Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

by Frank Lauria

  His first impulse was to leave the envelope where he had found it and move into a hotel, but his next thought was quite different. There was nothing here in New York for him any longer. He had decided that earlier. A voyage to a new country might give him a fresh point of view and a chance to consider his next move.

  The ticket itself seemed to be a rather pointed form of advice. He wondered what it was that made his leaving the country so important. No matter what, he decided, it didn’t involve him any longer. He picked up the ticket, folded it, and put it in his wallet. And of course he’d need money.

  As he slipped the bills next to the ticket, he saw something else. A playing card, lying face down on the floor. He bent down and flipped it over.

  It was the Joker in the deck. The fool.

  CHAPTER 9

  To the pedestrians on the avenue Pola Gleason looked like a self-assured young career girl, but underneath her sleek composure her heart was pounding. She casually glanced down the street, her senses alert for any suspicious movement.

  To make sure she wasn’t followed she took a circuitous route before hailing a cab on an uncrowded side street. She sat back in her seat after giving the driver the address, trying to settle down. It was no use. She knew she’d be strung tight and tense until the deal was finished.

  She looked at the black leather bag at her feet. There was enough cocaine in the lining to send her away for twenty years. She didn’t like this part of it at all, she decided. She wondered if anyone had been watching the apartment. Joker was too flamboyant to be anonymous. Her mind went back to the man who had delivered the bag. The cowboy had some intriguing friends. This one had been almost too good-looking to be a drug dealer. It was a lucky thing she knew Joker. He was the only one who could have made this kind of connection for her; the only one she knew who could find what the doctor needed for her treatment.

  She shook her head. It all seemed so damned futile. A few months ago she’d been on her way to top bookings and three solid years of being New York’s most photographed form. And then the form had gotten tired. That’s all, just tired. She went to a doctor. Then another.

  Finally she tried dozens. They all told her the same thing. It was something in her blood.

  The tiredness would become lethargy, and then an increasing weakness, and then... She tapped her foot impatiently as the cab stopped for a red light. They had all told her it was hopeless except one.

  And his treatment was very expensive.

  Don’t worry, baby, she told herself, in a few minutes the doctor will have his fee and you’ll have your treatment.

  If the doctor hadn’t needed the large amount of cocaine for his experiments, she never would have found a way to finance her cure. But now the doctor was going to take care of everything. All he wanted was one small favor. He was willing to treat her and give her enough money to go to Paris to make a fresh start. But number one, Pola thought grimly, he was going to cure her of the wasting, unfelt disease that was sapping her life.

  When the cab stopped, she paid the driver and waited for him to pull away before turning the corner toward the doctor’s house. She had deliberately given the cab an address three blocks from his actual location. No sense taking chances at this point. Too much depended on it. If she was arrested, she would never get the treatment she needed.

  A few men on the street turned to get a second look at the lithe, lovely black girl, but today Pola took no pleasure in their admiration. The interest made her uncomfortable and she was relieved when she finally reached the doctor’s brownstone building. She walked up the stairs and rang the bell.

  When Pola saw the tall blond girl who answered, she was instantly wary. She wasn’t expecting to see anyone else here. "Is the doctor in?" she asked quickly.

  "Are you expected?" The girl was smiling but her chiseled features didn’t seem friendly.

  "I’m Pola Gleason."

  The girl stepped aside. "Come in," she said. She locked the door behind Pola carefully. "This way." She walked ahead of Pola to a room at the far end of the hall. When Pola entered, she saw that it was a large sitting room decorated exclusively in varying shades of green. The silk drapes, the satin chairs, the rug, the textured wallpaper were all in dark emerald hues. Pola noticed that the girl’s velvet dress was the same color as the room.

  "Is that it?" the girl asked softy. "The material for the doctor?"

  Her smile was warm now as she pointed to the bag.

  Pola kept her face calm and blank. "Excuse me," she said evenly, "I don’t think I know what you mean."

  The girl’s smile widened with amusement. "It’s all right, Pola, the doctor told me to take the bag when you came." She went to a small desk and took a long white envelope out of the drawer. "He told me to give you your money and your tickets."

  Pola looked at her. If girls came in perfume bottles, she thought, hers would be labeled rare, exotic, and supersensual. She was stunning, with deep-set green eyes that matched the d4cor of the room. And she looked intelligent under that imposing beauty. Like a good FBI woman might be.

  The girl came closer. "You don’t have to worry, Pola. The doctor gave me full instructions. I’m going to take a blood sample now and the doctor will come to your apartment as soon as he runs a test on the sample. It will take two or three hours. He’s preparing your treatment now."

  "Are you a nurse?" Pola asked hesitantly.

  "I’m his assistant."

  Pola handed her the bag. She just wanted to get rid of it. Even if she was a female FBI agent, it made no difference now. All that mattered was the treatment.

  The girl took the bag and headed for the door. "I can take a blood sample right here. Take off your blouse and sit on the couch. I’ll be right back."

  Pola undressed slowly, her mind still not at ease. Normally she would have demanded to see the doctor himself, but the girl’s manner had been competent. She sat down, the glossy satin smooth and cool against her back.

  The girl came back into the room holding a bottle and a hypodermic needle. "You’ve got a nice body," she commented as she put some alcohol on a pad of cotton. She came to the couch and began rubbing the inside of Pola’s elbow with the pad. The fresh coldness of the alcohol against Pola’s skin became a penetrating warmth that spread from her arm down to her stomach, continuing along her thighs until her whole body seemed covered by a soft, downy blanket. Pola looked up and saw the girl watching her face. Her eyes were wide and shining. Pola had a sudden, breathless impression that she was falling deep into the lush green of those eyes, like diving into a well of sun-dappled water. She continued to stare transfixed, her awareness of the rest of the girl’s face fading away.

  "Don’t worry." The girl’s voice was close to Pola’s ear. "This won’t hurt." Her arm brushed against Pola’s, sending a warm tingle across her skin. "Just relax," the girl was saying. "All we’re going to do is take a little blood."

  When the tip of the needle pierced Pola’s vein, she winced and groaned softly. Not so much from the pain as from a strange surge of pleasure. She shivered as an erotic pulse shot through her body, making her limbs watery and her head dizzy. The girl’s green eyes were spinning like bottomless whirlpools pulling her inside. Pola made an effort and looked away.

  As she watched the needle filling with dark red liquid, the surge in Pola’s body rose and pounded against her senses. A wave of electric delight crashed through her reason, drenching her brain with crackling sparks of warmth. She fell back on the satiny couch in a faint.

  She wasn’t sure how long she lay there like that, completely emptied of all her strength. But eventually she heard the girl’s voice and felt herself being lifted up. "Pola. Come now, you’ve got to get home."

  "Home?" Pola managed weakly. She was still in a kind of giddy stupor. "Did I pass out or something?"

  "Yes. It often happens to people when they have blood samples taken. But you’ve got to get home and wait for the doctor."

  Then Pola remembered. The tr
eatment. "He promised to make me well again," she mumbled.

  "That’s right. The doctor is going to take care of you as soon as he makes his tests."

  Pola nodded, still unable to focus her mind completely. She fumbled listlessly with the buttons of her blouse and then felt the girl helping her. Dressed at last, she stood up very carefully, unsure of her balance. She leaned against the girl for support as she began to walk.

  "Just take it easy now," the girl said. "I’ve called a cab for you. The doctor will be over to see you in a couple of hours."

  "Thanks," Pola said weakly. "Sorry I passed out. It’s never..."

  "It’s all right, Pola." The girl’s voice was low and assuring. "Just go home and get some rest. The doctor will come back soon."

  Even with the girl’s help, it took everything that was left of Pola’s concentration to make it down the stairs and into the cab. She couldn’t remember the ride home or how she got from the car to her elevator. When the elevator stopped, she stumbled down the hall to her apartment and began looking through her bag. It took a long time to find her key and fit it into the lock but finally she was inside. She headed straight for the bedroom and fell on the bed as a profound drowsiness came over her numbed body. She closed her eyes.

  When the doctor comes, she thought through the jumble in her brain, I won’t be able to answer the door. She tried to reach the telephone next to the bed but her limbs wouldn’t respond. The drowsiness had become a pressing exhaustion that prevented any kind of movement. She lay still, conscious only of a growing stuffiness in the room. The air seemed to be getting stale and thin, making it hard to get a full breath. She wanted to get up and open the windows but she couldn’t do anything at all.

  And then the sensation in her body was there. It started as an itch inside her stomach. A maddening tingle that teased and smoldered until it flared into a burning roar of sexual excitement. Her body jerked as a million nerves inside it began to vibrate deliciously as if they were all being masturbated at once. Something was stroking and caressing each of her cells, making each one a glowing point of supreme ecstasy. She opened her mouth but she couldn’t make any sound. She could only lie back limp as the delight in her body began to mass and swell, bringing the pleasure to a silent, thrashing frenzy. She was aware that it was becoming more and more difficult for her to breathe but the consuming deliciousness within her body seared away everything except its ecstatic presence. Even as the sensation built to a delirium of rapture, she could feel her vitality becoming dimmer and slipping away. It was impossible to get enough air into her lungs.

  And then the overwhelming pleasure spilled over into a long, pulsing, spasmodic orgasm that shook her writhing body and continued for seconds, then minutes—growing ever more powerful as it raced through her.

  She was still in the throes of that shuddering, never-ending orgasm when she died.

  CHAPTER 10

  Orient was edgy about this move

  As the cab crawled through the desolate tangle of Red Hook trying to locate the pier, he shifted in his seat in an effort to ease the tension.

  He’d spent all day Sunday trying to figure out why Joker had asked him to deliver a bag, then kept him waiting at a phony appointment while he moved his things out of the apartment. None of it made sense. Except the fact that the cowboy had run some kind of game on Orient. The kind of game he didn’t want to be involved in. That was obviously why Joker had to resort to a ruse.

  The cab turned into a junk-strewn yard, entered a large grimy pier shed, and began zigzagging slowly through the crates stacked everywhere on the concrete floor of the warehouse.

  And the telephone, Three times it had rung. Once early in the morning and twice in the afternoon. Each time Orient had picked up the receiver there was no one on the line. No dial tone. Just silence. Once there’d been a light, clicking sound that Orient had recognized. During Project Judy, the Secret Service men attached to the project had put taps on all the telephones in the house as a matter of routine. All of the phones had made those same clicking sounds.

  The cab stopped near a wide side door. Orient could see part of a ship through the opening. He got out, pulled his suitcase from the front seat, paid the driver, then began walking slowly toward the ship.

  When he passed through the door to the outside dock, he looked up. The Trabik was small. Its loading beams were skewed out at odd angles forming awkward silhouettes in the dusk. Listing in the water and needing a paint job, the boat seemed graceless and somewhat vulnerable. As he moved through the disarray of cargo and equipment on the pier toward the rope-and-metal ladder leading up to the deck, Orient wondered if this trip was a gesture of Joker’s—or another game. He started climbing the unsteady stairs.

  When he reached the deck, he went inside the first door at the head of the stairway and found the purser, who checked the manifest, took his ticket and passport, then directed a steward to show Orient to his cabin.

  Orient followed the steward up a flight of stairs and down a narrow passageway. When he entered the cabin, he found that it was spacious, well lit, and comfortably laid out. He’d felt better about the boat as he looked around him. He’d almost been expecting hammock bunks and footlockers. Then he surprised the steward by asking in Serbo-Croatian if he could get some food.

  "Too early, please." The young man turned red and held up his watch. "Dinner bell ring one hour."

  Orient thanked him in Serbo-Croatian, gave him a dollar, and took the keys. Just as well, he decided as he arranged his things in the cabin and chose a bed; every good voyage should probably begin with a fast. He had just settled down on the bed with a copy of Jung’s letters to Hesse when he heard a knock at the door.

  The steward came in with a tray of ham and cheese sandwiches and a bottle of Yugoslavian beer.

  "Until dinnertime," he beamed, speaking in his own tongue. "Breakfast tomorrow morning from 6:30 to 8:30. We sail late tomorrow night."

  Orient grinned and took the tray. His knack for languages was already smoothing his trip. Yang food to be sure, but it would help settle down the tension he still felt. He said this would do him, he would skip the dining room this evening.

  He ate in bed, read for a few hours, then slipped into a deep sleep.

  He was awakened in the morning by the breakfast bell. He got up immediately, washed, put on a pair of suede slacks and a turtleneck sweater, and went out into the passageway toward the stairs.

  The dining room was narrow, but since it ran the width of the boat, it didn’t seem overly cramped. Orient noticed with some disappointment that there were three communal tables for six instead of individual tables. He didn’t want to be more sociable than necessary, and he doubted if he could keep getting room service.

  This morning, however, there was only one other passenger at breakfast, a heavy, round man with a gray beard and dark glasses who was sitting at the far table, reading as he ate. Orient took an empty table near the door.

  He was pleasantly surprised that the orange juice, grapefruit, yogurt, and honey he ordered were all available. At least he’d be able to maintain a semblance of his regular diet. After breakfast he took a stroll on the deck.

  The Trabik was in the process of being loaded, but Orient could see that progress was slow. The holds were open and still almost empty. The first crates were being craned from the pier. Three or four stevedores were standing on the rear deck guiding the swinging load into the hatches. Two crewmen were below decks at the bottom of the hold, removing the crates from the loading platform and stocking them. He watched them for a while, then went up the stairs to the upper deck.

  The day was crisp and clear. A steady breeze was keeping the air pure in Brooklyn, and Orient could see the skyline across the bay glowing gray and silver, the immense structures of glass and steel flashing in the sun.

  The ship was narrow, but longer than Orient had originally estimated. There were three tiers above the main deck. The tiered section contained the crew and passenger quarter
s and the officers’ bridge. It was located at the rear of the ship, leaving a long forward deck area. Right now the forward and rear decks were covered with a messy webbing of cables, beams, and netting.

  Orient wandered about the upper decks, examining the ship until the chill drove him back to his quarters. As he went down the stairs he saw the bearded man, his magazine sticking out of his raincoat pocket, leaning against the rail watching the loading operation.

  When he entered his room, he saw that the bed had been made, the tray cleared away and the rest of the cabin straightened out. Perhaps there was some sort of room service after all. He changed into a pair of plain cotton karate pajamas and began the series of physical exercises that set up the rhythms for his concentration. Much later the free glide of his meditation was disrupted by the lunch bell.

  When he went back to his room after lunch, he saw that things had changed. His roommate had arrived, a thin young man with straight, shoulder-length blond hair who was wearing a red jersey sweatshirt with a large white star on the front. He was unpacking some articles from a knapsack and placing them on the bed.

  Orient introduced himself. "I think we’re sharing this cabin," he said.

  The boy looked up and smiled, squinting his blue eyes. "I’m Presto Wallace," he said softly. "I hope I haven’t disturbed any of your stuff while I’ve been getting myself squared away."

  "This is your house," Orient answered genially, using the polite Eastern form. He was genuinely relieved that his roommate for the next ten days seemed to be adaptable. He sat down on the couch.

  The objects Presto was putting on the bed were lenses and cameras. The boy was crouched on the floor examining each piece of equipment carefully, taking it out of the knapsack, checking it with a small flashlight, brushing it, polishing it, and then placing it on a soft piece of brown cloth with great patience, almost reverence. Orient picked up his book and began to read. It was a good sign that his roommate was a craftsman.