Groaning, he does what he has to do: Strips, cleans, assembles, and reloads his S&W Magnum, and straps it to his shin. Pulls on gray wool socks from L. L. Bean, and his scuffed yellow work shoes. Dons his cruddy raincoat and a sailors’ knitted watch cap. Then, carrying the bagged parka, he sallies forth. Thank God the big freight elevator is working at that hour, and he doesn’t have to pound down six floors.
Less than an hour later he’s back in the loft with two twine-handled shopping bags. He’s got a bottle of Italian brandy, a liter of vodka, a carton of Camels, a can of human-type tuna for Cleo, and some packages of frozen food: short ribs, spaghetti and meatballs, beef stew, and lasagna.
He gets everything stowed away, gives Cleo half the tuna, and changes the litter in the cat’s pan. He starts to hunker down with a small vodka and resume reading one of his new books on artificial conception when there’s a knock on the loft door: Samantha’s signal—two short raps, pause, one more. Sighing, Cone goes to open up.
Sam starts to say, “Hello, asshole,” but only gets as far as opening her mouth when she sees Timothy’s face. “Oh, my God,” she says. “That’s what you call the flu?”
Inside, door locked, she examines him more closely. She reaches out to touch the bluish lump on his temple, but he winces away.
“Drunken brawl?” she asks.
He shrugs. “Just one of your ordinary, run-of-the-mill muggings. No big deal.”
“I thought you sounded chopped last night. Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I’d have come over. I don’t suppose you have any Band-Aids or any other first aid supplies in this swamp.”
“Will you stop trying to play Florence Nightingale?” he says crossly. “I’m okay. Just a little achy, that’s all.”
“Did you report it to the cops?”
“Of course not. You know what they’d say: ‘Tough shit.’”
She stares at him, frowning. “You’re not telling me the truth,” she says finally.
“Shut up,” he says roughly, “and have a vodka.”
“At this hour?”
“Why not? It’s noon somewhere in the world.”
They sit at his table-desk, sipping their vodkas and water from jelly glasses. She opens her suede trench coat. She’s wearing a black gabardine pants suit.
“You look okay,” he tells her.
She ignores that fulsome compliment and inspects him narrowly. “Where did they hurt you?” she asks. “Besides your empty head. Ribs?”
He nods.
“Not the cojones, I hope!”
“No,” he says, “the family jewels are safe and sound.”
“What did they get?”
He shrugs again. “A couple of bucks. Maybe twenty. It really wasn’t worth their time.”
“When did this happen?”
“Hey,” he says, “what’s this—the third degree? I got mugged, lost a few dollars, and that’s it. Just drop it—all right?”
“Christ, you’re a pain in the ass.”
“Did I ever deny it?”
They sit staring at each other with wary hostility.
“Thanks for coming to check up on me,” he says grudgingly.
“You want off the Nu-Hope case?” she asks him.
“No,” he says. “By tomorrow I’ll be up to speed. I’ll come into the office.”
She nods, finishes her vodka, rises, and belts her trench coat. She stoops to scratch Cleo, who’s been rubbing against her ankles. “You never let me do anything for you,” she says in a low voice.
“Well, I’m about to ask you something now. You know that dinky little pistol you own. The nickel-plated job.”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“Top drawer of my bedside table.”
“Loaded?”
“Of course.”
“Do me a favor, will you? Start carrying it in your pocket or handbag. Will you do that?”
“What for?”
“Just do it,” he shouts.
“I can take care of myself,” she says hotly. Then she softens. “Okay, if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll pack it.”
“Yeah,” he says, coming close to slide an arm across her shoulders, “it’ll make me feel better. Give us a kiss, will you? If you can find an undamaged patch.”
She kisses him softly on the cheek, then holds his arms.
“Take care. I’ll call you tonight to see how you’re doing.”
“If a woman answers,” he says, “hang up.”
“Up yours,” she says, grinning. And then she’s gone.
He goes back to his reading, and finally figures out what ectogenesis is. It makes sense to him. They already have incubators that can keep premature kids alive. It seems reasonable to believe that eventually a laboratory womb could be developed in which an embryo might live and flourish until it reaches birth weight.
He puts the book aside and goes to his kitchen wall phone.
“Mr. Ernest Pingle,” he says. “Timothy Cone of Haldering and Company calling.”
“Just a moment, please.”
The old man comes on almost immediately. “Hah!” he says. “And how is my favorite inwestigator?”
“Okay,” Cone says. “And how are you, sir?”
“I wasn’t listed on the obituary page this morning,” Pingle says, “so I got up. You have something to tell me?”
“Not exactly, Mr. Pingle. But I’ve got a couple of questions. Maybe the answers would help my investigation.”
“Of course. The questions?”
“Has your company ever done any business with Rauthaus Industries?”
Silence.
“Mr. Pingle? You’re there?”
“Where else would I be? Why do you ask about Rauthaus?”
“Their name came up in connection with the Nu-Hope Clinic.”
Pingle sighs. “Let me tell you, young man, those people at Rauthaus are nogoodniks. They are owned by International Gronier, who are double nogoodniks. And Mr. Leopold Dewers, who owns everything, is the biggest nogoodnik of them all. To answer your question, yes, we did business with Rauthaus Industries. Once. They are not nice people, Mr. Cone. We were lucky to get away with the fillings in our teeth. I am sorry to hear they are inwolved in the Nu-Hope deal.”
“I’m not sure they are, Mr. Pingle. It’s just one of several leads I’m working on. Their name came up.”
“If they are inwolved, then I know the Nu-Hope business is definitely not for us. Tell me this, Mr. Cone: Is my son Lester mixed up with Rauthaus?”
“I don’t know for sure.”
“I think maybe I better have a little talk with that meshuggener.”
“Please don’t do that,” Cone says hastily. “I have absolutely no hard evidence your son has contacts with Rauthaus. Give me a little more time before you do anything.”
Quiet for a moment. “I’m thinking,” Ernest Pingle says, “I’m thinking. All right, I’ll give you more time. I’ll say nothing to Lester. But if he is mixed up with those shtarkers, it would be with a man named Martin Gardow. You have that?”
“Martin Gardow? Yes, I’ll remember.”
“He is a nasty piece of goods. He does all the dirty work for Mr. D. That’s Leopold Dewers. Martin Gardow is presentable, well-dressed, soft-spoken, but the man is a bum. That is my personal opinion, but you can tell anyone you like that I said it.”
“I don’t intend to tell anyone,” Cone says, admiring the gaffer’s feistiness, “but I’ll keep the name in mind. Thank you for your help, Mr. Pingle.”
“Don’t be such a stranger. Maybe someday we’ll go to lunch together and tear a herring.”
“I’d like that,” Cone says.
He never did think J. Roger Gibby engineered last night’s assault. Nor does he believe Lester Pingle has the balls to order up a beating. But Martin Gardow has the resources and apparently the ruthlessness to apply a little physical persuasion to convince Cone to okay the Nu-Hope deal.
And that conclusion doesn
’t do a goddamn thing to help solve the big problem: What is going on at Nu-Hope to make the U.S. Government and International Gronier so frantic to pump money into a fertility clinic?
One of those wild, giddy November days in Manhattan … wind gusting, dying, gusting again … sun blaring, then swallowed by scummy clouds … spatters of rain … newspapers blown high … rumble of thunder from somewhere … and suddenly a blue sky … dust devils go bouncing … as men hang on to hats, women hang on to skirts, and all go bowling along, buffeted and spun.
Timothy Cone, leaning against the swirly day, fights his way down to John Street. He goes directly to the office of Sidney Apicella, who leaves off stroking his swollen nose to stare at Cone’s face.
“Holy Christ,” he says, “what happened to you?”
“Got caught in a revolving door. Listen, Sid, I know you’ve got a lot of contacts. Will you see if you can pick up any poop on a guy named Martin Gardow? He works for Rauthaus Industries.”
“Why should I do that?” Apicella asks.
“Because you gave an okay on the Nu-Hope Clinic deal, and if it turns sour, you’re going to look like an A-Number-One schlemiel.”
The CPA, who has anxiety attacks every hour on the hour says, “You think it’s going to turn sour?”
“I’m beginning to see the dark at the end of the tunnel. Check on Martin Gardow for me, Sid, and I’ll say in my report how cooperative you were.”
“That’s extortion,” Apicella cries desperately.
“Of course,” Cone says. “What else?”
He goes to his office. Maybe it’s because he still feels the dull throbs of the beating or maybe it’s the mixed-up day, but he’s in a cantankerous mood and knows it. He feels he’s being jerked around, doesn’t like it, and resolves to do some jerking of his own.
He calls Nu-Hope and asks to speak to Dr. January. The doctor is so full of charm that Cone can hardly stand it. He tells January he wants to come up for another meeting “to clear up a few points.”
“Come right ahead,” January says heartily. “We can always make time for you.”
Cone hangs up, wondering why he instinctively mistrusts cheerful people.
When he gets to East Seventy-first, he stands across the street a few minutes, just scoping the clinic. He’s convinced that the answers to all his questions lie behind the handsome façade of those two townhouses. But the polished windows return his stare blankly, and he’s left frustrated and growly.
Phoebe Trumball is in January’s office, and Cone once again thinks of how physically similar the two doctors are. He brushes aside their queries about his battered face and says, “I read about Jessie Scotto in the paper.”
Immediately their faces congeal into suitable expressions of sorrow.
“A tragedy,” January says. “What a city this is. A jungle.”
“Just dreadful,” Trumball says. “She was such a sweet girl. Quiet and shy.”
“Yeah,” Cone says. “Now two of your staff have died violently. I hope your other employees aren’t spooked.”
“Oh, no,” January says. “Everyone is depressed, naturally, but things like that do happen in the city.”
“Just coincidence,” Trumball says. “The two deaths.”
“Sure,” Cone says. “But that’s not what I came to talk about. I think I should visit your research labs. The ones behind the locked door. Just so I can complete my report.”
“As I explained to you,” Trumball says tartly, “it’s a sterile lab. You would be required to strip, shower, change into a special lab uniform. It’s a tedious process.”
“I don’t mind,” Cone says.
“And then,” Trumball goes on, “I’m afraid all you’d see is our research staff hunched over microscopes or taking blood samples from our experimental animals. Not very exciting.”
“That’s all right,” Timothy persists.
“There’s a legal problem involved too,” January adds, frowning. “There’s always a possibility of infection from our animals. We have liability insurance, of course, but it only covers our staff. I’m afraid it’s just too much of a risk, Mr. Cone. For you and for us.”
Cone understands that he’s not going to get into that lab. “Okay,” he says, “but why don’t you tell me what you’re working on in there?”
“Phoebe,” he says to the other doctor, “that’s your bailiwick. Can you give Mr. Cone a quick rundown?”
“Of course,” she says crisply. “Basically, we’re trying to refine optimum periods of ovulation. Especially as they relate to body temperature and hormone release. The goal is to maximize our pregnancy rate. It’s a very tricky business. In the field of in vitro fertilization, we’re trying to improve techniques using frozen sperm and eggs to bring the success percentage up to that of live.”
“When you fertilize in vitro,” Cone says, “you produce more than one embryo?”
“Frequently. Especially if fertility drugs have been used. Then we select the embryo we believe is the strongest, for implantation in the host mother.”
“And what happens to the other embryos? Down the sink?”
Dr. January stirs restlessly. “Not always,” he says. “Some may be frozen. I hope you’re not going to accuse us of abortion.”
“Abortion? I never thought of it that way—although I suppose some people might.”
“Yes,” January says darkly, “some people do.”
“What about ectogenesis?” Cone asks. “Doing any work on that? Or cloning?”
“Oh, my,” Dr. Trumball says, almost mockingly, “you have been doing your homework, haven’t you?”
“I’ve been reading some,” Cone admits.
“Well, to answer your question, no, we are doing no work on ectogenesis or cloning. Although other people are.”
“No money in it,” Dr. January says, turning on the charm. “Besides, it’s way in the future. All we’re concerned with is helping women have healthy babies.”
“So that’s the extent of your research in the locked lab? Ovulation timing and in vitro fertilization with frozen sperm and eggs?”
“That’s it,” Dr. Phoebe Trumball says.
Cone remembers the children’s rhyme: “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” But he doesn’t recite it.
He stands and thanks them for their time. Trumball conducts him down to the street. Then she returns to January’s office and slumps into one of his directors’ chairs.
“He suspects something,” she says somberly.
“You think so?” January says, nervously gnawing at a thumbnail. “I thought he was just fishing.”
“I don’t think so. He seems to know just enough to be dangerous. I think we better call Gibby. Maybe he can take care of Cone.”
“You really feel that’s necessary?”
“I do. And when you speak to him, tell him about Cone’s face. The man has been beaten up.”
“So? What has that got to do with us?”
“Just tell Gibby about it,” she says patiently. “It may mean something to him.”
“If you say so. You know where I’d like to be right now?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling. “We could take a long lunch hour, but call Professor Gibby first,” she insists. “There’s too much riding on this to let Cone upset things.”
“You’re right,” he says. “It’s my whole future.”
“Our future,” she says, looking at him queerly.
“Of course,” he says hastily. “Our future.”
Back in his office, Timothy puts his feet on his desk and tries to sort out his suspicions. Nearly an hour passes before he’s interrupted by the phone. When he picks it up and says, “Yeah?” all he gets is a lot of static. He holds it away from his ear and finally the line clears.
“Yeah?” he says again.
“This is J. Roger Gibby. I’m sorry we have a bad connection, but I’m calling from my car.”
“Your car?” Timothy says, amused. “Don’t you have an office?”
“I do,” Gibby says. “In Washington. I’d like to talk to you, Mr. Cone.”
“In your car? Where are you—on the Long Island Expressway?”
“As a matter of fact, I’m parked right outside your office. I was hoping I might prevail upon you to drop down and chat for a few minutes.”
“A lot simpler than your coming up here, huh? Okay.”
He takes his time pulling on his raincoat and knitted cap. He also checks his ankle holster. When he gets down to the street, the black Cadillac de Ville is not hard to spot. The young bodyguard is lounging against the front fender, examining his fingernails.
“Nice to see you again,” Cone says. “How’re the folks?”
The giant doesn’t respond, but politely opens the back door. The car is filled with the scent of cologne. The government man is as spiffily dressed as ever, wearing a fawn wideawake and a little sprig of greenery pinned to the lapel of his topcoat.
“Parsley?” Timothy asks.
“Pine,” Gibby says, smiling. “Thank you for joining me.” Then he examines Cone’s face. “They did a job on you, didn’t they?”
“They? Who’s they?”
The other man sighs. “Could we stop playing games for a moment? I just wanted to assure you that I had nothing to do with the attack.”
“Why should I believe that?”
“It’s simply not my style.”
“Is it your style to lean on my boss, Hiram Haldering, to get quick approval of the Nu-Hope Clinic deal?”
“Yes,” Gibby says calmly. “Haldering is an ex-FBI man with very strong patriotic convictions. I attempted to present his government’s position. But I did not have you assaulted.”
“Never thought you did,” Cone says. “You’re not going to tell me what this is all about, are you?”
“No. I can’t.”
“So why did you want to talk to me?”
Gibby gently strokes his chin, as if he had once had a Vandyke.
“Mr. Cone,” he says, “I think you’re a very perspicacious man.”
“Perspicacious? What does that mean?”
“Keen. Shrewd. I need your advice. You’ve met Doctor January and Doctor Trumball how many times—twice?”
“That’s right.”
Timothy Files Page 19