An Affair of Sorcerers

by George C. Chesbro

  I couldn’t think of any of my more traditionally religious friends who could have taken Greene’s kind of news better than April and her brother. Yet the serenity these two witches seemed to enjoy in the face of Kathy’s approaching death only served to transform my own frustration and desperation into anger. “She’s not dead yet!” I shouted, wheeling on Daniel. “We still have time! Twelve hours, one hour—what difference does it make? Let’s use the time! Work with me! We’ll go out—”

  “No!” Daniel said firmly. “I’ve talked to everyone there is to talk to!” He sighed angrily and shook his head. Now he made no attempt to hide his pain. “I couldn’t find out anything, Frederickson. If I can’t, you can’t.”

  “This time we’ll work together. I think I’ve got some leads that—”

  Daniel stepped back and cut me off with a wave of his hand. His eyes had gone cold. “Go! You’re not family. April and I don’t want you here!”

  I glanced back and forth between the brother and sister, the witch and ceremonial magician. I knew there was nothing more I could say to them, nothing more either of them wanted to say to me. Joshua Greene, his head down, was holding the door open for me. I wheeled and walked through it.

  I went down to my car and drove across town toward Garth’s precinct station. It was one o’clock in the afternoon, and the crosstown streets were plugged with traffic that I hardly seemed to notice. I knew that every minute counted, yet I felt strangely serene; all of my options had been narrowed down to a very small set of choices, and it was almost a relief. At the moment, there was nothing I could do about the traffic, and I didn’t waste energy worrying about it. I felt as though I were looking down a tunnel twelve hours long; at the end, brightly illuminated, was the answer to the question of how I was going to spend those hours.

  I knew I couldn’t hope to find Esobus in the time I had left—not after both Daniel and I had been beating the bushes without success for three days. What I needed was more time, and there was one person who just might be able to give it to me.

  Esteban Morales was absolutely the last button I had to push. It was a decision I’d unconsciously made the moment I’d walked out of the hospital. Either Esteban could heal, or he couldn’t. It made absolutely no difference what I believed.

  I needed Garth at the station house—Garth and Garth alone. There was no time to go looking for him. Wallowing through the traffic, I was surprised to find I had—at least temporarily—renewed a lapsed membership of my own; for almost twenty minutes my lips had been moving in a silent prayer that Garth would be there.

  I made it—by a few seconds. As I pulled up to the curb, Garth was just coming down the steps with Johnny Barnard, his partner. I nodded to Barnard and pulled Garth to one side.

  “Jesus,” Garth said, real concern in his voice. “You look like hell. What did you do to your finger?”

  “Harley Davidson’s dead. His body’s in that apartment on Farrell Street.”

  “You always bring such interesting news,” Garth said wryly. “Who’d have thought that the Messenger of Death was a dwarf?”

  “That’s not funny,” I snapped.

  “You’re right,” he said after a thoughtful pause. “I’m sorry. That’s what comes from hanging around with cops all day.”

  “I need an hour or two of your time. Now.”

  He ran a hand through his thinning, wheat-colored hair, then glanced toward his partner, who was waiting beside an unmarked squad car. “I work for this city, Mongo. Sorry, but I’m on a call. Grave robbers. We’ve got three teen-agers with an apartment full of skulls they stole from a cemetery over in Queens. That’s not funny either.”

  “Two hours, Garth,” I said, struggling to keep my voice even. “I need you. If you feel you owe me, I’m cashing it all in now. If I owe you—well, I’ll owe you some more. Two lives are at stake.”

  We looked into each other’s eyes for a few moments; then, without another word, Garth went back down the steps and spoke a few words to Johnny Barnard. Barnard shrugged, got into the car and drove off. Garth came back up the steps slowly.

  “What’s the matter with you, Mongo?” he asked quietly, peering at me through narrowed lids. “You look and talk like a stranger. If I weren’t afraid you’d yell at me, I’d say you look like you’d seen a ghost.”

  “I’m goosing one. I want to spring Esteban on bail, and I need your help.”

  “What? You think I’m going to smuggle Morales a file inside a cake?” He slowly shook his head. “Go home and go to bed, brother; you’ve got to be running a fever. We’ve had this conversation before. The man’s charged with premeditated murder. If that weren’t enough, he’s considered a transient. Forget it.”

  “Two hours, Garth. That’s all I want. I’m going to try something; if I can’t pull it off in that time, it’ll be too late anyway. Okay?”

  “First tell me what you plan to do.”

  “What kind of lawyer does Esteban have?”

  “I told you: Legal Aid.”

  “He’ll need better.”

  “No, he won’t. The guy’s name is Herman Spiegel. I know him; he’s young, enthusiastic, and he’s damn good. You won’t find better.”

  “Call Spiegel and get him over to the Criminal Courts building. The two of you have to round up a judge to hold an emergency bail hearing.” I glanced at my watch. “It’s one thirty now; let’s make it for three thirty. I’ll need you as a witness to tell what you saw and heard yesterday in Esteban’s cell. Was there an autopsy performed on Samuels?”

  Garth nodded curtly. “You were right; he had cancer.”

  “Esteban was right. He knew about Samuels’ cancer, and he knows about my condition. You can testify to that.”

  “You’d better come up with more than that, Mongo. A judge—if I can find one to listen to you—will laugh you right out of the hearing room. If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon my colleagues didn’t get a chance to spread the rumor that you and I are idiots.”

  “I know I’ll need more; if I can’t come up with it, the whole thing’s off.”

  “What kind of evidence do you think you’re going to find?”

  “I don’t want to say yet.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Mongo,” Garth replied wearily. “I said Spiegel was good, but F. Lee Bailey couldn’t get a judge to stand by for two hours with the kind of tap dance you’re showing me.”

  “I’ve got somebody better than F. Lee Bailey; I’ve got Senator Bill Younger.”

  That impressed him. “The Senator Bill Younger, I presume. What does he have to do with Esteban?”

  “You’ll find out at the hearing; or sooner, if he wants to tell you. He’ll be here ten minutes after I make a call. He’ll help you and Spiegel find a sympathetic judge. What about it? Are you with me?”

  Garth grinned crookedly. “Aren’t I always? Hell, I’m your biggest fan.”

  “Thanks, brother.” Baby time: the first props for my magic act were in place, and the pressure that had been building up inside me emerged as tears. I quickly wiped my eyes, blew my nose. “Is Esteban still inside?”

  “Yeah.” Garth slapped me lightly on the back and glanced at his watch. “He’s being transferred to Rikers Island at four.”

  “I want to talk to him.”

  We went into the station house, and Garth took me back to Esteban’s cell. As before, the old man was squatting on the cot, his back braced against the wall. He looked up and smiled broadly as I entered. His face was still serene and peaceful; perhaps there was a bit more sadness in his large brown eyes.

  “Hello, Mongo,” Esteban said, getting up from the cot and placing a gnarled, mahogany-brown hand on my shoulder. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “It’s good to see you, Esteban. I don’t have much time, so I’ll get right to the point. Senator Younger is in town with Linda. She needs you badly. And there’s a little girl who also needs you to give her the strength to stay alive a few days longer.”

  Esteban lifted
his hands from his sides, then let them drop loosely in an elegant gesture of helplessness. “I will do anything I can, Mongo. But I am here—”

  “Well, I’m going to try and get you out on bail. But I have to ask you some questions. You may not want to answer them, but you’re going to have to if you want your freedom. First, is Dr. Jordon a negative healer?”

  Esteban looked puzzled. “I do not know what you mean, Mongo.”

  “You seem to have some kind of positive effect on people; being around you helps them to get better. You once said Dr. Jordon shouldn’t have become a doctor. What did you mean?” When he hesitated, I stepped close to him and gripped his arm. “Esteban, two people are going to die in a very short time unless you can give me some answers.”

  “Dr. Jordon had a bad effect on patients,” Esteban said quietly. “I saw it in his patients that I treated. It was harder for them to get better when he treated them.”

  “How did Samuels and Jordon get along?”

  “They were … not friendly,” he said with obvious reluctance. “They tried not to show it in front of me, but I sensed tension when they were together.”

  “Thanks, Esteban,” I said on my way out of the cell. “I hope I’ll be seeing you again in a couple of hours.”

  I hurried to my apartment, where I had a miniature cassette recorder. I taped the machine to my body, then called Janet Monroe. She wasn’t home, but I finally reached her at her university office.

  “Mongo!” she said. “Senator Younger called me; he told me—”

  “Babe, I haven’t got time to talk. I need you.”

  “I’m here,” the nun said quickly.

  “Get over to the university Medical Center; sixth floor. The patient’s name is Kathy Marlowe. She’s dying fast, but from what you and Mercado say, Esteban just might be able to maintain her long enough for me to get information that could save her life. I need you to set things up. Younger will be bringing his daughter over there. We’ll need another bed set up in the Marlowe girl’s room so that Esteban can work with both of them. The doctor you want to speak with is Joshua Greene. He’s going to be pretty incredulous. I need you as a scientist to talk to the physicians, and as a nun to talk to the girl’s mother and uncle.”

  “Are they Christians?”

  “Hardly; but I suspect the three of you may have something in common: you take your beliefs seriously. Concentrate on the mother; right now she’s trapped by the notion it’s all been written, and that it’s a waste of time to try to change the ending. If the big weirdo with her gives you any lip about accepting fate, kick ass. Okay?”

  “When do you want me to go?”

  “Right now. I don’t know when I’ll be there, but there isn’t a minute to spare.”

  “I’ll do my best, Mongo.”

  “I know you will, Janet. Thanks.”

  I made my second call to Senator Younger. I told him to meet Garth at the station house, then quickly filled him in on what I hoped to do.

  Now I had to make the crucial decision whether to call Eric Jordon or go directly to see him. If I called and he simply refused to see me, my show closed out of town. I preferred to confront him directly, without any prior warning. On the other hand, his office was about thirty minutes away, allowing for traffic. He could have an office full of patients; he could be out on a Long Island golf course; he could be in Bermuda. In which case, precious hours would be wasted. I decided to call; it might give me a slight advantage if I could start him stewing before I got there.

  I dialed his number and got his nurse. I was told that Dr. Jordon was in, but that he couldn’t be disturbed. I asked her to tell him I wanted to talk to him about his dead colleague. She sniffed, informed me that she’d see if he’d come to the phone. He did.

  “Dr. Jordon here.”

  My stomach picked that moment to heave, and I tasted bile in my mouth; a burning, acid sensation undulated back and forth across the inside of my belly. I couldn’t afford any show of weakness; I had to appear cold, confident. I crouched down on the floor and pressed my fist into my stomach. The nausea passed. I activated the tape recorder and put the tiny microphone up against the receiver.

  “This is Robert Frederickson,” I said, blinking sweat out of my eyes.

  “Who?”

  “Right now I’m the most important person in your life,” I said, trying to imagine how Laurence Olivier would handle it if he wanted to sound casually menacing. “I’ve been doing some checking on your operation, and I’ve found out some interesting things. I thought I’d talk to you before I went to the police.”

  I winced when a new spasm of nausea hit me, and shoved my fist even deeper into my stomach. I felt short of breath. There was silence on the other end of the line. All Jordon had to do was laugh, or be outraged, or hang up, and the play was finished. If there was a play.

  Finally Jordon said, “What things have you found out?”

  The curtain was going up. I covered the receiver with my hand as my breath came out of me in a whoosh. I took a deep breath, said evenly, “I don’t think you want me to go into it over the phone.”

  “What do you want, Frederickson?”

  “We can talk about that when I see you. I’ll be over in a half hour. Be sure you make yourself available.”

  Hanging up quickly, I doubled over and waited for the spasms to pass. Then I left the apartment, got into my car and began to drive to Jordon’s offices. Despite the adrenaline pumping through my system, I suddenly felt exhausted, unable to keep my eyes open. I lighted a cigarette. That helped some, but the smoke made me sick to my stomach. I pulled over to the curb, opened the door and retched.

  Thirty-five minutes later I walked into the offices Jordon had once shared with Robert Samuels. I paused and hyperventilated. The nausea and pain in my stomach had subsided, and I was grateful for that: I was about to do the most important Command Performance of my life.

  There were no patients in the waiting room. Jordon’s nurse-secretary directed me down a narrow connecting corridor to a wood-paneled office, where I found Eric Jordon sitting in a leather-backed chair behind a massive oak desk. He was wearing a starched white lab coat. He’d crossed one ankle over the opposite knee; he held his hands in front of his chest and was gently tapping his fingertips together. If he was surprised to discover I was a dwarf, he didn’t show it; his face didn’t show anything. His mouth seemed frozen in a kind of grimace, and his pale flesh looked the color and consistency of plaster of Paris. I reached inside my pocket and activated the tape recorder as I walked up to his desk. I was feeling lightheaded again; it wouldn’t do to pass out on my co-star’s floor.

  “Dr. Jordon,” I said with a curt nod.

  “Say what you have to say Frederickson,” he said tautly. He sounded as if he were talking through a thick gauze mask, and he was breathing shallowly. His thick brown hair was tousled, greasy. He seemed to be looking straight through me.

  “All right, I’ll lay it on the line for you. I lied to you on the phone; I haven’t been doing any investigating. I haven’t had the time, which is a subject I’ll get back to in a minute. The point is that I’m going to be doing a lot of digging, and I’m here to tell you up front what I expect to find. I know you were a brilliant medical student, and you’re probably a great diagnostician. But I expect to find that you’re not a very good physician. Patients just don’t respond to you. As brilliant as you are with facts, figures and computer readouts, you screw up when it comes to people.”

  Suddenly my head spun. I leaned heavily on his desk and tried to cover the pause with a cough. The room straightened out. Judging from Jordon’s glazed expression, I wasn’t even sure he’d noticed.

  “I think I’ll find that a number of malpractice suits were filed against you—and won,” I continued quickly. “You lost your hospital affiliation, but you weren’t really concerned about that because you still had your main meal ticket—a partnership with Robert Samuels in this medical-services conglomerate. I think I’l
l find that you’re very good at what you’re doing, which is attending to the business side of medicine. But that wasn’t enough for Samuels. After all, it was his business he’d brought you into, and he had a controlling interest. Samuels was a good physician, and when he found out you weren’t he wanted to dissolve the partnership. If that happened, you’d be finished. After all those years of medical school—not to mention the financial investment—you saw yourself being cut out of the profession. Something in your head snapped—if I may be generous. You couldn’t let that happen. I think I’ll find that the two of you insured each other’s lives—a common business practice. So you had to kill Samuels to protect your future. When Janet Monroe approached you concerning the Esteban project, you saw your chance. Somehow you managed to talk your partner into cooperating, but Esteban was a setup from the beginning. You were the one who went to Samuels with the story about Esteban drugging one of your patients; a lie, but Samuels bought it. He hadn’t wanted to work with Esteban in the first place. Now he blew up and filed a complaint with the police. You’d established a motive. Then it was a simple matter of you leaving a message for Esteban saying that Samuels wanted to see him that Thursday evening. You killed Samuels, then waited around for Esteban to show up. Everything just fell into place. Esteban’s too passive to be outraged, and he’s considered a bit peculiar to begin with; everyone just assumed he was guilty.”

  I paused. Jordon hadn’t batted an eye during my speech, and it didn’t look as though he intended to say anything now. I needed him to react so that I’d have something on the tape; a word—a tone of voice—anything to indicate, however tenuously, that I’d struck a nerve, and that what I was saying could be true. It was the only thing that could provide a bail situation for Esteban.

  Jordon wasn’t exactly being cooperative; he continued to sit and stare like a robot. I wasn’t even sure he’d been listening.