Spares - Michael Marshall Smith [77]
Vinaldi’s spies had no reports of sightings. I wasn’t surprised. Now that Yhandim had everything he wanted, I reckoned the only time we’d see him again would be in the two seconds or so before we died. Maybe he wasn’t even planning to bother with me anymore, now that he had Suej. But I was planning to bother with him. As I stood in Nearly’s apartment and noticed the bags from Suej’s shopping trip lying crumpled in the corner, I imagined just how badly I was going to bother him.
But first we had to find him.
“Why the fuck are we dealing with this guy?” Vinaldi asked, as he followed me up the stairs to Golson’s apartment. I didn’t answer, but simply banged on the door loud enough to wake the decomposed. It was only nine o’clock by then, and I didn’t make Golson as an early riser.
After a few minutes the door opened and Golson appeared sleepy-eyed and vague in a dressing gown. I forbore formalities as usual and pushed my way into the apartment, Vinaldi close behind.
“Hey, dude, what’s the problem?” Golson squeaked, scurrying behind us. In the living room we discovered that someone was in his bed, a midrange redhead with big brown eyes.
“Hi, Johnny,” she said, simpering like this was an audition or something.
I turned to him. “You two know each other?”
Johnny shrugged.
“Sure,” the girl piped up, running a hand through her hair, tucking the sheets around her and generally primping for Vinaldi’s benefit, “I go to Club Bastard all the time.”
“Get dressed and get out of here,” I told her. “You don’t want to be Johnny’s lay. They’re suffering from short life expectancy at the moment.” Vinaldi looked at me angrily, and I shouted at him. “You telling me Louella Richardson and Laverne Latoya weren’t in your book? Why the fuck d’you think Yhandim’s going round whacking them?”
The girl was up and in the bathroom before Vinaldi had time to answer, leaving us with just the boy Golson.
“What have you got for me?” I asked. “And hurry.”
“Not much,” he admitted. “But you said tell you anything weird. This is it.” He held a small card out to me. I took it and turned it over. A credit-card-sized sliver of cream-colored plastic with gold trim around the edge. Didn’t look especially weird to me, or particularly interesting.
“What the hell is it?” I asked.
“It’s an invite,” Vinaldi said. “Can see you don’t get out much.”
“I get out lots,” I snapped. “I just turn up uninvited. Why isn’t it doing anything?”
“It’s keyed to my DNA,” Golson said. “Here.” He laid his index finger along one edge of the card. The word “invitation” swam up out of the whiteness. This held for a moment and then faded, to be replaced by an inch-square video of a well-preserved but clearly grieving woman in her fifties. Speaking with baffled dignity she invited the holder of the card, plus a guest, to a memorial service for Louella Richardson.
“Okay, so they’re having a funeral,” I said. “This is hardly news.”
“It’s not that,” said Golson. “It’s this. I’m out last evening with people and I find out that virtually everyone who knew Louella is invited. I’m not talking just close friends, I’m talking people who held the door open for her one day six years ago. It’s the day after tomorrow, and it’s happening somewhere kind of weird.”
“Where?” I said.
“Two-oh-three,” Golson said, gleefully. “In the Maxens’ private chapel.”
I blinked. That