“A spa where the local power structure can mingle with gangsters.”
“Meaning?”
“Sociologists claim the same people turn cop or robber for slightly different reasons. They think alike so they enjoy each other’s company.”
“That’s a cheap shot making accusations you can’t prove!”
“Forget it.”
“I will not forget it. You think you know everything. But there are people who don’t have a Nobel Prize because they didn’t have parents to qualify them for competition in the first place.”
Blaise felt his throat closing and a void where his lungs should be. Cold gripped his hands and feet. “Let’s go in.” Linda flounced ahead, where she would not have noticed if Blaise staggered or looked pale. He moved his feet uncertainly, not sure how well planted they were. He needed to see Gordon.
Linda was at the reception desk, tapping a foot like an impatient ingenue waiting for a date. Men passing by turned their heads as long as they could. But it was apparently not good form to make passes before a lady had booked her room.
Blaise leaned on the desk and struggled to catch his breath. “Sir?”
“We’d like to see the manager.”
The girl looked at Blaise and then at Linda. Blaise knew he might not have passed inspection, but it was obvious that Linda did. “If you’ll wait by that door I’ll see if he’s available.”
“Thank you.”
Blaise took Linda’s arm and walked across the heavily carpeted foyer to a door almost invisible in the paneled wall.
It was opened by another Stephanie Powers model, slim, long-legged with a dress too expensive to be painted on, but still more than svelte.
“Please,” she said.
The room was larger than the inconspicuous door would l indicate. She seated them in chrome-and-walnut chairs and sat facing them across a half-circle desk with built-in terminal and printer. A keyboard recessed under the desk when not in use. The monitors just below the ceiling were obviously connected to security cameras.
“Could you tell me why you want to see the manager?”
“It’s personal.”
The blonde smiled. “I’m his personal secretary.”
She had the keyboard out on the retracting ledge, fingers poised above it. Part of the desktop had tilted up in front of her to reveal a nine-inch monitor. “Please.”
“I’m Anthony Powell and I’m here to see Dr. Gordon Hill.”
Linda glanced at him as the secretary zipped over the keyboard in one sound much like the riffling of a deck of cards.
“And the young lady?”
“And friend,” Blaise said.
The secretary typed Blaise’s response.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That won’t be possible.” She looked at Blaise and Linda as if they had turned to plastic.
“I’m sorry, too. I forgot my card.” He handed the girl a plain three-by-five with a neat string of pen-written numbers. She did not take it.
“I think the manager will be interested.”
The blonde looked through him.
Blaise put on his most dazzling smile. “Or you can hand it to him when you’re both in the unemployment line.”
As if she had not heard, she took the card and reactivated the keyboard and monitor and typed the string. She shoved the keyboard under the desk and stood.
“This way, please.”
Blaise held the chair for Linda.
The secretary closed the door and left them alone in the next room. The man behind the desk stood and rubbed his jaw, as if feeling for stubble. He was fleshy, with good looks that were getting a little soft. His sharkskin suit was expensive.
“How did you get the number my secretary sent?”
“Ve haff our vays. Only Dr. Hill could make me forget it.” Blaise was having difficulty breathing.
“Mr. Powell, you may not understand your situation here. And the young lady’s. Extortion is a crime. The sheriff is a frequent guest. We’re unincorporated so he has jurisdiction. He may be on the premises at this moment.”
“Would you like another number? And a record of fund transfers between accounts?” Blaise paused. “Am I going too fast for you?”
The manager stared.
“A man facing reelection might not like to hear that other people know so much about him.”
“Dr. Hill is not here.”
Blaise contemplated the manager and controlled his breathing.
“At the moment.”
Beside the telephone on his desk lay a geometric pattern of paper clips. The manager followed Blaise’s gaze.
“I suppose it would be all right.”
“A pleasure doing business with you, sir.”
“My secretary will take you.”
“Thank you.”
The door opened even though Blaise had not seen a signal button. The secretary held the door for Blaise and Linda before starting off in a brisk model’s walk that kept her hips level and free of erotic bounce, freezing her dress hem at a perfect angle.
Gordon seemed amused when Blaise stepped into the small office. Another man, large with big hands and a bland face under a fifty-dollar haircut, leaned against the wall.
“Sit down.” Gordon sat behind the desk and played with his pipe. Blaise and Linda took a pair of straight-backed chairs. The room was as austere as Blaise supposed he would find anywhere in Heaven’s Gate: white plaster and furniture that looked like it came from a college laboratory.
The other man’s sole function seemed to be holding up the wall. Blaise studied him. “My assistant.” Gordon’s irony was more in content than in form.
“I thought I might drop by to see you in person, Dr. Hill.”
“Yes. Well, you are prone to rash decisions, Mr. Powell.” Gordon had glanced down to his desktop at a single sheet where a glacially neat hand had written the name.
“My friend, Miss Lovely, wanted to meet you.”
“How do you do, Miss Lovely.” Gordon always took delight in gentle deception. And he was appreciative of women, though Blaise doubted that he ever strayed from a marriage bedded in cement.
Linda offered her hand and Blaise was struck by the contrast between faery princess and stone mountain. They chatted for a few minutes. Gordon’s assistant leaning against the wall looked bored, but disinclined to go for a stroll.
“I was wondering if you could tell me more about the work you’re doing here,” Linda was saying. “I have some friends who are interested in coming down for treatment.”
The man against the wall yawned. Blaise looked at Linda. “It’s still in the experimental stage, young lady. Unfortunately the process is secret—to protect it until the patent clears.”
“But it is safe?”
Gordon smiled. “I have the best proof.” Unexpectedly, he stood. “I’m afraid I have to cut this short, Miss Lovely.” He studied Linda with open admiration. “Amazing that you should be born to so fortuitous a name. Perhaps even God cannot resist the obvious.”
“You’re very gallant, Dr. Hill.”
“Ah, if I were but five years younger . . .” He winked slowly and Linda had little choice except to laugh.
“Take hormones,” she said.
“I shall. Come. I’ll walk you to your car.”
They ambled across the putting green lawn on neat pastel cement sidewalks. Gordon’s assistant followed, having traded wall-propping for holding up the sky like some disoriented Atlas.
“Who’s your assistant, Gordon?”
Gordon glanced back. “A sort of bodyguard.”
“You’re not here against your will?”
Gordon’s face twisted, for a moment showing Blaise a man he had never seen before. His eyes conveyed a regret that Blaise didn’t think he wanted to know about. Gordon was no prisoner. This wasn’t Sicily.
“You read too many frivolous books, Blaise. They need me here. The pay is . . . good.” Gordon seemed embarrassed by the mention of money. “I’m not after a Nobel Prize
. You can relax on that score.” Gordon glanced at Blaise and chuckled. “I know about the pressures of competition. Believe me.” He hesitated and lowered his voice so neither Linda nor the assistant could hear. “I have a deal, Blaise. You haven’t, so don’t pressure them. They’re worried about word getting to the . . . competition before they’re ready. Don’t get involved.”
Gordon caught up with Linda, who flirted outrageously with him. Blaise wondered if Stella Hill had been forced to brain a covey of nurses to bag the Great Stone Face for herself.
The yellow VW with crumpled fenders and dirty windows and measlelike rust spots huddled in a parking space almost twice its size. Cadillacs, Continentals, Rollses, and Mercedeses in cream and gold and handbeaten aluminum and black lacquer on midnight blue towered around it. A stainless-steel DeLorean with gull wing doors punctuated the beetle’s junkyard aura.
Gordon recognized it, of course, and steered unerringly toward the scabrous yellow bug. Two men in suits headed their way from the other end of the lot. Gordon asked for a kiss.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Linda threw in a hug that would have made Blaise jealous if he’d been paying attention.
“Dr. Hill, Dr. Hill!” The men in suits were running. Blaise recognized the manager who stepped heavily, as if unused to exercise.
Dobie began barking from inside the bug. Gordon leaned in the window and hugged him while the pup licked his ear. “You’re a good boy, Dobie.”
Dobie whined and leaped out, trying to go with Gordon.
“No, Dobie!” Gordon’s voice cut sharply and the dog whimpered, crouching on the pavement.
Weighty footsteps were practically on them as Blaise swung the door open and coaxed Dobie back inside. The Doberman liked riding and possibly he hoped Gordon would follow. Blaise wasn’t sure how a dog thought. But Dobie was used to the VW so he went over the seats into the back where he could sit and look at everybody, particularly Gordon.
“What the hell are you doing?” The spa manager was out of breath and his soft-featured face was dangerously red.
“Saying good-bye, Mr. Jensen. It was nice of you to come see my friends off.” Gordon was affable and polite, but it seemed as if Mr. Jensen would have preferred to avoid him, which he did by turning to Blaise.
“Get that damn dog out of the car.” Jensen’s face had hardened into professional meanness.
“Can’t.” If Gordon could be affable, Blaise could too. “The kids want him back.”
“What kids?”
“Mine and Miss Lovely’s. He’s their watchdog. You want a dog I suggest you start with a puppy and bring him up right.” Linda glanced at Blaise, showing no distress at being mother to an unnumbered illegitimate brood.
“Get the dog out of there,” Jensen snapped at Gordon’s assistant, who was watching the proceedings with amusement. “That’s your dog, isn’t it, Dr. Hill? The one we’re all looking for?”
The huge man looked at Dobie, who filled a lot of car with his oversized head and oversized teeth. “Not my job.” He went back to sky-leaning.
Jensen was ejecting spittle. His color had gone so ruddy Blaise expected a stroke. Gordon ignored the display.
Turning to the man who had come onto the parking lot with him, Jensen said, “You! Get the damn dog out of there.”
“But Mr. Jensen..
Jensen gave him a grim look. The man shrugged. Hesitantly he reached into the open VW and said, “Nice doggie.” When Dobie growled his lip curved up, exposing a fang. Jensen’s assistant bounced back so fast he whacked his head on the door frame. “Christ,” he observed, “teeth like bayonets!”
“The Nazis used them as attack dogs,” Gordon said helpfully. “Trained them to crawl into one end of a trench and kill every man before they came out.”
“He’s full of shit.” Jensen shoved at his helper.
“We’d better be going, Gordon.” Blaise shook his hand and held the door open for Linda. Gingerly she slid into the seat. Dobie promptly hung his massive head over her shoulder.
Blaise got in the driver’s side.
Jensen was so mad he was shaking. “Give me a gun.”
The man who had come out with him said, “What for?”
“I’m going to shoot that goddamn dog.”
“No, you’re not.” Gordon’s voice was low, but the manager looked up.
“We’ve got the get the dog!”
“Leave him alone.”
Jensen attempted to kill the dog with a glare. When it didn’t work he stepped back from the VW, waving away the gun his assistant offered.
As Blaise started the engine Gordon’s “helper” leaned down to the open window, face only inches away, and bland as if he still held up the sky. “Good-bye, Dr. Cunningham.” His voice was pleasant.
Blaise put the bug in gear, forcing Jensen to move aside. Jensen looked after them as they left the parking lot. As Dr. Hill grew smaller in the distance Dobie stared back wrapped in sadness.
Blaise drove in silence, concentrating on the road and his mirrors.
“Does he bite?” Linda’s voice was very small. Blaise hadn’t realized the reason she put Dobie out at every opportunity was fear. Dobie’s big head jounced up and down on Linda’s shoulder, rubbing the side of her face.
“Gordon’s kids stick their heads in his mouth and dare him.”
Linda thought a moment. “Have you seen the kids lately?”
Blaise laughed. Then Linda laughed and even Dobie grinned. It was better than admitting he hadn’t seen Gordon’s kids.
He looked in the mirror again.
Intelligence presupposes the ability to learn and thus adapt. The goal is to be the most adaptable.
FROM A SEMINAR ON
THE CUNNINGHAM EQUATIONS
CHAPTER 9
Blaise inched up the speed until the beetle was racketing unmercifully. Linda gripped the dashboard handle and stared straight ahead when her eyes weren’t closed. “Sleeping?” Blaise asked.
“Praying. Tell me when the wheels drop off.”
Blaise veered past a chuckhole that could have swallowed a moped. In the mirror he saw a black dot a long way behind making, as naval officers are fond of saying, knots.
“You missed the on-ramp.” Linda stared longingly at the receding freeway.
“Do you sail?”
Linda closed her eyes again. “All boats do is go up and down, just like this thing. They make me sick.”
“This isn’t so bad,” Blaise said cheerfully.
“I have a beautiful Porsche 920 in San Francisco. I’ll even bring it down for you to drive.” The sun visor on the right side was flopping up and down like a broken gull’s wing. People prone to motion sickness are sensitive to such distractions.
The dot in the mirror became a windshield and radiator. Blaise slewed the VW onto a cross street, flinging Linda against the door. Dobie made happy noises.
The black limo took more room getting around the comer, barely missing the cement-lined ditch that ran parallel to the road. Linda’s mouth clamped shut.
Swinging into the domed ramp, the VW’s wheels chittered like rabid squirrels. Blaise straddled the white line and the ride improved. The solid gray embankment rushed at the side of the car as he slammed down into third.
Dobie barked at the gray wall, hoping Blaise was going to catch it the way he caught squirrels on the run. Wheels grabbed the last inches of upslanting apron, squirting the VW forward and away.
The black car flashed past the ramp without slowing or trying to enter. Blaise dropped back into fourth gear. The metallic scream of the overrevved engine faded and the tach needle fell below the red line. He checked his mirrors. Nothing behind.
“That was cute.” Linda straightened her clothes.
They picked up speed on a downhill slope. The highway formed a long grade where engineers had sliced into the edge of the mesa for a constant rate of descent instead of the abrupt natural dropoff.
“Were you showing off again?” Her ton
e was icy.
“Normally I do handstands and backflips,” Blaise said.
The access road paralleled them. Where the freeway cut into the edge of the rise a long bridge crossed the mesa high above the busy freeway. There was no traffic on the overpass—except the black Cadillac parked in the middle with two men leaning on the railing, staring down on flowing traffic.
Blaise watched them shrink in the mirror.
“Do you think I’m overdoing it?”
“Definitely!” Linda said.
“I guess so.” He watched until the bridge disappeared.
Blaise prowled the house, poking in dark places he had not seen in years, wishing Linda had stayed. Dobie whined and followed, then became bored. The dog sat leaning against the couch, chin on cushion, eyes following Blaise with fresh hope each time he passed through the living room.
After a while Dobie had his forelegs on the cushion. The space-time continuum experienced a local anomaly of reverse gravity as he oozed up over the edge. When Blaise tired enough to set he had to lever the reddish-brown and black dog out of the way while Dobie pretended he was asleep.
The phone rang. Blaise answered it and listened before hanging up. “The good Dr. Hemmett wants to see me, Dobie.”
Dobie sighed.
“Guard the fort.”
Dobie would. He liked the couch.
GENRECT was steeped in calm the way fine tea is supposed to be. Except for old Ben, a retiree who filled his days with mild social protest and tuna fish sandwiches he shared with the secretaries when they took him coffee, even the pickets were absent, which meant most of the staff had gone home already. The receptionist pretended to be busy when Blaise walked through the front entrance. Hemmett was having another tantrum.
The great man’s frozen-faced secretary opened the door. Hemmett was standing when Blaise entered his wood paneled office. He turned toward Blaise. “You’re through!” His voice quavered.
“I’m on vacation.”
“You drunken bastard!” Hemmett’s voice started skidding off key. “Do you know what happened today? Do you know?”
“I talked to Gordon but—”
“You dumb shit!” Hemmett was screeching. “Mr. West called from San Francisco. He wants to know why you were bothering his father in Escondido.”
The Cunningham Equations Page 10