The Suburban Book of the Dead: Armageddon III: The Remake Read online

  The alleyway behind the Love Me Tender looks much the same as any other. In fact it bears a striking resemblance to the one behind Heartbreak Hotel. But that’s alleyways for you, and I’m not going to stand on ceremony with this one and salute the first pumpkin that calls me bwana.

  I merge into the shadows with such skill that even Hank Marvin wouldn’t have known the difference.

  ‘I’m not happy about this, chief.’

  “The Hank Marvin gag? I thought it was pretty good.’

  ‘This set-up. Something tells me we’re on a wrong’n here.’

  ‘Have a little faith, Barry. I know my trade.’

  ‘Mr Woodbarn.’ I hear the voice but I can’t tell where it comes from.

  ‘The name’s Woodbine,’ I reply. ‘Lazlo Woodbine. Some call me Laz.’

  ‘I have what you’re looking for, Mr Woodlouse.’

  ‘You don’t sound too much like a dame with really huge tits and a thing about men in trenchcoats.’ I figure a little humour might lighten the situation. ‘Where are you, exactly?’

  ‘Right here.’ I hear the creak of what can only be the retractable bottom section of a cast-iron fire escape. And I felt the impact as it hit me right on the top of my head.

  And that was about all I heard or felt. Because suddenly I was falling into that whirlpool of darkness that all private detectives fall into at about this point in the plot. I fall down and down and down towards an oblivion of nothing much in particular. And then things go very black indeed for your friend and mine.

  ‘You got him good.’ Ed Kelley appeared from the shadows. ‘Shall we saw his head off here, or take him back to our secret hideout?’

  ‘Back to the secret hideout,’ Johnny Dee came down the cast-iron staircase. ‘You can never tell who might be watching here.’

  Barry the sprout, who had rolled away to cover, was watching. But he said nothing.

  Rex got down to a serious day’s shopping.

  After his swift getaway from the House of Meek, he carefully wormed from the cabby the names of all the posh shops where the media folk cast their fashionable shadows. And very soon he found all the ones where the other Rex Mundi had a personal account.

  Rex spent lavishly. Right up to and, wherever possible, well beyond the limits of his credit. He freighted his purchases back to the cab and loaded them in, leaving the shopkeepers to dwell upon the enormity of his verbal abuse and gross behaviour.

  Rex now sported the absolutely very best in up-market menswear. An eight-thousand-dollar watch clenched his wrist like a gold tattoo. His pockets jingled with a collection of pointless pricey trifles. The cabby was looking pretty swell also. Rex had got him fitted out with no expense spared. He wasn’t completely sold on the rhinestone-covered jumpsuit with the big bell-bottoms the driver had chosen. But each to his own.

  Rex bit the end from a long green cheroot, which the tobacconist had assured him was ‘rolled upon the thigh of a dusky South Preslian maiden’ and spat it out of the cab window. ‘Ouch!’ went a passerby.

  ‘Mundi’s the name,’ said Rex Mundi. ‘Drive on, please.’

  The driver did that very thing. ‘Where to now?’ he grinned most broadly.

  ‘Time for lunch I think. Where would you recommend?’

  ‘How about the Tomorrowman Tavern?’

  Rex lit his cheroot with a laser-operated Dunhill. ‘Why not.’ he said.

  As Lazlo is still falling into the bottomless pit the action stays with Rex. Which is only fair as he’s having such a good time for once.

  Rex and the cabby, whose name was Bill, entered the Tomorrowman. The barman doffed his silken scarf and donned his repugnant leather apron. ‘Flip off,’ he said, as f**k would not get past the censor.

  Rex was all sweetness and light. ‘I come in peace for all mankind,’ he said. ‘Charge all yesterday’s damage costs to my station. Here, I’ve brought you a present.’ He pulled a small golden device from his pocket and passed it to the barman.

  ‘Thanks.’ The barman passed his manic eye over it. ‘What does it do?’

  ‘I’m not quite sure. I lost the instructions. But it cost a packet, I can tell you.’

  ‘Well, thanks a lot. You’re not kidding about charging the damage to your station?’

  ‘Am I or am I not the chap off the telly?’ Rex winked and fished out something silver which might have been designed for clipping nasal hairs.

  The barman accepted it. ‘I never miss your show,’ he said.

  ‘A real professional,’ Rex told Bill.

  ‘I liked him in They Came and Ate Us,’ the driver replied. ‘Really saved the day there. Did you read that review? “What a load of old horse’s poo this book is. If it hadn’t been for the barman I for one would have ripped the whole thing up and used it for bog paper,” The Times.’

  ‘Easy.’ Rex gave him a stony glare. ‘Never bite the hand that clothes you.’

  ‘No offence meant.’

  ‘None taken, I assure you. So let’s get stuck into some eats. Barman, whatever you have that’s really expensive and costs a lot more at this moment because it’s out of season and almost impossible to get, please.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘I had that galloping gourmet in the back of my cab once,’ quoth Bill. ‘What a pillock. He sure knew how to feed his face, though.’

  ‘Has Laura Lynch been in?’ Rex asked the barman, who was ruminating upon the current availability of RockyMountain oysters.

  ‘I expect she’ll drop in later. Bigfoot noses are almost impossible to get at this time of year. I could send out for some.’

  ‘Send out for lots and give us a couple of pints of champagne before you do.’

  ‘Reserve stock?’

  ‘Would the chap off the telly be seen dead drinking anything else?’

  ‘I should think not.’ The barman hastened to oblige.

  ‘This is MTWTV news on the hour every five minutes,’ said the TV above the bar. ‘And top of the news this lunchtime, allegations of verbal abuse, violent assault, wanton excess, personal credit violation and possible use of illegal drugs levelled against the Nemesis game show host. This very morning Rex Mu . . .’

  ‘Could we have that thing off, please?’ Rex asked. ‘It interferes with my spending.’

  ‘As you please.’ The barman switched off the TV and uncorked the champagne. ‘I’ll get right on to those Bigfoot noses. A jet will bring them down from Oregon.’ He decanted two pints into as many glasses. ‘Cheers.’

  Rex put on his big expensive sunglasses. This was one place he had no wish to be recognized in. Not until he’d had his lunch and refused to pay, anyway.

  Bill took up his glass and drained the better part of it away in a single gulp. ‘It’s good this, isn’t it?’ said he.

  ‘Yes,’ Rex agreed. ‘And it’s going to get a whole lot better.’

  I just keep right on falling. There’s no today for me and no yesterday. And tomorrow don’t look like being a Jacuzzi full of cheerleaders neither. I’ve had some rotten breaks in my time, but those you’ve got to take in this business. I’m philosophical. The way I see it, when you’re hanging by your fingernails, you don’t take time out to wind your wristwatch.

  Laura Lynch entered the Tomorrowman Tavern. Now the way I see it there is a lot of dispute about what makes the perfect woman. Physically speaking I like a lot of leg. Not too much knee, of course, and who can abide a fat ankle? The way I see it is, if you’re overstocked in the ankle department, wear boots. Even in the shower. A dame with fat ankles can still make it to the top of the charts if she knows how to powder her nose and keep her feet off the table. Hang about! I’m not in this bit. I’m still falling into the bottomless pit.

  Laura Lynch entered the Tomorrowman Tavern. Rex turned in mid swig, tucked away his sunglasses and smiled warmly. The beautiful woman wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Lordy, lordy,’ croaked Bill. ‘Look at the jugs on that.’

  ‘Laura.’ Rex extended his ha
nd. Laura shrank back. ‘Laura, please let me explain.’

  ‘You’re back.’ Laura’s voice was cold and dead. ‘Does this mean I’m . . .’

  ‘It doesn’t mean anything. There’s been a mistake. I’m not a Repo Man.’

  ‘Repo Man?’ Bill emptied another bottle into his glass. ‘Had one of those bastards in the back of my cab once. Ate my cufflinks.’

  ‘It wasn’t my card.’ Rex explained. ‘I picked up the billfold by accident.’

  ‘Officer Cecil raped me.’

  ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’

  Laura put a brave face on it. ‘I didn’t know I’d been raped until his cheque bounced.’

  ‘That’s a good’n.’ Bill raised his glass. ‘Heard it before, but still a killer.’

  Rex took to his drink. He’d never lived in a world of one-liners and he had no intention of starting now.

  ‘Sorry.’ Laura clasped his elbow. ‘It’s just that women in Rankin’s books never get any good lines.’

  Rex shrugged. ‘Fair enough, so we can be friends again?’

  ‘I hoped you’d say that.’ Laura climbed on to the stool next to Rex and . . .

  ‘Ah.’ Rex sighed. ‘Those stockings. Tell me, Laura, I only have forty dollars in cash right now. What would that get me exactly?’

  Laura leaned towards him. ‘For forty dollars, I slowly take off all my clothes, cover myself all over in mint-flavoured body-rub and take a nap while you read a newspaper in the next room. How does that sound?’

  ‘Not too tempting.’

  ‘I can go for it.’ Bill downed further champagne. ‘Do you supply the newspaper or do I have to bring my own?’

  ‘Bill, please.’

  ‘Sorry, guv. Are those Bigfoot noses on their way, do you think?’

  ‘I like the new get-up.’ Laura stroked Rex’s arm. ‘Black leather always did a lot for me.’

  ‘Thanks. The underpants have a tendency to ride up.’ Rex plucked at his trouser seat. ‘Listen, Laura. We’re getting smashed out of our heads on the most expensive champagne in town. Perhaps you’d care to join us.’

  ‘I’d like that very much.’

  ‘Another glass over here, please, barman.’

  ‘I’m not in the bar any more you klutz, I’m out getting the Bigfoot noses.’

  ‘All right, I’ll get it myself. Whacky stuff this, isn’t it?’

  ‘I had that Patrick McGoohan in the back of my cab once,’ said Bill. ‘Did you ever see that series . . .’

  9

  9. And Moses came down from the mount bearing the two tablets of stone.

  10. And lo, there was a whole lot of shaking going on.

  11. And Moses was well peeved and did lose his rag, saying, ‘Thou shalt not Rock ‘n Roll, for this is the eleventh commandment. . .’

  12. And Elvis said, ‘Stroll on, thou art a lying git.’

  The Suburban Book of the Dead

  Barry lay upsidedown in the alleyway.

  ‘I did warn him,’ sighed the inverted Time Sprout. ‘It’s not my fault if he gets his head sawn off. I’ve done my best for that guy.’

  That’s not really fair Barry.

  ‘Who said that?’

  It’s me, Barry. Rankin’s ghost writer.

  ‘What, that bloke down the pub who’s always fancied writing a novel?’

  That’s me.

  ‘Well, howdy.’

  I thought I’d better have a word with you about the incredibly clever trick-ending.

  ‘It won’t have to go much to beat the last two.’

  Have I ever let you down?

  ‘Can’t say that you have, chief. So what can I do for you?’

  It’s more what I can do for you. Bounce over to the typewriter and have a look at this contract I’ve drawn up.

  ‘Without my agent present? Are you kidding?’

  Barry. I hold the little white bottle. Do you want to come out of this covered in glory or covered in Tipp-Ex?

  ‘Covered in glory, please.’

  That’s the stuff. Now it’s quite straightforward . . .

  The last thing I expected was to be woken from unconsciousness by an air hostess with the face of an angel, gently patting on my shoulder and telling me that the plane had just landed in Miami. So I guess the bucket of cold water that hit me in the face didn’t come as much of a surprise. Normally I would have come up fighting. I learned Dimac from a lama in Tibet and my hands are so deadly that I have to keep them in a locked closet when they’re not in use. It was a real drag to find them handcuffed behind my back just when I needed them most, I can tell you.

  ‘Wake up Widebarn.’ I knew that voice almost as well as I knew the theme from Doctor Zhivago. ‘We wanna ask you some questions.’

  I kept my eyes tight shut. I was chained into a chair, but it wasn’t the one in my office. And this place didn’t smell like Fangio’s bar, I was definitely indoors, so the alleyway and the roof-top were out. Things didn’t bode too well for the four-set clause in my contract.

  ‘Open your eyes,’ went the voice of Johnny Dee. ‘Or I’ll open them with a shovel.’

  I took a little peep. Apart from the desk-lamp that was shining in my face, all I could see was darkness. I could live with that.

  ‘OK,’ says I with more composure than a Confucian in a comfort station. ‘You want to come quietly, or do I have to get tough?’

  Something hit me across the face and it wasn’t the first kiss of springtime. ‘Just tell us where it is and we’ll let you off with a mercy-killing.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘Then it will be all the worse for your trenchcoat.’

  ‘You fiends. What do you want from me anyway?’

  ‘Your means of transportation, Mr Woodbune.’

  ‘Woodbine,’ says I. ‘Lazlo Woodbine.’ So they were after Barry. There was no way I was going to sell the little guy out. ‘Some call me Laz,’ I added.

  ‘Quit stalling. Where’s the Time Sprout? It’s not in your pockets, so where is it, inside your head?’

  I figured that Barry must have taken the duck for cover back in the alleyway. But there was no way they were going to drag that out of me. ‘I’ll never talk,’ says I.

  ‘Saw off his head, Ed.’

  ‘I’ll switch the chainsaw on, John.’

  Now, I don’t know poetry from a hole in the ground and I draw the line at having my head sawn off, even if it’s to save my trenchcoat. So, before the rhymes get too painful and the chainsaw too piercing, I decided to state the obvious.

  ‘Fellas. I don’t have the Time Sprout. If I did, do you think I would be sitting here letting you rough me up? I’d be gone in a flash, wouldn’t I?’

  There was a bit of silence then. But only a bit, because Ed said, ‘Not necessarily,’ and spoiled it.

  ‘Not necessarily?’ I was flabbergasted, I kid you not.

  ‘Sure. You might have masochistic tendencies.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A deficient libido brought on by a set of socio-physical determinants manifesting in a psycho-sexual syndrome, whereby you can only achieve sensual gratification through the experience of pain.’

  ‘Now just you see here . . .’

  ‘John has a point there,’ Ed added. ‘Take all this obsession with your trenchcoat. Most unhealthy. Over-fastidiousness is a sure sign of mania.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Johnny. ‘The trenchcoat is a symbol, a metaphor. An overskin reflecting the wearer’s inner self.’

  ‘You leave my trenchcoat out of this.’

  ‘Oh ho,’ Johnny continued. ‘Touched a raw nerve there. It’s the same with all you private eyes. All obsessed with your peckers. It’s all lingams and yonis, isn’t it? Buttons and buttonholes. Belts and buckles. Guns and shoulder holsters . . .’

  ‘Probing into people’s affairs,’ Ed put in. ‘I bet you really get off poking those bullets into the chamber of your pistol.’

  ‘How dare you!’

  ‘Were you breast-fed?’ Johnny as
ked.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Evasive. Unable to answer a direct question.’

  ‘I can too answer a direct question.’

  ‘Yeah? So where’s the Time Sprout?’

  ‘Back in the alleyway where you jumped me.’

  “That’s all we wanted to know. Saw off his head, Ed.’

  ‘You’re on, John.’

  Rex decanted champagne and munched upon a sasquatch sarnie. ‘I need your help, Laura,’ he said.

  Laura smiled that silly sort of champagne smile that all men (all right, some men) look for before they move in for the kill.

  ‘Go on,’ she said. ‘Hic,’ she added.

  ‘It’s about the billfold.’ Rex chose his words with care. ‘I don’t want to get into any trouble. I just want to return it to its owner.’

  ‘I’ll bet you do.’ Laura giggled foolishly.

  ‘I’ve been right through it but there’s no address or anything. What should I do?

  ‘Dump it down the John if you’re smart.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a very good idea.’

  ‘Listen.’ Laura waggled her glass at Rex, liberally distributing champagne across the table. ‘If you’ve got something of theirs you don’t have to go looking for them. They’ll find you soon enough.’

  ‘I’d be willing to pay for your help.’ Rex topped up Laura’s glass.

  ‘What, you with the forty dollars in cash?’

  ‘I was just kidding about that. Here, take a look at this.’ Rex detached his wristwatch and passed it to Laura. ‘You can take it as a down-payment.’

  Laura turned the watch upon her palm. ‘But this must be worth-’

  ‘A very great deal and there’s lots more where that came from.’

  ‘Let’s go to my apartment,’ said Laura Lynch.

  Bill was snoring away at the bar.

  ‘You gonna move this heap of dung?’ the barman enquired.

  ‘Not so loud.’ Rex hushed him into silence. “The station director always takes a nap at this time of the day.’