Free The Octopus on My Head by Jim Nisbet Page A

distance, anyhow, we can call a corpse a corpse. But this isn’t some random corpse—right?”
    Lavinia’s lower lip quivered.
    I considered the corpse. When I was an auto mechanic—in another life—there was always some engine reduced to a lump of iron, as inert and even less functional than a boat anchor. After a certain amount of tinkering, however, this configuration of parts might roar to life. No matter how much I learned about how it worked, this little miracle always amazed me.
    Tonight, in this obscure warehouse, the opposite effect was at work, and it was no less curious. Not so long ago, this heap of laundry on the floor had been possessed of the free will necessary to dye its hair.
    â€œIs it Stepnowski?”
    â€œCan you see his left forearm?”
    I could see it plainly. “There’s a tattoo.”
    â€œWhat’s it say?”
    I turned my head to read it: “STAGE LEFT.” I righted my head and looked at Lavinia. “You’re kidding me.”
    â€œAt least it’s not an octopus.”
    â€œAnd on his right arm…?”
    She nodded impatiently. “What do you think?”
    I shook my head slowly. “He was a drummer, all right.”
    â€œAnd his name was Stepnowski.”
    â€œDrummer or not, this is getting to be one expensive PA system.”
    Both hands still on the pistol, the pistol still trained on Stepnowski, Lavinia sat up against the wall. I saw no blood on her clothes. She must have tripped over Stepnowski’s hands, which were flung before him, beyond the pool of blood, as if he were reaching for something. Or someone. Or, it occurred to me, quite as if he’d been dragged by his feet which Lavinia might have tripped over as well. But the pool of blood precluded dragging—didn’t it? Or maybe he was knocked on the head, dragged here, and then he was shot…? Had he been shot?
    â€œMust have been unpleasant, to trip over that mess in the dark.”
    Lavinia’s eyes enlarged. “It felt like he grabbed me.”
    So maybe it had been the hands.
    Clearly, although she’d been screening a notorious splatter video in underground clubs up and down the west coast, nothing about the present experience constituted a matter of relish for Lavinia. It occurred to me that, night after night, Lavinia must have managed one way or another to avoid actually looking at Telltail’s demise over and over again. Maybe it was too much. Maybe tonight was forcing Lavinia to re-imagine it. Maybe, on the other hand, I was giving her too much credit for introspection.
    In any case, Lavinia seemed on the verge of shock.
    â€œI’m going to approach Stepnowski.”
    Lavinia lowered the gun a little.
    I stood slowly.
    She raised the gun.
    â€œLavinia …. ”
    The gun drooped in her hands.
    Stepnowski lay face down. I touched the nape of his neck. No warmth. I pressed a carotid. No pulse. The quick under his fingernails had lost its color. The arms were slightly stiff.
    â€œI think this guy is dead.”
    â€œThat’s brilliant, Curly. Why don’t you go through his pockets?”
    So much for introspection. “I think he’s been dead for a while, too.”
    â€œYour empiricism is underwhelming,” Lavinia said. “Look in his pockets. Start with that back one.” She pointed the gun.
    A large bulge strained the fabric of one of the dead man’s hip pockets. I hesitated. “Dead or alive,” I said, “it’s been a long time since I touched a guy’s ass.”
    â€œWhat happened to those San Francisco credentials, Curly? Come on,” Lavinia insisted. “Check it out.”
    I slipped my fingers under the denim seam, which was tight. The bulge proved not to be a wallet; it was a wad of cash, folded double. As I worked the bundle out of the pocket, the corpse farted.
    â€œWoman,” I winced, “please note that I am earning my keep.”
    Lavinia