The Dead Love Longer Read Online Free PDF

wrong choice. I'd learned that lesson as a man as well, at least when stepping into the snake pit known as womanly love.
    I scanned farther. The used bookstore and the Armenian food joint were on ground level, and my digs were on the second floor. A Scientology church had some Hubbard books arrayed under a neon star in the front window, but the church appeared to be locked up tight. The angle was all wrong for a good clean shot from any of those places. I shifted my gaze to the right. The Hollywood Hype. Bingo.
    The Hollywood Hype was one of those combo deals, a tacky souvenir shop on the bottom and suites upstairs. Four windows faced me, leading into rooms named for movie stars. The Marilyn Monroe suite, the James Dean, the Ginger Rogers, and so forth, the sorts of places that tourists gobbled up so they could brag to their friends back home about getting lucky in Marilyn's room. Each room was tastelessly decorated with old publicity stills and commemorative towels, the kinds of "unique" items that the Hype management hoped the guests would steal as souvenirs. Then they could ring a hefty charge onto the tenants' credit cards.
    I was about to go to the door and head for the stairs when I remembered that I was a ghost. It took a little mental effort, but I put my hand through the wall. Cool. I was going to enjoy this case. But I wondered about the "cost" the afterlife caseworker had warned me about.
    I looked around my apartment, then down at my body. I looked dopey, my mouth open as if I'd been asked an algebra question. My fly was half-open, a button was missing on my shirt, and I had ring around the collar. And I wasn't quite as handsome as I'd always thought. Nothing like being dead to give you a whopping dose of reality.
    A red blotch was spreading out across the frayed carpet. I knelt and checked my pockets, just the way I would do if the body were someone else's. The good thing about being a ghost was that I wouldn't have to worry about leaving fingerprints. Of course, they would be mine anyway, and presumably my fingerprints were all over my stuff.
    Cigarettes. A butane lighter. A few dollars. Very few.
    And a note. Of course. I remembered it now, jotted down on torn wrapping paper. Handwritten, in jagged cursive: "Meet me in the lobby. 4 p.m."
    I glanced at my wristwatch. It was spinning backwards, so I checked the clock on the wall. 3:58.
    Sirens were blaring, still six blocks away and caught in the permanent rush-hour traffic. I was almost tempted to stay and wait for the cops. But what would I tell them? I still didn't know my limits, or how I'd be able to interact with the living. Besides, I had a feeling I had to solve this thing on my own. Which was okay. I always liked working alone.
    Except in one certain endeavor. Lee's photograph was on top of my television, and she was much better than any sitcom diva. I went across the room, moving my legs out of unneeded habit. Could I lift the photograph?
    Time to test my powers. You'd think they'd give you a user's manual when they sent you back. But I guess this was part of the test. You had to earn it, baby. That was what faith was all about.
    I found that if I concentrated hard enough, if I believed , then my ether would harden just enough to actually function in my former reality. I lifted the photograph and brought it to my lips. She tasted of dust when I kissed her.
    Something rumbled under the floor and a blast of warm air crossed the room. I thought it was the heat pump kicking on, but even in late December, Los Angeles can throw you into a sweat. The con men, sexual predators, and street gangs can do that. But this was spawned by no earthly source.
    "So that's the bitch, huh?" came Diana's voice from the air ducts.
    I didn't have time to argue with my late wife. I was about to be late for an appointment. But you can imagine the comfort it gave me, knowing she'd be looking over my shoulder at every turn. Just like during our marriage.
    With great effort, I