by Gene Wolfe
The witch said, “I have listened to enough of this trifling. Captain, I advise you to arrest this foolish woman—it will make you both very happy. Mr. Stubb, if you still consider yourself in my employ, come inside with me and help me if you can.”
She went up the icy stone steps without waiting to see whether Stubb or anyone else would follow her. All of them did, Sandy hurrying after the detective, and Davidson bringing up the rear.
Inside, the captain showed his badge to the nurse with the disordered hair.
“Oh, we’re so glad you’ve come, officer. It’s been such a long time. They’re upstairs in two seventeen.”
“You called the police?”
“These horrible people broke in here—three of them, officer, a woman and two men. They asked for someone, and when I told them he wasn’t here, they demanded to search the whole hospital. I tried to stop them, but they ran upstairs and started a riot.”
“I see,” Davidson said. “What do they look like?”
“Why, you can go upstairs and see for yourself, officer.”
“Right now, I’d like to have you tell me.”
The nurse considered. “They’re foreigners of some kind, I’m sure. One of the men has a big mustache—of course some American men used to have them too—and rings in his ears. Latent masochism, or maybe overt. The woman has a long skirt, and her hair’s tied up in a red scarf. They’re very dark. Do you think they could be from India?”
Davidson nodded. “About five hundred years ago. And you’re holding them until the precinct sends somebody over. Around what time did you call?”
“Goodness, it seems so long—so much has happened.” The nurse looked from Davidson to Sandy and Stubb, then back again. “Actually, it’s been less than an hour, I suppose.”
“You called Precinct?”
“I don’t know what that means. Dr. Roberts told me to call the police, and I did.”
“What was the number?”
“The telephone number? I don’t remember. The one in the front of the directory.”
“That’s headquarters, downtown. The wagon’s not here yet, but the Gypsies know some of their people are in trouble. They’ve even had time to send somebody. You ought to be hearing from their lawyer soon—they’ll sue.” Davidson glanced at Stubb, then looked around for the witch. “Where’d she go?”
Stubb grinned. “I’ll be damned if I know. One minute she’s here and the next she isn’t. Probably up to two seventeen. Isn’t that where the lady said they were?”
The nurse banged a glass paperweight on her desk. “You mean she’s gone up without permission? We can’t have this!” She snatched up a telephone fitted with a voice suppressor.
“You going up to see them too?” Stubb asked Davidson. “I’m here to see about my sergeant,” Davidson said. “Unless they’re guilty of something—which you can bet your ass they are—and unless we can prove it—which you can bet your ass we can’t—I don’t give a damn about them.”
The nurse slammed the telephone back into its cradle. “We’ll get her. I’ve warned Marcia, up on the second floor.”
Davidson said, “Good. Now I’d like to ask about Sergeant Charles Proudy. The way I heard it, you picked him up at the Consort this morning.”
“You wish to visit him?”
“No, I’m here to talk to his doctor. Who is it?”
The nurse swiveled to a terminal, pushing buttons as if to blow up a continent. “Here he is. Delusions of grandeur and persecution. Violent. Dr. Roberts.”
“Is Roberts here now?”
She nodded. “I’ll find out if he’ll see you.”
“I’m going up to see him. And don’t tell me you’ll sic your goons on me—that will be interference with an officer in the performance of his duty, and they’ll be in the slammer before you can say white coat. Also I’ll knock their God-damned teeth out.”
“I’m sure Dr. Roberts will see you, officer. Just let me phone—”
Stubb took Sandy’s elbow. “Come on!”
“What is it? Why are we whispering?”
In an alcove behind them, an elevator waited with open doors. Stubb pushed Sandy into it as the glass paperweight struck the wall. “Wonder how many chips she’s got in that thing.” The doors jolted shut.
“Where are we going?”
“I told you—to talk to Proudy. What do you think the chances were of us getting in to see him with that cop around?”
“You don’t even know where he is!”
“Sure I do—seven seventeen. It ought to make him feel right at home, because he was in seven seventy-one at the Consort. When that crazy broad at the desk got his record, I read the number. It’s no trick to read a three-digit number upside down. Speaking of tricks, though, did you see where Madame S. went when she left?”
As the elevator bumped to a stop, Sandy shook her head.
“Me neither. And she didn’t take this elevator, because it was there after she was gone, and nobody brought it back down. Hell, we’ll probably never know. Come on.”
They stepped into a wide hallway, sunny at the far end where a window faced the west, with a plaster ceiling and plaster wall painted yellow from four feet above the floor; in spots the dark linoleum had worn through to the boards. There were benches along the walls, and on them sat men in unstarched gray-white cotton pajamas and slippers. A few looked up, but it was without interest or intelligence.
“You think this Sergeant Proudy will be here?”
“Not out in the hall,” Stubb said. “From what I heard downstairs, he’s been cutting up too rough.” One of the silent men stood, pulled down the trousers of his pajamas, and began to masturbate.
“Jim, I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. It’s been a hell of a time since that poor guy’s seen a woman who didn’t look like the boss. Now he wants one last little hunk of fun out of life, and he’s so doped he won’t remember you five minutes after you’re gone.”
“Suppose they gang up on us?”
“Suppose they don’t?”
The door to one of the rooms along the hall opened, and a husky young man in starched white stepped out. “I’m sorry, folks,” he said. “But this floor’s off limits to visitors.”
Stubb flashed his badge. “I’m here to see Sergeant Proudy—Thirteenth Precinct.”
The young man hesitated. “He really is a policeman, then?”
“Sure, he’s a cop. Before he got sick like this, a pretty good cop. Where is he?”
The young man looked at Sandy. “Are you from the police too?”
Stubb said, “No, she’s his sister-in-law. The girl down at the desk said since I was going to see him, she could come up with me.”
“We’ve had a lot of trouble here today … . You are a policeman?”
“The hell with this,” Stubb said. “Get out of my way.”
From behind him, Davidson called, “Don’t do it, son. Make him show you the buzzer.”
Sandy whirled, and Stubb turned wearily to look at him.
“Hello, Stubb. Hello, Miss Duck. Can I ask just what you’re doing here?”
The attendant said, “They came up to see the policeman in seven one seven.”
“Do tell. So did I. Actually,” Davidson smiled at them, only a trifle grimly, “I wanted to see his doctor first. But when they phoned his office, he wasn’t there, so I figured I’d come up and see Chick. Did you say this guy told you he was a police officer, son?”
“I didn’t,” Stubb declared. “I just showed him a badge. This girl’s my witness.”
The attendant said, “He said he was from the Thirteenth Precinct. Are you a real cop?”
Stubb chuckled. “Show him your buzzer, Captain.”
“I will,” Davidson said. He took a badge case from the pocket of his coat and held it out. “Take a good look this time, son.”
“And I didn’t say I was Thirteenth Precinct, I said Proudy was. I said, ‘I’m here to see about Sergeant Proudy, Thirteenth
Precinct.’”
Sandy interjected, “That’s the truth, Captain.”
“What does the badge say—Junior G-Man?”
“Actually, it’s ‘International Private Investigator,’” Stubb told him. “Want to see it?”
“I’ll wait. In fact, I won’t have to see it at all, if you’ll tell me what the Gypsy girl’s interest in Proudy is.”
Stubb shrugged. “As far as I know, she hasn’t any.”
Sandy pulled at his sleeve. “You mean Madame Serpentina’s a real Gypsy?”
“That’s right, lady,” Davidson said. “And out on the street, this guy said he was working for her, and she confirmed it when she told him to come in and help her. Now I find him up here asking about Chick.” He glanced at the attendant. “Right, son?”
The attendant nodded.
With a squeeze of Stubb’s arm that said please don’t tell, Sandy lifted herself on her toes and raised her voice to match. “Captain, I’m sure Mr. Stubb meant no harm at all! Why Mr. Stubb is one of the nicest, finest—”
Through the closed door of a room nearby, a voice called, “Mr. Stubb, is that you? Please, please help! It’s Nimo!”
Initial Interview
Dr. Bob pushed open the door of Candy’s room, glanced at her, then looked up and down the hall before stepping in and closing the door.
“How are we today?”
“Strung out. What was that they shot me up on? It felt like I was packed in cottonwool, and now the cottonwool’s going away.”
“Would you like a drink of water?”
“Hell, yes. I’d like a drink of anything.”
He took the cap from a white plastic container, ran in water from the little bowl in the corner, and closed the container with a top from which a flexible plastic tube protruded.
“You’ll have to get used to drinking lying down. It isn’t easy at first. If you’ll turn your head to the side, you’ll find that helps.”
Candy put the tube in her mouth and sucked water until the container made a noise like an empty soda glass.
“Good. I hope you feel better now.”
“My head hurts. What are you writing things down for?”
“My report. I have to put down what you say, especially how you feel. This is your initial interview.”
“My head hurts because of that dope you shot in me. It didn’t hurt when I came in here.”
Dr. Bob nodded. “Have you ever used narcotics?”
“Sure.”
He glanced up. “Did you use them today—the day you came here?”
“Huh uh.”
“Yesterday?”
“No. It’s been a while. I don’t think I’ve even had a toke in a couple weeks.”
“Marijuana. What else?”
“Oh, you know. Uppers to try to get skinny. Smack a few times. Coke.”
“You used heroin?”
“Yeah, I had this friend that used to give me some. I just snorted it. I figured I’d let myself get a little habit and drop some weight, then I’d go to a clinic and kick it. Only I never really got to like it that much. A doc I knew told me I lacked the addictive personality. What I want to know is if I do, how come I eat so much and get crocked every time somebody opens a bottle? Is that different?”
“Usually. What’s the name of your doctor?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Candy sounded offended. “You know, professional ethics.”
“I don’t think you understand. When you see your physician, professional ethics prevent him from revealing what passed between you. You, on the other hand, are completely free to tell a third party—certainly another physician—whatever you like.”
“I don’t think you understand. He saw me.”
“You’re a therapist?”
“Uh huh. A sexual therapist. I mean, usually I call myself a hooker, because it saves the argument. But what I am really is a sexual therapist.”
“You’re saying you’re a prostitute.”
“Huh uh, a sexual therapist. You’re a doctor, right? So guess my weight. If you want, you can even feel me up, like they do at the carnivals.”
Dr. Bob stared at her, rubbing his chin, then made a note on his pad.
“I’ll give you a clue. I’m five eight, no shoes.”
“Two hundred pounds, I suppose.”
“Two forty. Now you’re a really nice looking young guy, even if you are a little wide around the hips. Suppose I came up to you on the street. It’s pretty close to midnight, and we’ve both had a few, maybe. I say, ‘Listen, I’m in a hell of a bind. Take me to your place, and I’ll show you a wonderful time. Anything you want. I gotta have fifty bucks.’ Would you take me?”
“I suppose so.”
“Doc, I suppose not. A guy like you can go into any singles bar in town and walk out an hour later with somebody half my weight that he won’t have to pay for. The ones that say yes …”
“Yes?”
“Well, they’ve got some kind of trouble. Sometimes, to tell the truth, their trouble is they just can’t say no to it. Sometimes they feel guilty—they’re cheating on their wives or girlfriends or even for Christ’s sake on their mothers. Then they don’t want a girl that looks nice. They want to be grossed out. I can spot them by the way they look at me when I undress. Hey, why am I telling you all this?”
“I suppose because I’m a doctor,” Dr. Bob said. “And somewhere inside you’re hoping I can help you.”
“I think it was the dope they gave me.”
“No.” He made another note on his pad.
“Get these straps off me, will you?”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. Violent patients must be restrained for the first twenty-four hours. It’s a hospital rule.”
“I’m not a patient.”
“You are.”
“Can you just do that? Take somebody and sock her away?”
“If you mean confine someone permanently, no. There has to be a sanity hearing, and this isn’t even a permanent facility; we don’t keep anyone, under any circumstances, for more than six weeks. But we can admit anyone whose behavior is dangerous to society or to himself, on a temporary basis.”
“That’s what you did with the cop, huh?”
“Cop?”
“Sergeant Proudy. He was in the Consort, and somebody—I forget now who it was—called about him. Jim, I guess.”
“You know him then. The policeman.”
“I didn’t really know him. I helped bandage him.”
“I saw the dressings. I gave him his entrance interview, just as I’m giving you yours. That was a very professional job.”
“Thanks.”
“You did it?”
“I did part of it, yeah. I helped.”
“I would have said the stitches in his scalp had been made by a surgeon.”
“You took the bandages off, huh? Yeah, a doctor sewed him up.”
“You were working for the doctor?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Are you a nurse?”
“No.”
“Not necessarily a registered nurse. A practical nurse, perhaps.”
Candy snorted with laughter. “An impractical nurse. That’s me.”
“I wonder if you could tell me who the doctor was. Possibly I know him.”
“I’ve forgotten his name. He told me—or somebody did—but I forget. That’s a problem I have, a real bad problem.”
“I see.”
“Another problem is remembering. You’d think the two of them would get together and cancel out, wouldn’t you? But they don’t. I’m always remembering things I want to forget—you know, like what happened last night—and forgetting stuff I need to remember, like somebody owes me twenty.”
“Perhaps we should begin at the beginning, then. I suppose that’s what we ought to have done all along. What is your name?”
“Candy Garth. Listen, I didn’t really do anything so bad, did I? Just shook that girl up a little. Wh
en are you going to take these straps off me and let me go?”
“Candy is your legal name?”
“Catherine. Catherine M. Garth, all right? The M is for Margaret.”
“Do you know what day of the week this is?”
“You mean like is it Monday or Tuesday? I guess not. Usually I keep track, but sometimes I forget. See, I don’t have a regular job, and I don’t go to church, so it’s all about the same to me. The stores are open all the time anyway, and so are the bars.”
“Guess, please.”
“You mean just take a stab at it?”
“That’s right.”
“Wednesday. How’s that?”
“And what is the day of the month, please?”
“Well, this is January. I had one hell of a hangover after New Year’s, but that was back a couple of weeks ago anyway. I’d say about the fifteenth.”
“This is Friday the twenty-first, Candy. Where do you live?”
“You mean right now?”
“Yes.”
“I just don’t have what you call a fixed address right now. I’ve been staying with friends.”
“I want to be quite open with you, Candy. When you were admitted here, we went through your purse. We weren’t snooping, we—”
“Oh, God! The kid!”
“Yes?”
“I had a kid with me, Little Ozzie. Is he okay? My God, I forgot all about him.” Candy tried to sit up, the straps indenting her soft flesh, her round face red with the strain.
“Don’t worry about the little fellow. I saw him myself a few minutes ago, and he was just fine.”
“You’ve got him in here?”
“We’re trying to locate his father.”
Candy mumbled something, and Dr. Bob leaned forward. “What did you say?”
“Shut up. I’ve gotta think. Jim sent him to see that doc, but I can’t remember his name.”
“I’m sure it will come to you as we talk.”
“I don’t know where Jim will be either. What’s the time?”
Dr. Bob glanced as his watch. “A quarter to three.”
“Will you still be here at six?”
“I can be, if there’s a reason for it.”
“At six, phone the Consort. Ask for Madame Serpentina’s room. Ozzie ought to be there then. We were going to meet there.”