The office was seedy and neglected except for the parakeet chirping in a wooden cage and one other aspect—the pieces of shiny metal sculpture that decorated the room as subtly as a parading Shriner. The forms were abstract and large, great gobs of melted steel, polished and gleaming and looking more like freshly extracted organs than anything else I could think of.
I walked to the closest one and looked it over. Intricate, almost dainty, designs had been welded onto its surface in obsessive bursts of effort. A small white card taped to the base announced the piece was entitled “Essence” and could be purchased for two thousand dollars.
There was a reception desk at the end of the waiting room but there was no one behind it. There was no one waiting, either. I sat down in a wicker chair and thumbed through a six-month-old copy of Vogue. The article I turned to was about Herbal Wraps and Loofah Rubs. A door opened somewhere to my right and I looked up into the face of Gwen Durkin.
“It’s you,” she said stiffly. Her dark skin stretched over her cheekbones like the bark on a maple. She was clearly annoyed, most likely at me.
“It’s me,” I agreed. “How are you?”
“Busy.”
I glanced around the room. “Solitaire?”
“What do you want?” she asked, angered rather than amused.
“I’d like to see Doctor Hazen.”
“The doctor isn’t taking on any new patients just now.”
“Good,” I said. “I’m not taking on any new doctors.”
“Come to the point, Tanner. What is it you really want?”
“Information.”
“That’s not our business.”
“The information I want could save someone’s life. I mean that literally. Does that sound anything like the business you’re in?”
Gwen frowned, started to say something and then stopped, and walked behind the reception desk and sat down and looked at me steadily—detached, scientific, neutral. There was no trace of the woman I’d skipped down the Filbert Steps with three days before, but then why should there have been. “I don’t think you lie,” she said finally. “I assume you mean it when you say the information is important. To you.”
“Not just to me.”
“Whatever. I can’t pretend I didn’t enjoy the other morning. I let my hair down in a way I haven’t in a long time. I was hurt when you didn’t ask me out the next night.”
“I explained why I didn’t.”
She nodded. “It should be enough but it isn’t.”
I shrugged. I had business to take care of. Gwen was in my way. There was more to it, but not right then.
“I did get a nice dinner out of you,” Gwen continued. An artful smile spread gradually across her lips. “So I figure I owe you. Not much, but something. I don’t like to owe men, so what I’m going to do is get you in to see Doctor Hazen. Nothing more. Once you’re in his office you’re on your own. And we’re even. Anything between us from now on starts from scratch. Fair enough?”
“Fair enough.”
“Wait here a minute.”
She went away and left me alone with about three tons of steel, then came back a minute later and said, “Come on.” I followed obediently, white manservant after black mistress.
She led me past rooms containing examining tables and medicine cabinets and skeletons and X-ray machines and God knows what else to the office just before the one at the end of the corridor. The door was closed. She knocked and went in. I followed.
The man behind the desk was familiar, but I couldn’t remember where I’d seen him. He was short and stout, barrel-chested, with forearms the diameter of goalposts. His wide face was flat with anger; his annoyance seemed to encompass both Gwen and me. I find all doctors a little silly, and Hazen was no exception.
Gwen introduced me quickly and then backed out of the office and closed the door. Doctor Hazen uttered a single word: “Well?”
I thought about sitting down, then decided against it. “I need some information on one of your patients,” I said.
“Who?”
“Karl Kottle.”
That seemed to surprise him. I knew because he blinked. “You mean Max,” he said mildly.
“I mean Karl.”
“Who says Karl is a patient of mine?”
“A little bird.”
Hazen nodded once, then reached for the telephone on the desk. He dialed a single number and then spoke. “Miss Durkin? This man has just asked me about Karl Kottle. You are therefore dismissed. Do you understand? Be gone by the end of the day.”
Hazen replaced the receiver and looked at me, an arrogant smile curling his puffy lips. “Does that give you an indication of how I feel about the confidentiality of my records?”
“You made a mistake,” I said. “She didn’t tell me.”
“Of course she did,” Hazen replied. “I am not a fool, Mr. Tanner. You, on the other hand, apparently are one if you expect me to disclose information about my patients on the basis of a whim. I once defied a court order requiring me to give up certain records. I was sustained on appeal, but not before spending some time in our disgusting County Jail. I have no intention of telling you anything.”
With guys like Hazen you have to take your best shot right off the bat, because one is all you get—usually. I took mine. “Max Kottle won’t be very happy to learn that his long-lost son has been consulting you regularly over the past several years and that you never even mentioned it to him.”
“Is that a threat to tell Max what you know? Or what you think you know?”
“Maybe.”
“Consider it ineffective. Even if you had proof of your contentions, which you don’t, my position is sound, both medically and ethically. You may tell Max what you wish.”
I took another tack. “Is Karl Kottle a junkie?”
“What makes you think that he is?”
“That same birdie.”
“Well, your birdie is mistaken.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Look,” I said. “I’m not really as interested in Karl’s medical condition as I am in his whereabouts. Medical ethics don’t prevent you from telling me that.”
Hazen shook his head. “I construe the physician-patient privilege in its broadest possible scope, to include the fact of the relationship itself. I will tell you nothing.”
“Does Karl need continuing treatment?”
“Why?”
“Because he may be in a position where he can’t seek it if he needs it. He may not be able to get medication, to move about freely for any purpose.”
Hazen seemed puzzled. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean Karl is likely a prisoner, which means he could be dying if he needs regular medication or regular treatment by a physician. If he does, surely you have an obligation to see that he gets it. The only way is to tell me where I can find him, what address he listed in your files.”
Hazen looked at me squarely, the smile finally off his face. “You sound as though he’s been kidnapped.”
I didn’t say anything more. Hazen leaned back in his swivel chair and looked at the window to his left. In front of it was another piece of sculpture, this one shaped like a pancreas. Hazen seemed to feel there was an answer somewhere inside the metal, that the alloy included a dash of enlightenment that could be extracted by an act of will. I waited.
“I have no way to know whether you’re telling me the truth,” Hazen said finally as he swiveled toward me. “With confirmation I might change my position. Without it, I’m afraid I can tell you nothing.”
“What kind of confirmation do you need?”
“A call from Max Kottle. Telling me his son’s in danger. Telling me to disclose whatever information I may have to you. Telling me everything. Can you get that for me?” Hazen smiled tolerantly.
I thought about it. “Not now,” I said.
“I thought not. Now, you’ll have to excuse me. I must insist.”
The doctor picked up a file and began to leaf through it slowly. I left him without a word and went back to the reception area hoping to find Gwen. She wasn’t there. The only thing she’d left behind were some empty drawers and a whiff of rose petals in the air.
THIRTY
She’d changed the tune. The tones were still slightly flat, the source still deep within the house, but it was no longer Rachmaninoff. The new phrase was vaguely familiar, but uncommon and unidentifiable. Villa-Lobos, perhaps. I pressed the button a second time, just so I could hear it again. The rich can do anything.
Randy opened the door. He was still frowning and still dressed like a Beverly Hills shoe salesman. “You didn’t call first,” he challenged, after he put together who I was.
“How do you know?”
It put Randy on edge. The possibility that things were going on inside that house that he wasn’t aware of clearly upset him. For the next few seconds he tried to convince himself I was bluffing. He didn’t quite succeed. “You didn’t call,” he repeated. “Shelley doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”
“Great,” I said. “If I was here to see Shelley I’d feel real frustrated.”
“You talk too wise, buster. Now get out of here. You’re nobody.” He took a step toward me.
“If you spent more time in the gym and less at the hairdresser I’d break out in a sweat, Randy. Now do us both a favor. Put your macho back in your shoulder bag and go tell Rosemary I’d like to talk to her for a minute.”
He’d been about to test someone’s manhood, his or mine, but my request brought him up short. “Rosemary? Why her?”
“I’ll tell that to her. If she decides she wants to tell you, then we’ll all know. Maybe we can start a club.”
“Get fucked,” Randy said darkly. For some reason he was suddenly relaxed. “Rosemary’s not here. So get out of here and take your corduroys with you. Jesus. Nobody wears corduroy.”
I let Randy enjoy his insult for about four seconds, then shouldered my way past him and went on inside the house. Randy muttered something and came after me, but by the time he put his paw on my shoulder we were in the living room and Shelley Withers had an amused eye on both of us.
I had to hand it to her. Despite her age, despite her ridiculous surroundings, despite her Day-Glo lips and her Blush-On cheeks and her Forever Blond hair, she took the fight out of both of us with a single glance, turning us into a pair of footmen awaiting our instructions for the day.
Randy’s hand slipped off my shoulder. “He didn’t call, Shelley,” he pleaded. “He says he wants to see Rosemary. I told him to leave, but he didn’t. You want me to throw him out?”
The question was as real as a billboard. Shelley Withers looked at me while she spoke to Randy. “Let’s not embarrass Mr. Tanner today, Randy,” she said, her eyes twinkling like the top of a sugar cookie. “I’ll talk with him briefly, then I’m sure he’ll leave peaceably. In the meantime, why don’t you finish packing my things?”
“I better stay,” Randy groused. “This guy thinks he’s tough.”
“We both know better, don’t we?” she crooned. “Now go on. I’ll ring if I need you. My bell’s right here.”
Sure enough, a little ceramic bell rested merrily on the coffee table, gaily decorated with little blue milkmaids holding even littler yellow milk pails. Somehow I kept from laughing.
Randy started up the steps, then detoured toward the fireplace. There was a blue Wedgwood bowl on top of the mantelpiece. Randy took off its top and reached inside with his thumb and forefinger.
“No.” The word was as hard as the eyes of the woman who spoke it.
“Just one line? Please, Shelley?”
“No. Finish your business. Maybe then.”
“A snort. A few grains?”
“Leave it. I mean it, Randy.”
The little blue bowl and the cocaine inside it went back to the mantelpiece and Randy went out of the room in defeat. At some basic level I felt sorry for him, the way I’d feel sorry for a starving weasel.
I took the two steps down into the conversation pit and joined Shelley Withers on the couch. “Going someplace?” I asked her.
“Barbados,” she answered cheerfully. “I haven’t been warm for months.” She paused, then turned to face me. Her dressing gown slipped over the satin couch like a canoe over a mountain lake. “Would you like to go along, Mr. Tanner?”
I just smiled.
“My treat, of course,” she added.
“What about Randy?”
“I don’t believe Randy’s going with me this time. He’ll be crushed, naturally, but after all, he could hardly expect me to support him forever, could he?”
“Hardly.”
“Are you certain you won’t join me?”
“Maybe next season.”
She lowered her eyes. “Pity,” she said. “You have such interesting calves. So large.”
I had nothing to say to that so I asked her if Rosemary was home.
Her nose wrinkled, reminding me of cauliflower. I hate cauliflower.
“Rosemary, Mr. Tanner? Somehow I would have doubted you were the type to lust after the young ones. You must be more boring than you look. I withdraw my invitation.”
I shook my head. “My interest in your daughter is strictly business, Miss Withers. She knows some things I’d like to know, too. If she cooperates I’ll be out of here in five minutes.”
She laughed dryly. “If Rosemary’s involved, your business is undoubtedly immoral and quite possibly illegal as well. The best day of my life was not the day I married Max, or the day my first novel came out, it was the day Rosemary turned twenty-one and I no longer had any responsibility for her actions.”
“The limitation is legal, not biological, Mrs. Withers.”
She ignored my comment and stood up and crossed the room and stared into the glass case that contained all of her books. The body beneath her gown had been carefully preserved and carefully camouflaged, but here and there the effort failed to meet the challenge. Through a slit in the side of her gown I could see a crosshatch of blue veins lurking behind her knee, and around it an expanse of flesh the texture of dried beef.
She turned back toward me and I raised my eyes to hers. “You’re a man of the world, Mr. Tanner,” she said softly, “or at least a man of California. Are all children an albatross around their parents’ necks, or only my own?”
“I couldn’t say,” I said. “I know most kids think it’s the other way around.”
“I suppose,” she said absently. “Well, I haven’t the faintest idea where Rosemary is. She came in early last evening and went out again and I haven’t seen her since. I’m sure when you do find her she will be very cooperative, as long as you treat her like a cross between Emma Goldman and Linda Ronstadt.”
I laughed and she came back and sat down beside me. “I’ll be away for two months,” she said. “Randy may or may not be here. Shall I leave a note for Rosemary?”
I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ll find her one way or another.”
“Would you like a key to the house? So you can wait for her?” It was an offer that needed consideration to be binding. I was the consideration.
I looked around. “Nope,” I said. “I try to avoid situations which might get me accustomed to luxury. Generally it’s the easiest thing I do. I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Suit yourself.” Shelley Withers was dismissing me.
I stood up. “Have a nice trip.”
“It would be even nicer with some company,” she purred.
“I’m sure you’ll dig up a beach boy or three,” I told her. “They’ll take care of you a lot better than I could.”
She shook her head. “I know all about beach boys, Mr. Tanner. At my age you become concerned with quality, not quantity. Ah, well. Something will turn up. It always does, generally about the time I wear my diamonds to dinner.” She raised her hand to me and I took it. “I’ll be home in March. Come se
e me.”
I squeezed her fingers and let them drop, then climbed the two stairs and walked down the hall toward the door. I was just about to open it when Randy appeared from somewhere behind me.
I stiffened and turned to face him, my eye on the soft bulge beneath his sternum, but his hands stayed at his sides. “Hey,” he began, “is Rosie in some kind of trouble?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know,” I said truthfully. “It’s possible.”
“With the law?”
“Maybe.”
“If I was sure it would get her into trouble, and I mean big trouble, I’d tell you where you can find her.”
I thought it over. Time was short. Leads were few. “If she’s in trouble at all,” I said, “it’s the biggest kind there is. But I won’t know until I find her. Where is she?”
Randy eyed me closely. “What the hell are you, anyway? A cop?”
“Nope.”
“What?”
“A leech. A parasite. I live off other people’s problems. People want something and I try to give it to them. I charge a fee for the effort. After I finish leeching off one person I start leeching off another as fast as I can. Sound familiar, Randy?”
“Hell no.” He didn’t want to think about it. “You know Potrero Hill?”
“Sure.”
“Well, you drive up there, see, and right at the top, the north side, there’s a little bookstore. Carolina Street and Twenty-second, I think. And down a bit from the bookstore, across the street, there’s a burned-out house. Tile roof. Spanish, you know? Right on the edge of the hill. Well, Rosie’s been messing around with some guy on the QT, you know, and she wouldn’t tell me about it, so one night I followed her and that’s where she went. Spent the whole night in that dump, don’t ask me why. When I asked her about it she clammed up. But I bet that’s where she is now. She was out all last night, I know that.”
Death Bed Page 21