can't. You're already dead."

“Fine. What if I kill my ‘mental projection'? Imagine myself to be absolute nothingness?"

“It won't work."

“How do you know?” Brad asked. “You ever want it bad enough to try it?"

This was all going in the wrong direction. Why wasn't Brad looking at the bright side of this whole thing, like I did when I was collected?

“Why are you so intent on killing yourself?” I asked.

“Because I'm looking around here, around this Brain Hotel, and you know what? I notice there's somebody missing. My wife, Alison. Unless you're keeping her hidden away for some reason."

“No,” I said quietly. “She's not here."

“I thought so."

I didn't want to go down this particular path yet. I needed him to feel safe, and maybe even enthusiastic about being here. Then we would discuss his wife. And how he was going to help me avenge her.

“Look, let me show you around,” I said. “I think you're going to find this place interesting."

Brad sighed. “If you don't mind, I think I'll stay here and try to think myself into absolute nonbeing."

“If you like, you can do both at the same time,” I said, trying hard not to sound like a used car salesman. “Our tour begins right here, in this room. At your request, we can craft it into whatever you like-a frontier log cabin, a modern luxury apartment, a country getaway…"

“Maybe later."

“Okay, okay. You want to see the lobby?"

“Anything important there?"

“Of course. There's a movie screen that allows you to look out into the real world through the eyes of my physical body."

Brad narrowed his eyes. “What's there to see now, if you're here talking to me?"

“Nothing, I guess. My real body is taking a nap."

“Sounds exciting."

I ignored that. “There's also a microphone on the lobby desk, in case you need to reach me while I'm in the real world."

“It connects to a telephone, or something?"

“No. You speak into the microphone, and I can hear it in my head."

Brad thought about this for a moment. “Doesn't it get confusing? Hearing all those voices?"

“Ah. Which is why there's only one microphone. Want to check it out?"

“Not particularly."

“Alright-then how about the restaurant? One of the souls here used to be a gourmet chef for one of the best casino restaurants in…"

“I'm not hungry. Which shouldn't surprise you, seeing that I don't have a stomach anymore."

Christ. This was going nowhere. I took a seat next to him on the couch. For a while, we both sat there, looking at the pale green walls, scratching our noses, readjusting ourselves on the couch-the usual timewasters. Finally I said: “Brad, I know this is all a rude shock to you, but time is a factor here. I need to know a few things. Things I'm sure you'll want to tell me. Things that will help make things right."

Brad turned to me. “What things?"

Was this partial amnesia, or was he being difficult? “You know. Things about our mutual friends. The Association."

“The who?"

“The organized crime syndicate that operates out of Las Vegas."

“That's what you call it? I guess it's a good enough name. The Association. Why, sure. I kind of like it."

“I'm glad."

Pause.

“Well?” I asked.

“Sure, I could tell you… things. In fact, I could tell you quite a bit about that particular crime organization."

I set my jaw, waiting for him to fill the silence. Finally, after years of fruitless searching, I would know the truth.

“But first,” he continued, “I need you to do something for me."

This caught me off-guard. “What?"

“I want you to find the bastards who killed Alison."

“That's what I want, too. Once we nail the organization…"

“No,” Brad interrupted. “Not the organization. The two individuals. The assassins. The prick who shot Alison in the throat, and the cunt who sliced me up."

In other words, Brad Larsen wanted me to solve his murder.

Brad insisted on telling me his version of events first. It was fine with me-I'm sure whatever Dean Nevins had pieced together left much to be desired. I poured Brad a glass of Brain scotch-an approximation of Chivas Regal-I'd brought for the occasion. It was a lesson I'd learned from my reporting days: keep your sources well-fed and well-lubed.

“Sure you're not hungry?” I asked.

He gave me a funny look. “Not much point eating, is there? I'm dead."

“Not true. Life inside the Brain hotel can be exactly like the real thing, if you work at it. Do things as you normally would. This includes eating, drinking, sleeping, shaving, showering, shitting… the whole thing. Take it from a man who's been here a long time. It helps.” Another reporter's tip: build some “we're on the same team” camaraderie.

In this case, however, it didn't work.

“Do things as I normally would?” Brad repeated. “Let's see. Normally, I'd wake up in the morning and kiss my wife Alison on the forehead. Normally, I'd ask her if she wanted cereal, or something else, like eggs or French toast. She'd have to help me, of course, because I always end up burning the pieces on the stove."

I could see where this was heading, but I though it best to let him get it out of his system.

“Normally, we would plan our day together-maybe go for a walk, or pack a lunch and walk up the creek bed to read and talk and hang out. Normally I would kiss my wife, maybe even make love to her, and normally we'd spend the rest of the day doing simple chores or listening to music or any number of things I can't do right now because you see, my wife Alison, she's dead!"

I watched his chest heave and his face disappear into his hands. Somehow, through all of this, I'd forgotten the crime at hand. A man and his wife had been murdered in cold blood. Why couldn't I be a wee bit more sympathetic? Come to think of it, this was the root of all of my problems with the residents of this hotel. I scooped them up, expecting them to be so full of fire and spit that they'd heap stacks of evidence on my desk and wait patiently as I brought my years-long quest to an end. How arrogant of me.

But I couldn't find a way to articulate this without sounding full of it. Instead, I walked over to the table and freshened up his Brain scotch, even though he hadn't touched it yet. I freshened my own drink and sat back down. “Tell me what happened, and let's see if we can't piece this together."