Page 153 of Dance of Ruin

“I only need five.”

“Got lube?”

My face twists. “Excuse me?”

“Lube,” he says, still not looking at me. “Trust me, you’re gonna need it?—”

“Believe me, I’mnot,” I say, blanching.

What the fuck is wrong with people.

He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

I’m still processing my disgust as he buzzes me through into the morgue itself.

I’m not here to screw a corpse.Obviously.

But if Iwas, I’d have a hard time fucking the particular corpse I’m here to see, given that it’s little more than a gelatinous blob of goo at this point, after falling thirty stories onto concrete and then being kept on ice for the last two months.

Inside the main room, with the scent of antiseptic in the air, I check the chart by all the metal doors along the wall, scanning for Omar’s name.

Not on the list. Good. It means several months later he’s still a John Doe. Unsurprising: I’m guessing they’ve had abitof a hard time identifying him.

I scan the list of unknown bodies, and find one on the list with “severe blunt force trauma from elevated impact”.

Yup, that’ll be Omar.

I don’t really need to look at his corpse. I’m not here for his body.

I’m here for his secrets.

Through the back, I find a locked cage-room. But there’s just a regular hardware store lock on it, and I was picking those when I was eight.

Inside, I find a bin marked “Doe, John / 005213-R / UNCLAIMED.”

It’s sealed with a bright yellow evidence band.

Like that’s going to stop me.

I pull a knife from my jacket and slice through it, pulling the lid off before I start pawing through whatever Omar had on him when he shuffled off this mortal coil.

It’s all been cleaned, mostly. But still…oof.

Red-stained pack of gum, flattened. House keys and a wallet, also caked with red.

Finally, I spot what I came here for: his phone. It’s in rough shape, obviously. But mercifully—from the phone’s point of view, anyway—it seems to have been cushioned against any real damage by…well…Omar.

The screen is cracked to shit, and I don’t know if the thing will ever turn on. But at least it’s not in a gazillion pieces or embedded three inches into the sidewalk on 7thAvenue.

I slip the phone into my coat and close the box again. Then there’s just one more thing to collect, unfortunately.

Thankfully, I find it, intact, and it doesn’t take long. After that, I’m ignoring the front desk guy’s snickered “that was fast” comment as I exit the morgue. I slide behind the wheel of my car, plug the phone into the cord, and start the engine.

I wait. And wait.

I stare at the phone, scowling. Fuck, it’s as lifeless as Omar.

But suddenly, the thing lights up.

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