Tea with the Black Dragon (v1.4)

by R. A. MacAvoy

  The one characteristic shared by all Mothers friends was that they were irresistably attracted to Mother. They came for her sudden blue flashes of insight, when she would lift her head and point, speaking a few words to prove she did understand what the speaker had been saying in an hours confused, monotonous monologue— bursting the confusion with an arrow of pure good sense.

  They came for the curve of her mother’s neck and her grace of movement. They came for lessons, arrangements, transpositions, hamburgers… They came with broken dreams, with fiddles unstrung, without carfare home…

  Without exception they took more than they gave, and Mother, who was a real musician—a professional, and a real spiritual expert—a human being, allowed them to play their games around her as if she were blind to them.

  Liz’s fists balled up in anger at people.

  And Stanford she had found to be filled with the same sort of self-involved zanies. They dressed badly, their rooms reeked of dope, and they babbled interminably. She had found that her fellow students were friendliest when they were about to borrow money from her. In that freshman year she had learned to protect herself from leeches: deadbeats, grabby dates, “friends” who only wanted to crib her papers. She became very good at it and soon had few friends of any sort.

  She’d envied the students in business administration. They got up in the morning at reasonable hours, dressed as well as their purses permitted, and studied with moderate diligence, knowing it would pay them in the end. Of course, these were a different breed, and in a way a lesser breed, for Liz was an engineer. But she followed the regimen as closely as her thirsty mind permitted.

  When she had money, she would be able to call bullshit bullshit. When she had money, her mother would have time to be a real musician again—in concert halls instead of bars.

  The contrast between the dream and reality drove a single cry from her throat. She flung herself to her feet.

  There, in front of her eyes, lay Mayland Long’s clothes, folded neatly. These were the only reassurances she had that the strange man had really been there—was actually out somewhere in the night trying to find her mother.

  She touched the white shirt. By the dry, smooth feel of it, it was silk. The suit, too: raw silk, undyed. She called an image to mind and saw him again, standing composed and still in the doorway of the kitchen, holding the bottle aloft, like a lantern.

  His manner, too, had been dry and smooth. She had fallen apart in front of him—a thing she had not done before any human being since cowing to Stanford. She had offered to give him everything she had, and had meant it. She still meant it—money, reputation, flesh, future—all of it would be a good trade for the life other mother. And he had turned the conversation gently aside.

  She had the feeling that Mr. Long had refused her merely because he had all he could want or need already. It was all just the way he wanted it. Clothes, manner, confidence.

  Yet this was the man Martha Macnamara had hired for a few thousand dollars. To risk his life. Of course he liked Mother. That was clear from the way he spoke about her. But everyone talked that way about Mother. Liz accepted that as her mother’s due.

  In the corner of her eye she saw movement—herself in the standing mirror. She did not like her body. It was awkward, and the bones were too big. She turned back to the folded shirt.

  It was silk. It gave her hope.

  Chapter 11

  The small cities of the Peninsula followed one another along the freeway. Mayland Long drove, his headlights cutting through a fog of pain. His single useable hand clutched the bottom of the wheel. The left arm lay limp, the hand resting on his thigh. At a dip in the road it shifted. This hurt so his grip on the wheel slid, and the Citroen veered across two lanes. Fortunately, his was the only car on the road.

  The Rengstorff exit loomed ahead. He took the curve slowly, but was forced nonetheless against the door of the car. Wheels scraped gravel. The left side of the car dipped as it left the pavement, but he threw himself against the wheel and found the road again.

  The Southern Pacific Railroad track rattled beneath his wheels. Only the forgiving suspension of the Citroen made the jolting bearable. He turned right on University Street and glided the car to a dark stop.

  The building in which Threve lived sat amid grubby wooden houses like a stork in a pond full of ducks. The high-rise sparkled in the dim moonlight; its concrete facing had been mixed with glass. It was a white, impregnable virgin of a building, having no windows on the ground floor.

  Long skirted the ghostly walls, treading the grass of its tiny lawn. Wearily, he leaned against the bole of a small olive tree, his shape hidden by moonlight among silvery leaves. He no longer felt the cold.

  There were two doors set into the rear face of the building. One of these was glass, and possessed a splendid brass lock. The other was steel, with a lock to match. Mr. Long walked up to the glass door.

  He needed his good hand, which had been supporting his wounded left arm. He forced his left hand into his jeans pocket.

  Mr. Long knew a bit about metals. He believed he could force the aluminum frame of the door, even if the lock was too strong. Yet he stopped with his fingers wrapped around the door-pull, remembering his error at Rasmussen’s house.

  He investigated the other door. It smelled of garbage. This lock could not be forced, and though the idea of dismantling it appealed to Long’s curiosity, he had neither tools nor time.

  He turned the doorknob tentatively and the door opened. A wad of ancient gum was blocking the bolt hole.

  He found himself in a reeking chamber full of trash. He picked up a black plastic bag—one that upon inspection seemed less noisome than the rest—and proceeded through the inside door.

  Threve’s apartment number was 10-10. Long took the elevator; he could not have climbed the stairs. It was empty, and when the box stopped, he cradled the soft package against his chest and stepped into the hall.

  “Stop!” cried the voice of a woman. “Hold it!” She wore nurse’s whites. The “it” she referred to was the elevator. Mayland Long squeezed his burden higher, obscuring his face, and propped the door with his foot.

  She had red hair. She smiled. “Thanks,” she continued in more conventional tones. “Sorry ‘bout the noise. I forget other people sleep nights.” The doors closed and the kindly face vanished into the depths.

  “Do they?” whispered Mr. Long to the empty hall.

  Threve’s apartment was at the end of the hall. Beside the door Long dropped the small bag of trash; its function was fulfilled.

  Speed was essential now, not stealth. Mayland Long meant to see Mr. Threve and to be seen by him. In heat of rage or chilly wet night, he would get answers from the hoodlum.

  The door jamb of 10-10 snapped with a single explosive crack. He stepped in and pulled the door closed behind him.

  The apartment was empty. He crept from the front room to the bedroom. He kicked open the door to the miniscule bathroom. Nothing. Finally he entered the kitchen, put his mouth beneath the tap and drank. He was a long time at it.

  Now what? Should he wait for the unpleasant Mr. Threve to return? He could not wait long, for it was after midnight, and there was the matter of the letter to be accomplished…

  He busied himself as productively as he could, searching through Threve’s belongings. Prying into the private affairs of others had always been one of Mr. Long’s deepest interests, and now it served to distract his mind from his body’s calamity.

  Under the telephone in the bedroom he found an address book, old, spine-broken and filled with scraps of paper. He carried it out to the front room and began sifting through it, while listening for sounds from the elevator.

  The oldest entries, judging by the fading of the ink, were of places in Detroit. Other cities were represented, notably Austin, Texas and Baton Rouge. Evidently, Mr. Threve was a traveler, and had only recently arrived in California. That was a help, for it reduced the number of relevant entries. />
  He sat upon a boxy white sofa beneath the large window of the living room. He read by the light of the full moon.

  He placed his finger upon a promising scrap of paper, then started at a glimpse of movement at the far end of the room.

  He stood up and walked toward a figure which walked toward him. It was a shadowy man dressed in shapeless clothes, one hand stuck insolently in a pocket.

  The entire wall of the room was covered with mirror panels. The image jumped and danced at the intersections of the squares. He stood respectfully in front of the image, as though he were waiting for it to speak to him, as though the faceless, sullen figure knew something he did not. His right hand folded the address in two and stuffed it away. The image then appeared with both hands in pockets, or possibly chained behind its back. It stood with its head down; a prisoner awaiting sentence. This sad figure was no one he knew.

  Outside the broken door his odorous camouflage was waiting. He picked up the garbage bag and headed for the elevator. He knew his appearance would not stand up to much scrutiny; the rusty stains on his gray sweatshirt covered half its surface. The shirt was stiff and stuck to his back. He could smell the drying blood.

  He was very warm, and with warmth came the desire for sleep. This desire was mitigated by the distant white dazzle of the moon. He heard the pounding again, but it seemed too slow to be his heartbeat. It was too much like the sea.

  The engine turned over and the fan blasted hot air against his face. He turned it off.

  He’d been driving all day and night, it seemed. He would need gas soon. He was losing his taste for driving.

  The address in his pocket was not far: just across the line into Sunnyvale. He drove down the empty El Camino, straight at the moon.

  The building was nothing more than a concrete shed, surrounded by gravel. The immediate area was zoned for industry, and was desolate by night. The words Rasmussen Mas were painted in orange letters across the front wall, but it appeared the place had passed beyond that particular incarnation. Mallow and dock grew among the stones of the parking lot, and the shriveled heads of chickweed made a desolate border beneath the wall. It seemed to be one of Rasmussen’s earlier miscalculations—if in truth his bankruptcies had been accidental.

  No cars were to be seen. The two doors of the building were green steel. There were no windows.

  No noise leaked out, even when he put his ear to the metal. He sighed and leaned against the door, summoning what remained of his strength.

  There were tracks in the gravel, from a vehicle which had driven right up to the door and backed away again. No telling how long the tracks had been there.

  The factory was a fortress, but Mr. Long was not overawed by fortresses. He closed his eyes, seized the knob, and pulled.

  The knob came out in his hand, trailing its tarnished entrails. The sliding bolt fell into the round hole the knob had left, and the door creaked open; the deadbolt had not been set.

  He stepped into a wide empty room, lit only by the light emanating from a gaping refrigerator. The room held one wooden table, gouged and solder stained, a filthy white folding chair and a litter of magazines. Approaching closer he found in one corner more magazines that had been arranged into three piles, one pile four inches high and the other two consisting of one Playboy and one Dr. Dobb’s each, with the computer journal on top. These three piles made a triangle eighteen inches on a side. Next to this formation was the sad carcass of a tape recorder, smashed. Within it he could see a small white cassette tape. Mayland Long would have given much to know what was on that tape. He put it in his pocket.

  Prowling the perimeter of the room, he came to the open refrigerator. He felt within it.

  The shelves were still cold. His breath drew in in a long hiss.

  Continuing his investigation, he found the bathroom by the back door. He entered and turned on the light. The bottom of the sink was damp.

  On the bathroom wall, amid graffiti in English and Spanish, someone had drawn a large red circle. It began and ended at the top. It was a fat, open, hearty circle, drawn in fresh lipstick. In Zen Buddhist tradition it meant nothing. Literally nothing—zero, Mu, the Void. To Mr. Long it meant quite a lot.

  He staggered into the yard, scattering gravel. He leaned his back against the door of the car. Trying to untangle his keys from the cassette tape, he dropped both on the roadway. He stooped for them, and found himself on hands and knees on the concrete, overcome by the knowledge of failure. He cried out, a thin, wordless, wail.

  Too late… Too slow… Too late…

  Breathing raggedly, he found the keys, the tape. He climbed to his feet and stood motionless for sixty seconds.

  He got in the car.

  The knocking continued. Fred crawled out of bed, dazed. The clock said 2:45.

  This was a real bitch.

  He slept in his b.v.d.‘s, and wearing nothing else he stood by the door.

  “Whozat?” he croaked, his voice breaking in the middle of the compound word.

  “Frisch? Fred. It’s Mayland Long. I hope you remember me.”

  Had Frisch forgotten the name, he could not have forgotten the voice. He wrestled with the lock and flung the door open. Long stepped in.

  “Forgive me. I am aware of the hour. I have come because I need your help, Fred. Both the Macnamara women are in terrible danger, and I know no one else to whom I can go.”

  Frisch blinked and stared. “You’re white as a sheet,” was all he found to say. “Sit down.”

  “Am I?” whispered Mr. Long, obeying. “How odd. I thought there was nothing white about me.” Suddenly he started up again. “I will ruin your upholstery.”

  “Too late for that,” mumbled Frisch. “Years too late.” He squatted on the floor next to Long, taking the blood stiffened fabric in his hands.

  “What in hell happened to you?”

  The wounded man gently pulled the shirt out of Frisch’s grip. “I’ve been shot in the shoulder. Please don’t.”

  Frisch sat back on his haunches. “You gotta go to the hospital, man. I’ll drive you.”

  “No. I don’t have the time. Martha Macnamara has been kidnapped by men who intend to kill her. I must forge a letter on a RasTech text processor—an 8080—and hand it to Elizabeth before tomorrow morning.”

  “You can’t do anything if you bleed to death,” insisted Frisch, letting the rest of the statement slide by him. He dropped his hands to his knees and stood up. He headed for the bathroom.

  “The bleeding has stopped, I think,” replied Mr. Long. “And I cannot use the machine at all, which is why I came to you.”

  Frisch came back with a pair of shears. He knelt again beside Long. The heavy blades sliced through the fabric of the sweatshirt.

  “I was a boy scout. Got a first aid merit badge.” He cut from the waistband to the neck while the older man watched. Silver blades gnashed together, but slowly their bright surfaces grew dull, as though with rust. When Frisch began snipping through the left sleeve, Long gasped and swayed. Frisch apologized, but kept cutting.

  The cloth at the top of the shoulder was stuck to the wound. Frisch cut around it, and the remains of the gray ,‘Sweatshirt fell to the cushions of the chair. ,’ Fred Frisch whistled. “Oooh, man. You ought to see your side.”

  “I can do without.”

  Frisch dropped his scissors on the worn carpet. “Who shot you?”

  Long leaned back. “Floyd Rasmussen. With some sort of hunting rifle.” His eyes glittered. He rubbed at them. “I didn’t know a gun could make so little noise.”

  Mr. Long was not really white, but he was decidedly gray against Frisch’s decrepit green recliner chair. His eyes fell shut. He heard Frisch in the distance, along with the sound of running water.

  “It is hot in here,” he observed. “I imagined the rain would cool the air.”

  Agony struck him in the shoulder, worse than the pain of the bullet. Long grabbed at the source of it.

  Frisch gasped and cri
ed out. A steaming cloth dropped onto Long’s lap.

  “Leggo!” cried Frisch. “Let go. Please! You’re breaking my arm!”

  Astonished, Long released him. “I’m so very sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know what you were doing.”

  The young blond flexed his fingers doubtfully. “Good God, Mr. Long. Where did you develop a grip like that?”

  “I didn’t develop it. Holding on comes naturally to me.” He tried to smile. “But I won’t do it again, I promise.”

  Frisch soaked the cloth again. “It’s going to hurt just as bad,” he warned his patient. He lowered the washcloth onto the filthy wound.