Receptor

by Alan Glynn

  The place is called the Lemon Club and its main attraction is a drag act featuring a chorus of what Kline calls “all-singing, all-dancing pansies.” The interior is dark but richly decorated in red and purple brocade, with a central bar, tables and booths, and an array of fake palm trees. In the twenty minutes or so that Sweeney is there, sitting at one of the tables with Kline, he glimpses a couple of the “exotic” performers, moving back and forth in a room to the side. They’re in various states of undress. Kline is efficient and business-like, but he seems reluctant to break eye contact with Sweeney, and three times during the conversation he says, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.” What he does tell Sweeney—against his better judgment, because apparently he somehow managed not to tell any of it to the cops when they came calling—is that yes, Matt Drake was up here that night, that he came with another guy, they were pretty hammered, Drake particularly, and things got out of hand.

  “Was he a regular?”

  “No, he’d never been here before.”

  “What about the guy he came with?”

  Kline puts a hand on the table and drums his fingers. Then he looks to his left and shouts, “Lulu?”

  After a moment, a tall, elegant drag queen appears from the room at the side. He’s got dazzling eyes, full, pouty lips, and flaming red hair. He needs a shave.

  “Mr. Sweeney,” Kline says with a weary flourish, “Lulu.”

  “Hey there, Mr. Sweeney.”

  “Hello, Lulu.”

  Kline asks him to sit down and tell Sweeney about the guy who brought Matt Drake to the Lemon Club that night. Lulu is hesitant at first, continually glancing at Kline to check that what he’s saying is okay, but pretty soon that thing kicks in again and Lulu requires no further prodding. What he reveals is that the guy, whose name is Mike Sutton, regularly shows up at the Lemon Club and hangs out backstage whenever he does, causing nothing but trouble. The reason they can’t just kick him out is that he’s a federal narcotics agent and corrupt as fuck, excuse the French. He deals drugs and he blackmails anyone in the chorus whom he finds out is a married guy with kids—which is a good number of them. “So this poor guy he dragged along that night,” Lulu says, “was high as a kite on something. He didn’t know where he was, and when Mike forced him to play dress-up, the guy went along with it, or didn’t object, not at first anyway. Then it got crazy back there, really messy—and meanwhile we’re trying to put on a show. But in the end the guy just couldn’t take it anymore and he literally ran screaming out into the street.” Lulu throws his hands up. “And the rest, as they say…”

  Sweeney nods along. Poor Matt Drake, he thinks, what a way to go, effectively the victim of a sadistic bully. But wasn’t he also, like Sweeney himself, the unwitting test subject of a drug experiment? That’s the part Sweeney is now more curious about, the nature of the experiment, and the nature of the different drugs involved—what they’re for, who manufactures them, who controls them, who has them. “So, this Mike Sutton,” he says, “you haven’t seen him back here since?”

  Kline and Lulu shoot each other a look.

  “No, we haven’t,” Kline says. “And maybe that’s not such a surprise. But I wouldn’t go looking for him either, Mr. Sweeney. He’s a very dangerous man.”

  “I think I got that impression, all right,” Sweeney says. Then he decides it’s time to leave. But when he goes to stand up from the table, that woozy feeling returns. It hits him hard, like a rush of blood to the head, and as he’s falling backward, without ever seeming to land, the richly patterned walls of the glamorous Lemon Club start dissolving all around him, Kline and Lulu receding to a blur …

  Then he’s back out on Forty-Eighth Street.

  Or—

  Is it Fifty-Second?

  He’s walking but needs to slow down, needs to catch his breath. He stops at a fire hydrant.

  “You okay, mister?”

  He tries to steady himself, then turns slightly. A young guy is standing there, thin, sallow-skinned, dark-eyed.

  “Yeah, thanks,” Sweeney says. “I’m fine.”

  “Looked like you were having a seizure, man.”

  “No, really, I’m … I’m fine.”

  “Solid. Because this really isn’t the best part of town to be having a seizure.”

  “No.”

  Sweeney looks around. They’re outside Hanson’s Drugstore. He remembers reading about this place somewhere. It’s a second-tier hangout joint for comics and actors and showbiz types.

  “Stay cool,” the guy says, and heads inside.

  Sweeney follows him, and before he knows it he’s at the counter, spritzing with the late-afternoon crowd, absorbing the jokes and impressions, the voices, the lingo, and transmuting it all as rapidly as he can into a routine, a shtick of his own—a competitive streak he didn’t know he had driving him to push the envelope, to get more laughs than Joe Ancis here, or this Lenny, or Don, or whoever. Maybe that really was a seizure he had out there on the street, or a coronary, or a stroke, who knows, but Sweeney doesn’t care, because this new thing he has, this ability to draw people in and gain their confidence, to make them want to engage with him, is causing both his heart and his brain to pulsate. But fuse that with his ability to process huge amounts of information and all of a sudden a place like Hanson’s Drugstore, with its schleppers and dopers, its agents and pimps, is just no longer stimulating enough. He needs to keep moving, and he does—somehow ending up hours later in the lounge of the Copacabana nightclub on Fifty-Ninth Street chatting loudly with Dorothy Kilgallen and Porfirio Rubirosa about the recent coronation of the young Queen Elizabeth II of England. Sweeney’s own view that the very notion of royalty at this midpoint of the twentieth century is absurd not only meets with considerable resistance, but also provokes a degree of irritation in a gentleman sitting at a nearby table.

  “Hey you, knock that shit off, you hear?”

  Sweeney turns. “Excuse me?”

  The gentleman shakes his head. “What are you, some kind of Communist?” He’s at a table with three other men, all burly, all in silk suits.

  Sweeney does a double take. “Am I a what?”

  Rubirosa nudges him with his elbow, and whispers, “You don’t recognize—”

  “Sure I do, Rubi,” Sweeney whispers back, but it’s loud, a cartoon whisper. “I certainly recognize his hands. I saw them on TV last year.”

  “What was that, you little punk?”

  Frank Costello doesn’t get out of his chair, but he motions to one of his associates, who leaps up and lunges toward Sweeney.

  “What did you say again?”

  “I refuse to answer,” Sweeney shouts, backing away, “on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.”

  At this point, the other two guys at Costello’s table get up and move forward. Rubirosa slips behind Dorothy Kilgallen, pushing her and another young woman directly into the path of the oncoming heavies. Panic erupts and in the ensuing confusion Sweeney turns and retreats.

  Outside, there’s a line of waiting taxis. He jumps into one of them and tells the driver Penn Station and to make it quick.

  * * *

  It’s after midnight as he approaches the house on Greenlake Avenue. Physically, he’s a little tired, the edge on this thing somewhat blunted now, but his mind is still racing. He shouldn’t be apprehensive about seeing Laura—especially not after the day he’s had, but he can’t help it, and when he opens the door he feels the tension immediately, feels it rushing toward him like backdraft from a raging fire.

  “Ned, oh my God, where were you, I’ve been worried sick all day, the office called this morning, three times, and again this afternoon … I’ve been going out of my mind…”

  He should have called, that’s pretty obvious. But what would he have said? What’s he going to say now? Laura, don’t you see that all of these social conventions we live by are mere illusions? That ideas like authority and fame are nothing more than mental constructs? That our—It takes S
weeney a moment to realize that he actually is saying these things, and that Laura is staring at him as if he’s unhinged. Then it strikes him that Laura looks awful—she’s got bags under her eyes and she reeks of cigarette smoke, the residue of which surrounds her like a miasma of cold despair. He knows she’s been distraught all day, and that it’s entirely his fault … but still, there’s a barrier of some kind between them now, and it’s not an illusion. He also remembers that he hasn’t eaten since yesterday and that maybe that explains why he’s feeling light-headed again.

  “Ned!”

  He reaches out for the bottom of the banister to steady himself. “I’m fine.”

  “You’re drunk, or … or something.”

  “No, Laura, I’ve never been more sober in my life.” He looks at her. “And in fact I’ve only just … I’ve…” But there doesn’t seem to be much point in continuing. Whatever magic he was able to work earlier in the day has deserted him. Or perhaps it’s that Laura is immune to it. He doesn’t know. Either way, he turns his gaze upward, tracing the line of the banister to the floor above. “You know what, Laura?” he says. “I’m tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?”

  * * *

  When he opens his eyes the next morning, after a swampful of dreams, Sweeney feels terrible—nauseous, and racked with guilt. It takes him a few moments to register where he is—that he’s on the bed, not in it, and also that he’s stretched out across it.

  And that he’s fully clothed.

  He sits up, turns around, surveys the room. Where did Laura sleep? And what time is it? He looks at the clock on the nightstand. Just after ten?

  “Laura!”

  He gets off the bed. He goes out into the hallway and then downstairs.

  “Laura?”

  He heads straight for the kitchen. There’s a piece of paper on the table—nothing else, no cups or dishes or cutlery. He picks it up. It’s a handwritten note. The message is clear and concise. Laura has gone to stay with her sister in Philadelphia for a few days and has taken Tommy with her. Ned’s behavior has been so strange and unpredictable of late that she was actually afraid for her and Tommy’s safety, and yesterday proved to be too much. She’s sorry. But he knows where to reach her.

  Sweeney places the note back on the table and stares into space for a while. On reflection, she did the right thing, given the circumstances. What else was she going to do?

  And what’s he going to do?

  Have some breakfast, maybe. Orange juice, two eggs, toast. A pot of coffee. Then he takes a shower and shaves. As he’s getting dressed, the telephone rings, but he ignores it. Who would it be anyway? Probably someone from the office again—his secretary, or Dick Blanford, or Jack Rogan.

  The idea of having to talk to either of those guys hits Sweeney right in the solar plexus. It also serves as a reminder of just where that supreme confidence he enjoyed yesterday came from.

  And with that, he sees his future laid out in front of him. He’s had a taste of what MDT-48 can do, and it’s been amazing, but he also knows it’s been a bit random, a bit chaotic, and he blames himself for that. Next time he resolves to be more focused, more purposeful. He gets the shoe box down from the top of the wardrobe and prepares a dose, making it as small as he possibly can. He mixes it up and knocks the whole thing back in one go.

  Then he pulls a travel bag out from under the bed and packs it with a change of clothes, some toiletries, his shaving kit, and the vial of MDT. Ready to leave, he goes downstairs, but lingers for a while at the door. As the effects of the drug start to creep up on him, he glances around. There’s Tommy’s train set on the floor of the living room, and Laura’s camel-hair coat on the stand by the door … objects he suddenly perceives to be alive.

  They’re probably at Penn Station by now, or already on their way to Philadelphia, depending on what time they left this morning. Sweeney hates the thought of Laura’s hurried, anxious departure, of how she must have bundled Tommy out of bed, getting him dressed and shushing him. Daddy’s asleep, we don’t want to make any noise. Sweeney loves them both, but he doesn’t know how to be with them, not in his current state, at least not yet—though standing alone now in this empty house, MDT coursing through his system, he doesn’t know if he ever will.

  He steps outside and shuts the door behind him. It’s a bright day, sunny and fresh. The train station is a ten-minute walk from the house, but Sweeney isn’t taking the train today. He’s decided he’s going to drive instead. There’s just one problem with this.

  He doesn’t have a car.

  Only a few remain in the vicinity after the morning’s exodus of commuters. Most of them are sitting in carports, and as Sweeney walks along Greenlake Avenue, he sizes these up. At the same time, he reviews in his head a conversation he once overheard in a bar about how to hot-wire an automobile. As it turns out, he doesn’t need to do this, because the candidate he chooses—a Corsair Deluxe sedan—still has its key in the ignition. He can see it through the window on the driver’s side. Before he opens the door, he surveys the area, but there’s no one to be seen, there’s no movement and no sound, save for occasional birdsong and the faint, lonesome hum of a vacuum cleaner.

  Sweeney slides into the driver’s seat. He turns the key and gently pulls out of the carport.

  14

  An hour later Molly and I are sitting in a coffee shop on West Thirty-Ninth Street across from the Hudson Baths. I’ve never heard of this place, but apparently it’s been here for over fifty years. I know about the baths in the East Village, and about some of the fancier spots you see ads for in glossy magazines, with their jade soaking ponds and black-mud healing treatments, but this joint never made it onto my radar. And that’s what it looks like, a low-rent joint—because from the entrance and the signage I can’t imagine it being anything other than cheap and fairly sleazy inside.

  As I keep an eye on anyone entering or leaving the place, Molly deals with some of the countless texts and emails she’s received this morning. Apparently, suspicions are mounting around the congresswoman. Is she sick? Is there something going on? Where is she? For her part, Molly is happy to steer clear of the office, at least for the moment. They are working on an official statement, but—

  I look at her. “What?”

  “Over there.” Molly is pointing across the street. “That car pulling up? I think it’s Proctor’s.”

  It’s a black Lincoln MKS.

  “What do you want to do?” she says.

  There’s no real plan here.

  “I don’t know. Try and see him before he goes in, I guess.”

  I pay and we head outside. We cross the street, weaving through traffic, and position ourselves a couple of doors up from the Hudson. The driver of the car gets out and comes around to open the rear door. Proctor emerges, wearing old-man sweats and a hoodie. He’s carrying a small gym bag.

  Sensing hesitation on my part, Molly steps forward. “Mr. Proctor?”

  The driver—who could easily be Dean’s kid brother—spins around. He’s ready to raise an arm to block Molly’s approach.

  “Hello,” Proctor says. “Molly, isn’t it?”

  Dean’s kid brother stands down.

  “Yes, Mr. Proctor, it is. Can I speak to you for a second?”

  “Certainly,” he says.

  Then he sees me.

  I come level with Molly and stand next to her.

  “Ray, what a surprise.”

  “Is it?” I say. “I’ve tried to contact you several times.”

  “Really? I thought you might.” He looks at Molly, then back at me. “This is interesting.”

  Molly exhales. “Listen, whatever Ray wants to talk to you about is none of my business, but I just thought you should know something.”

  “Oh, and you both just happened to arrive here at the same time, is that it?”

  “No, but—”

  “Don’t worry. I think it’s cute.”

  “I’m not worried,” she says. “About that. I am
worried about Stephanie, Mr. Proctor. She’s in a bad way at the moment. The situation is … getting critical.”

  “Yes, I heard. She’ll be all right.”

  “I don’t think she—”

  “She will, believe me.” He turns to his driver. “It’s okay, Karl.” Then back at us. “So, are you coming in?”

  “Excuse me?” I say.

  “Come on. Have a shvitz. We’ll talk. You’ll feel better. Both of you.”

  He turns toward the entrance.

  Molly and I exchange looks, then follow him inside.

  The lobby area is small, but clean. There’s a reception desk, a wall with noticeboards, and a window with blinds that looks out onto the street. A young woman at the desk greets Proctor warmly. As she turns her attention to us, he says, “These are my guests, Anna. Make sure they’re looked after.”

  Anna smiles and beckons us over.

  She gives us each a pair of rubber clogs and a locker combination. We follow Proctor down a set of stairs where a tall guy named Janek hands out terry-cloth robes and towels and directs us to the changing rooms. Proctor wanders off to what I assume is a private members area. As I change, and stash my clothes, phone, and wallet in the locker, I find it hard to believe that this is really happening. The bath area features a couple of steam rooms, a sauna, and a cold-water plunge pool, as well as a row of showers and massage booths. A few people are moving around, but there’s a quiet, sleepy air to the place. Molly appears from the women’s side. She’s wearing a towel, expertly wrapped. Her hair is tied back and she doesn’t have her glasses on. She seems perfectly comfortable. I’m just in boxers and feel like I’m starring in a big-budget anxiety dream. After a moment, Proctor himself shows up, small and wizened, a towel around his waist. He’s still wearing that thick black band on his wrist. He stops and has a word with Janek.

  Molly catches my eye, and whispers, “This is pretty wild for an after-work drink.”

  Proctor then comes over and leads us into one of the steam rooms. It’s tiled in blue and aquamarine mosaics. It has two levels of seating but is quite small. It’s also empty.