When Graveyards Yawn, G. Wells Taylor [a court of thorns and roses ebook free .TXT] 📗

The Greasetown Gazette was published in a huge building of the Gothic persuasion. I immediately imagined its designer to be a hunchback with a penchant for swinging from the many gargoyles that leered from flying buttresses above. Towering sheets of masonry thrust up into the clouds with dizzying speed, or were they descending. I could never tell. There were places in town where pollution and constant rain had expunged all color, where on particular days it was difficult to distinguish the buildings from the sky. This building, it had been white marble, bore the ugly smoke swirls of car exhaust and industrial byproduct. Slowly, it was fading to gray. It would disappear too, given time. When I first saw it I thought of a cathedral in Hell where it perched halfway along Main Street thrusting its spires upward over the rooftops of the fading post office and a decaying apartment building. The mud-colored sky was absorbing everything.

I walked through an enormous revolving door that elephants could have used in twos. Inside, the lobby was anything but gothic. Fluorescent lights turned a pink and purple color scheme into a pansy’s dream. A dual stairway circled up and around both sides of a diminutive reception desk at the far wall. I could just make out the shape of someone behind it. The bright white light flashed off a pair of glasses. My boots knocked hollowly on the marble floor, sending an army of echoes charging into the heights above. I realized the size of the lobby had distorted my sense of scale when I reached the reception desk; it wasn’t small at all. It could have reached up and pinched my nipples without standing on tiptoes.

“Hello.” My voice echoed as if I had hollered. The receptionist’s features were strained, but pretty, beneath light brown hair. The thin face held the worn and bitter hollowness of self-hatred. Her eyes pleaded for help but refused to say what kind. A release perhaps or surcease. A common condition in Greasetown. I don’t think she would have cared one way or another, if I shot her or married her. She dressed in the type of black suit she might wear to her own funeral.

“Mr. Wildclown?” Her voice held a brittle lid on a hair-pulling screech of nails on steel.

“Yes,” I said, unwilling to go through the obvious discussion about how she knew me. “I’m here to see Ms. Redding.”

“Take the elevator at the top of the stair to the fifth floor. Newsroom’s on the left.” The words rattled out of her mouth like the mechanical taps of a telegraph machine.

“I’m curious,” I said in an effort to be amiable. It seldom worked. Especially when my eyes were blood red and I reeked like an open cask of whiskey. But I made the effort. “What in hell else do you do in this building? I mean, this is a big building.” I gestured to the high marble walls.

“Advertising,” she said curtly before repeating vaguely. “Advertising.”

“Oh,” I said, joining her in the fun. “Oh.”

I walked to the stairs and up. The warm marble banister spoke to me about power and cooperation with power. The stone had an oily sheen of twisted ethic and pandering. Power was not cheap in Greasetown—the electrical kind. There were blackouts every other day. But this place was lit up like Heaven. I kept expecting to see the good Lord himself—bed hair sticking straight up, pink terrycloth bathrobe tucked tight under his beard, tooth brush and spit cup in hand—step out of the elevator on his way to the bathroom. The elevator doors slid seductively apart when I pushed the button. No emerging gods. Inside, the moving closet sang songs to me from a half-forgotten age. Whoever the fool was who enjoyed singing in the rain would definitely love Greasetown.

I got off on the fifth floor as some melancholy drill sergeant droned into a marching song about New York City—the only thing that could make it there now were tuna fish. A sign marked ‘Newsroom’ pointed to the left. I followed through ankle deep carpet that sucked at my boots. I’d forgotten what it was like when people had money and wanted you to know it. The sound of Photostat machines greeted me. A thin balding man, reading a coil of paper that streamed out behind him like a cape, thumped into my shoulder. He looked at me over semi-circular glasses. I could see the lower half of my face maniacally reflected in them. His eyes blinked, widened.

“Who…” he muttered.

“Who?” I echoed, still speaking receptionese. “I’m from Ringling Brothers Cosmetics. Here to see Ms. Redding.”

His little beak of a nose wrinkled. “You’re drunk—I’ll call security.”

“Only if they bring their own whiskey, boy. I’m not here to be sneered at. Where’s Ms. Redding?” I was edgy, and in the middle of a cold sweat from detoxifying. If this little bird didn’t want me washing my cheeks in his blood, he’d have to stand down on the ‘holier than thou’ attitude.

“Ms. Who?” He was taking us back to the beginning again.

“Redding,” I said, putting my chest into it.

“Oh.” He looked hurt or suspicious. I couldn’t be sure. My intuition was still drying out. “Over there.” He pointed with a rattle of paper. My musky cigarettes and whiskey detox scent must have frightened him. A shower can only clean the skin. My pores were pumping out the poisons like so many little factories. “Nine—nine, over there,” he stammered; his neck bent back like a swan’s as we looked down a division in a labyrinth of dividers.

“Thanks,” I said and left him to his owlish blinking. My boots clomped over a well-stained strip of carpet. Coffee, mustard, relish, cigarette ash, all pounded, pounded, pounded, into what had once been a deep pile rug. It resembled a dirt path now. I stopped at red dividers, peered over the top.

Mary Redding looked up at me over her glasses. Her desk was covered with paper, held a typewriter and an overflowing ashtray. She studied my face, then smiled nervously. “I still can’t believe last night.”

I smiled. “I can. That’s what makes my life so interesting. I believe in everything. There’s nothing that will surprise me. I could open a fortune-telling booth—tell people exactly what they want to hear. Doesn’t matter how weird or strange the idea is, I expect someone to bring it into reality. It’s true. People will say, ‘I’d never do that!’ But, watch. Sooner or later you’ll catch them at it. Most of the human race is in full denial. They’re still trying to leave instinct in the animal world.”

“Snarly today, are we, Mr. Wildclown?” She stood up, reached out a hand. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“Oh, these aren’t my feelings, they’re borrowed.” I clasped her soft hand in a shake. A memory of the night before caused Tommy to stir where he likes to stir the most. I dropped her hand and patted my pockets until I found a cigarette. There was a time before the Change when smoking was not allowed in public workplaces, but there had been hope back then. People actually wanted to live forever. I lit one and gave her the once over. Ms. Redding was wearing a crisp, gray and black pinstripe suit. I saw her strong calves jutting knee-down from the close fitting skirt. Black pumps cupped her broad feet. I swung my eyes up. Hers were blue and expectant. The cleft between them quivered for recognition.

“Can I look at your records?”

She smiled. “Sure, Mr. Business.” Her teeth momentarily resembled a shark’s. “Come with me.”

Ms. Redding walked along the space between some thirty cubicles toward a room at the back. I ignored the astonished looks of the reporters who coughed on their coffee as I passed. They were so many strange angular shards of faces stealing quick peeks over the edges and around the corners of their multicolored office dividers.

Mary turned and with a sweep of one hand bowed. “The Library, Mr. Business. Or more affectionately, the Morgue.”

Behind her, the wall opposite me was layered with many wide trays, about twelve feet across. An old coot with a poker visor and a tan suede vest looked up from a file he was perusing. He looked at me with astonishment, and then cast a glance at Ms. Redding. I smiled. He snatched at his bottom lip. I almost laughed when I looked down and saw his tartan slippers.

“Oh, Ms., Ms., Ms., uh, Redding. I’m sorry! Here, you can take over. There we are.” He began to tidy up his files. There was a strange urgency to his manner.

“Hey, Morris, relax. There’s no hurry.” Mary walked over, placed a hand on his shoulder. “Take your time.”

“Oh, yes, certainly, Ms. Redding.” He looked at me. “I was just leaving.” He tucked the files under his arms and left.

“What got his goat? He afraid of clowns?” I watched Mary shake her head. “Christ, you pack a wallop, Mary. You said you’ve been here three months. You don’t waste time.”

Mary smiled and ran a hand down my arm. “He’s just an oldster we have working here. He wanted to help, so we let him. I think he suffers from the volunteer skitters. He’s sure he’ll be in the way and that we’ll ask him to leave.”

“Oh, bad luck for Morris.” I looked at the broad trays again. Two green buttons stood out of the wall to the left of them. Mary walked up and held a hand over the buttons.

“Our hard copy files—there’s microfilm too…at the back.” She pushed the top button. The wide trays groaned downward on a simple chain