Secret Dead Men by Duane Swierczynski Page B

it into the air and all of a sudden the "Blue Danube" would be playing and I'd be aboard an interplanetary PanAm ship flying to the moon. Da-da-dadada ... THUMP-THUMP! THUMP-THUMP!
    Suddenly a gunshot rang out, interrupting the peaceful strains of Strauss. The bullet whizzed past my right ear.
    I stumbled back a few steps, then dropped to the ground.
    Then, another shot. I looked at the Datsun, and sure enough, there were two fresh puncture marks by the keyhole. When the third shot rang out, it was clear what had happened. Paul had clocked Fieldman and dumped him in the trunk along with all his belongings ... including his gun. I guess he hadn't counted on him waking up anytime soon.
    The fourth was a charm. The slug shattered the lock, the lid flew open, and Fieldman popped up like a Detroit Dracula. His eyes adjusted to the harsh sunlight--he didn't have those stupid sunglasses on anymore. He wasn't too blind to see me, though. The me who Fieldman thought had smacked him around and put him in the trunk.
    "Hold it right there," he said, aiming the gun at my chest.
    We'd come full circle.
    "Getoutofthetrunkandrun," I said, still breathless. "Bombinthecar. Runnow. Get awayfromthecar." I took a few steps back, by way of demonstration.
    "Don't move," Fieldman said. After all of this, you'd think he'd go and take a shot at me already. In his mind, I had a.) risen from the dead, b.) given him a strange hallucinogenic which turned his life into a psychotic hell for eight months, c.) broken his nose, d.) knocked him unconscious, and then e.) stuffed him in the trunk of a crappy used car. Most people would have stopped at "a", you know? Not Fieldman. He was a federal agent ready to die on his vacation, and he still wanted to arrest me.
    I heard strange clicking sounds. I didn't know bombs from boobs, but something told me this was the sound of Paul's homemade device getting ready to blow. There was no time for further argument.
    I looked at Fieldman. Thank God he wasn't wearing those sunglasses.
    * * * *
    The explosion was everything I could have hoped for: hot, bright and loud, as if the veined fist of God had come down from the heavens to wipe the pathetic Datsun off the face of the earth. The blow knocked me off my feet, slammed me into the hard dirt, then rolled me clear back across the ground a few yards. Tiny pebbles cut into my elbows and ass. I hurt like hell, but after a few tentative breaths, I knew I'd live. And so would Fieldman, in a manner of speaking.
    I closed my eyes, tuned out, and went to the Brain Hotel to check on Fieldman's soul. When I got to the lobby, though, there was no sign of him. Nor anywhere else in the Brain Hotel.
    I went back out through the lobby doors-- owatta goo siam --and back into reality. The pain hit me as if I'd experienced it all over again. Slowly, I pulled myself to my feet and started waving my arms around, trying to clear the smoke. I approached the burning wreckage, and saw what I thought used to be Fieldman's body, hanging over a piece of metal I suspected had been the rear bumper. Or maybe it was the other way around.
    I coughed and took a few steps back, trying to take in the picture. His soul had to be around here somewhere. After a few hurried minutes of looking, I started to worry. Robert had told me souls always hang around the flesh for a while. Even in cases of total vaporization, a soul will lurk around the sizzling droplets for a while before seeking the Great Beyond. Shit, I've been dead for six years, and I didn't still hadn't sought the Great Beyond. I'd been too busy.
    If Fieldman wasn't out here in reality, that left only one possibility: He was somewhere in the Brain Hotel. It was unlikely, though: I can always tell when I take on another resident. Every soul collection leaves me feeling wiped out. I felt relatively normal at the moment, considering I'd been reality/Brain Hotel hopping, running around like a fool and beating my Datsun with a rock.
    "You are looking for