"How long had Bobby known Krowl before he came to you?"
"I don't know," Madeline said softly.
"Maybe Krowl was the 'secret enemy' you saw in Bobby's horoscope."
"Maybe," she said, staring at the ceiling and blinking back tears.
"What do you think?"
She rolled her eyes toward me without turning her head. "Why do you ask me that, Mongo?"
"Could Krowl be a member of Esobus' coven?"
"I'd have no way of knowing the answer to that question. If he were a member, he'd never even drop a hint to an outsider."
"What about Bobby? Could he have been a member?"
Mad shook her head. "That would be impossible. If there is such a supercoven, all of the members would be ceremonial magicians-like Esobus."
"So much for your Wizard of Oz theory, Mad. Esobus definitely exists."
"The Wizard of Oz is dead," she said in a dry, quaking voice.
There didn't seem any more to be gained by talking to Madeline. In fact, it appeared I'd accomplished nothing but managing to further upset a sick friend. "I'm sorry I bothered you, babe," I said, placing a yellow rose from the vase on the pillow next to her head.
"Please don't apologize, Mongo," she said, biting her lower lip, obviously fighting back tears. "I do understand. The child is here, isn't she?"
"Two floors above us."
"You'll … let me know what happens with her, won't you?"
"Yes, babe. I'll be in touch. Feel better." I kissed her and left the room.
As soon as I turned down the corridor, I knew I was in trouble. Searing pain swept around inside my stomach like sloshing waves of acid. My vision blurred, and a silent scream of terror wriggled free from a primitive part of my brain and filled my head with banshee wailing; Joshua had told me that that was how it would begin.
But another part of me kept functioning in the psychic din; at this point, another day probably wouldn't make much difference one way or another. If I'd gone over the edge and now had to die, I wanted to do it on my feet, at full gallop. I knew I was going to faint, and I didn't want to do it in the middle of the corridor. I'd end up with a team of doctors and nurses poking at me, and I couldn't afford the time.
I staggered blindly down the hall, running my hands against the wall until I felt a knob. By squinting, I could read Utility Room on a plate just above my head. I opened the door; in the light from the corridor I could just make out a pile of clean towels stacked up just inside the doorway. I closed the door, sprawled on the towels and promptly passed out.
Chapter 14
I woke up groggy and disoriented, and it took me almost a full minute to figure out I was in a hospital bed. The first thing I felt was an immense, warm surge of relief to find that I was seeing 20/20, and wasn't drooling or belting out the Top Ten to imaginary moons. I sat up with a start and looked at my watch. It was eleven o'clock; I'd been asleep for fifteen hours.
I got quickly out of bed. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I steadied myself by holding on to the metal headboard of the bed until it passed. I was in my shorts; my clothes were nowhere to be seen, and the wardrobe in the room was empty. I cursed softly, marched out of the room and down the corridor toward the nurses' station. A group of patients walking in the hallway stopped and stared at the angry dwarf in his Jockey shorts; they looked at one another, then broke into laughter. The reaction of the nurse on desk duty was quite different.
"Dr. Freder-"
"Kathy Marlowe," I said quickly, forcing the words out through lips that felt like stiff leather. "The girl in-"
"Kathy's still alive, sir," the nurse said, smiling.
I sighed, pressed my face into my hands. "Where are my clothes, nurse?"
"Dr. Greene left strict-"
"Nurse!" I shouted, taking my hands away from my face and slamming them against the desk. "I want my fucking clothes! Am I getting through?!"
The woman jerked her head back as though I'd hit her, sniffed through her thin, aquiline nose. "Dr. Greene has your clothes," she said archly. "He left specific instructions to be called as soon as you woke up."
"Well, it looks like I'm awake, so you call him wherever he is and tell him to get his ass over here. Got it? Otherwise, I'm going to run out in the street like this, and I'm going to sue! Sue!"
She sniffed again as she reached for the telephone in front of her. "I'm sure he'll be right with you, Dr. Frederickson. Perhaps you'd prefer to wait for him in your room." She surprised me by winking. "I wouldn't want you to catch cold."
I wheeled and marched back to my room, where I sat down on the edge of the bed and fumed. However, the news that Kathy was still alive made it difficult to stay angry. Relief and gratitude soon swept away my rage.
Greene arrived five minutes later. He was holding my folded clothes in one hand, a huge, familiar-looking hypodermic needle in the other. "Kathy's still alive," he said, tossing my clothes on the bed.
"I heard. How is she?"
"There's no improvement, but her condition has stabilized. Under the circumstances, I consider that a minor miracle." He motioned me backward on the bed. "Lie down, Mongo. The only reason I kept your clothes was to make sure you didn't run off without getting your injection. Remember: you need one of these every day. I want you back on the street, but I don't want you returning here through the Morgue entrance."
I lay back, closed my eyes and grimaced as Joshua slid the needle into my abdomen. "Don't you ever sleep?" I asked through the sick, yellow pain.
"I have a resident's room here." He injected the serum, then slowly withdrew the needle. I fought off the impulse to vomit. "Your brother was here asking about the girl," he continued. "I told him you were here. He didn't want to wake you up, but he wants you to call him." He smiled thinly. "I take it you didn't bother to tell him that you'd been bitten by a rabid bat."
"Garth tends to worry about me."
"I can see why." He cleared his throat. "Mrs. Marlowe's also very concerned. She'd like you to stop by her room before you leave."
I tapped my watch by way of an answer. "We're still on borrowed time, right?" I sat up on the edge of the bed and began dressing. "How the hell did I end up in bed?"
"One of the nurses found you. Most of the hospital personnel know about Kathy-and you." He almost smiled. "You're on the verge of becoming a legend in your own time-at least, around here. The nurse called me, and I carried you here. You're considerably heavier than you look. I don't know why I didn't call an orderly; I think I may have strained my back."
"I'm compact," I grunted. "I seem to detect a change in your normally inflexible attitude."
The black doctor shrugged his frail shoulders. "You've slept for fifteen hours, which is all I asked you to do in the first place. You want to get out on the streets; I want you out on the streets. Kathy and I need you. Like I said, I just don't want you to die out there, or end up developing rabies. So investigate, and work as quickly as you can. But you must take it easy, and you must make sure you get back here every day for your injection. Clear? You obviously have a high pain threshold, not to mention incredible endurance. But your mind and body can only take so much. Pace yourself, and we'll get along just fine."
"Got it," I said, pulling on my jacket and heading for the door.
"Mongo," he said. I stopped at the door, turned back. The doctor smiled wanly. "I've been waiting for your questions-or comments-on Esteban."
"What's to say, Joshua? Kathy's still alive, and that's the only important thing. I'm sophisticated enough to know that doctors aren't wizards or sages. Esteban may have nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Kathy's still alive. It's irrelevant. I don't care what's keeping her alive-so long as she's alive."
"I'll drink to that," Joshua said quietly. There was an odd, questioning tone to his voice. "Esteban hasn't slept at all; the man doesn't seem to need it. He just lies there with Kathy, rocking back and forth and humming to her. He spent an hour with the Younger woman. During that time we mo
nitored Kathy, and she started to slip again; Esteban had to go back to her. It's the most incredible thing I've ever seen."
"You sound impressed."
"I am impressed, and I wanted you to know. You impress me. It was quite a feat, the way you smoked out Jordon to free Esteban."
We stared at each other for a few moments, and I finally nodded. "Thanks, Joshua. I got lucky. Let's just hope that Esteban continues to impress. Thanks for taking care of me. I'll be in touch."
The sleep orgy had left me groggy, but my body seemed to be tolerating the second shot better than it had the first. The pain in my belly was more of a dull, throbbing ache than the acid burn it had been, and my vision was clear. I left my car where it was and took a cab to Times Square, where the phone book had told me Sandor Peth had an office. I bought two hot dogs with sauerkraut from a Sabrett vendor and washed them down with a Coke. I waited ten minutes to see how they'd settle, then went looking for Peth.
Appropriately enough, Peth's office was on 42nd Street, New York's mecca of polymorphous sex, gimcrack novelty stores and Instant Sleaze, just off Times Square, a floor above a porno movie house. To judge by the score or more of facsimile gold records tacked to his walls, Peth had to be making tons of money; as a manager, he was getting a flat twenty percent of the artist's take from each one. However, his wealth wasn't reflected in his office space. Old coffee cartons, sandwich wrappers and grease-stained paper bags overflowed a flowered metal wastebasket and littered the floor.
Peth seemed to be wearing most of his money. He looked like his reputation; he sat behind his scarred wooden desk like a bloated spider, alternately talking into two telephone receivers. Despite the fact that it was a muggy August day and the office lacked air conditioning, Peth was wearing a three-piece suit that must have cost at least four hundred dollars. He was sweating, and he would occasionally remove a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipe his brow. He had a globular face in which two small black eyes were set like raisins in a clump of rising dough. The fringe of dark hair that circled the bumpy bald dome of his head was cut short. Every finger on both his hands, including the thumbs, had a diamond ring on it. In his own way, Peth was a striking figure. If you were into sloth and repulsion.
There was no secretary, so I simply walked into the office and waited by the door. Intent on his dual conversations, riffling through what looked like a pile of contracts on his desk, Sandor Peth took some time to notice me. His voice was croaking, phlegmatic, his conversation rapid-fire and punctuated with references to network shows, "The Coast" and "thou's." He suddenly wheeled in his chair, saw me and arched his eyebrows inquisitively. He curtly finished his conversation on one line, talked for another minute or two on the other, then hung up.
"A dwarf!" he coughed, letting the pudgy fingers on his left hand hover over the telephone-console buttons as though waiting for them to decide on their own which button he should push next. "I love it! What the hell do you do?"
"Snoop," I said evenly. I wanted his undivided attention.
"Snoop?" His fingers continued to hover indecisively over the buttons, wriggling like fat worms.
"My name's Frederickson. I'm a private investigator. I'd like to ask you some questions."
Peth leaned back in his swivel chair and roared with laughter. His body shook, but the laughter never reached his eyes, which were like blotches of thick paint, with no light or life. "Great! A stand-up comic!" His laughter tapered off to an obscene chuckle. Peth was a bit overcooked, I decided, like a refugee from one of the fifth-run movie houses on the street below. But he was real and sitting in front of me, raw and rancid at the center. "Jesus Christ," he continued absently when his laughter had run its course. "Who the fuck do I know that would be playing practical jokes on me?"
"How about Harley Davidson?"
Peth had started another chorus of laughter; now it shut itself down in stuttering dribbles until finally he was looking at me soberly. "Frederickson," he said thoughtfully. "A dwarf. Seems to me I've heard. . You used to be with the Statler Brothers Circus? Mongo the Magnificent?"
"You've got it, sweetheart."
"Jesus fucking Christ," he said, thin white lines appearing at the corners of his mouth. "You are a private detective. And you're heavy."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me today."
Peth scowled; on his face, a scowl was a formidable expression. "What the fuck do you want with me?"
"I told you: I want to ask you some questions about Harley Davidson."
"What do you know about Davidson?"
"For openers, he's dead."
Peth made an effort at projecting surprise and grief, but gave it up after about ten seconds. "Son-of-a-bitch," he said casually, tapping a fat, bejeweled index finger on his desk.
"Yeah. Son-of-a-bitch."
Peth shrugged and started to pick up the phone. "Well, that's tough; but show biz is tough."
"Funny how Davidson started sliding after he signed with you."
"What the fuck does that mean, dwarf?"
There was no way Sandor Peth was going to give me information voluntarily, and with his street smarts he'd be almost impossible to trick. I knew I was probably wasting my time confronting him directly, but he was one more button that had to be pushed. On the other hand, he could be a very big button; there was no telling what might pop out if I pushed hard enough. There was no doubt in my mind that Peth was in some way-no matter how peripherally-responsible for Bobby Weiss's death, if only because he had passively stood by while it happened. For that reason alone, I wanted to kick him a few times and see which way he bounced.
"That's the talk around town," I said.
"What's the talk around town?" he shouted, half-rising out of his chair. Peth obviously had a hair-trigger temper.
"The talk is really a question," I said evenly. "What did you promise-or do-to that kid to get him to leave William Morris and come over to a guy who operates out of a shithouse like this one?"
"Watch your mouth, dwarf," Peth said menacingly. "There's a simple answer to your question: Davidson felt I could do more for him than Jake Stein."
"Oh, yeah," I said, emphasizing the sarcasm, watching him. "Everyone can see what you did for him. What did you offer him, for Christ's sake?"
Peth was not about to enlighten me. "I'm going to sue you, dwarf!" he shouted at me. "I'll sue you for slander!"
"So, sue. From what I hear, you'd be a tough guy to slander." I smiled. "How much money are you going to make off Davidson's death? I know you had him insured."
Now Peth was having to make a considerable effort to control himself. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped the edge of his desk; he held the tight grip until he stopped shaking.
"I'm a businessman," he said in the tone of a man who was just trying to be reasonable. His voice sounded as though it were being filtered through a thick wad of cotton, and his face was blotched with pink and white patches. "It costs money to build these people up; I personally insure everyone in my stable. After seeing which way Davidson went, you can understand why. Not everyone can handle success. I have to protect my investments; it's just good business."
"What about all the money Harley Davidson earned? What happened to it? When I found him, he was living in a sinkhole. He couldn't have spent all the money he made on junk."
Peth scowled again. "Hey, I don't know what he did with his money; I wasn't his mother. I got twenty percent, period. What he did with the rest was his own business." He smiled almost sweetly, like some grotesque, poisonous chemb. It suddenly occurred to me that the man was mad. "Look," he said quietly. "I don't suppose you want to tell me who you're working for?"
"I don't suppose I do."
"It can't be his folks; they wrote him off months ago because they didn't want a junkie for a son. I assume that's what he died of."
"You assume right. I don't suppose you want to tell me the real reason why the kid left William Morris to sign with you?"
Peth squinted at me. "We can make a deal, dwarf. Whatever your client's paying you, I'll go better; a lot better. I can make you a rich man."
"What the hell could I possibly do for you?"
"One thing: tell me who sicced you on me. That's all. Tell me the name, forget about all this, then go off and enjoy your money."
"It's a tempting offer, but I think you'd better clear it with Esobus."
Peth's control snapped like a rotten string. He was up and out of his chair with a quickness that amazed me, skittering on his fat legs around the desk to stand in front of me. I found myself staring up into his florid face. His right fist was clenched, the ring finger pointed at me in the warning gesture April had described as the witch's athame.
"You're working with Daniel, aren't you?" he squeaked.
"Daniel who?" I asked, my heart starting to pound.
Peth slowly put his hand down and heaved a deep sigh. "Look, Frederickson," he said in a lower octave, reaching out with one thick hand, "maybe we can still …"
I was sick, and my reflexes were only half what they usually were. Before I could back away, he'd wrapped the fingers of his right hand around my bandaged thumb and begun to twist. Now, for the first time since I'd walked into his office, Peth's eyes showed signs of life; they glowed like banked coals fanned by winds of hatred and sadism.
Searing pain arced through my finger, then scorched its way down to the pit of my stomach. I shouted with surprise and pain and reacted instinctively, rolling away from the torque of his grip to release the terrible pressure, then trying to twist free. Peth grunted with amusement at my feeble efforts and moved with me, maintaining and tightening his hold. He started to twist my thumb in the opposite direction, at the same time raising his jeweled fist in preparation for a blow on the top of my head that was guaranteed to crush my skull.
With Peth hanging on to my thumb, there was only one way to go-and that was where I went. I got my feet under me and pushed up hard, slamming my head into his groin. He shrieked, let go of my thumb and crumpled to the floor. The air exploded from his lungs and he lay there, gasping for. air and cradling his genitals with both hands.
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