“Probably Burne’s got that staged inside.”
But quite to the contrary, the reception rooms of 666 Hell Gate were a delightful surprise. They were styled in the Quaker and Shaker tradition: random-width pine plank floors, sawbuck tables, Moravian armchairs, grandfather clocks, walnut ladderbacks, painted dower chests, pewter, Steigel glass, silver Argand lamps, beautifully framed Colonial Primitives.
“All this barn needs is hex signs,” Shima muttered enviously. It was quite obvious that the quack, Salem Burne, lived even far more luxuriously than the distinguished Blaise Shima, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.
“Our afternoon ritual has just begun,” the attendant murmured, “but you may enter. You will find unoccupied couches.”
He slid a silent panel aside and the two entered what seemed to be an enormous grey velour womb without any discernible walls or ceiling. There were velour couches scattered around in the smoldering darkness with vague forms reclining on them.
“Is it group therapy?” Gretchen whispered.
There were dancers in the center of the womb, dozens of them, nude and painted luminously into vampires, ghouls, cacodemons, succubi, harpies, ogresses, satyrs, furies. They wore confusing contrasting masks, front and back. They glowed, writhed, entwined, and contorted to the music.
Shima sniffed. “By God!” he whispered, “He’s composed a scent symphony with the Odophone scale I gave him.”
They tiptoed through darkness to a vacant couch and sat to watch and listen and sense.
The nebulous shape of the psychomancer moved silently from couch to couch. Sometimes he bent, sometimes sat, sometimes knelt; always he murmured to the reclining figures. He was a solemn version of the traditional property man in the traditional Japanese theater who moves around onstage, dressed in black, and is presumed to be and accepted as invisible. He came at last to the couch where Gretchen and Shima were seated.
“Dr. Shima, what a pleasant surprise,” Burne said softly. “And this, to be sure, must be my exalted colleague, Gretchen Nunn. Overwhelmed to meet you at last, madame.”
“Thank you, Mr. Burne. Or should it be ‘doctor’?”
“Never in the presence of the genuine Dr. Shima. I know my place. And how do you like your Odophone music, Dr. Shima?”
“I’m really impressed, Burne. It blends beautifully with the ballet and orchestral music. How do your patients respond?”
“Completely, as you can see. Their barriers are broken down. They run on and on about the witchcraft of scent, dance, and music while their bodies speak volumes. I can’t thank you enough, doctor.”
“You’re welcome, I assure you. I never dreamed that that notion would turn out so well.”
“Thank you. Forgive me if I seem to rush you, but my ritual patients are waiting. You and madame are telling me, without words, that something extremely urgent brings you here.” Burne shot a look at Gretchen. “The fugue?”
She returned his look. “Yes and no. I’m sorry, but we must reserve that.”
“Understood, Miz Nunn, but as a friendly colleague, I must warn you that your somatic speech is telling me that it’s something deadly.”
“It is.”
“Then?”
“Blaise will tell you.”
“Mr. Burne,” Shima began carefully, “it’s been necessary for us to track down a rare-earth metal called Promethium. Omni-Chem reported to me that they alone handle it and have made only one sale; to Rubor Tumor, a retailer in Canker Alley in the Guff. Rubor Tumor prescription profile records reported only one sale of Promethium chloride—to you.”
“Quite true. And?”
“How and why do you use it?”
“I don’t.”
“You don’t!”
“Not at all.”
“Then why did you buy it?”
“It was bought for a patient at her request.”
“Her? She? A woman?” Gretchen exclaimed.
“Most of my patients are women, Miz Nunn.”
Shima continued to press. “She requested the Promethium specifically?”
“Not at all. She asked me to compound a novel, exotic, and malevolent incense which, when burned, would exude a diabolical odor. I did my best to oblige a regular and most profitable client—I’m always direct and honest with you, doctor—and concocted a disgusting gallimaufry which Rubor Tumor filled for me. I threw in a score of outlandish chemicals which I found in the books, including Promethium chloride.”
“And gave it to her?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Burne, I hate to ask this but I’m forced to—”
“Please, doctor,” Burne interrupted. “You and Miz Nunn are telling me in no uncertain manner that you’re facing a crisis. Certainly I must break with ethics for the sake of colleagues. All I ask is that you pledge not to reveal the source of your information.”
“It’s pledged for both of us,” Gretchen said.
“And above all, not to Subadar Ind’dni.”
Gretchen and Shima stared.
“How the devil—” Gretchen burst out and then clapped a hand over her mouth.
Burne smiled at her. “Someday, madame, I may teach you the subtleties of somatic speech.” Then he gave Shima an odd look. “The patient is Ildefonsa Lafferty. She is listed in the Guff directory.”
Shima gasped. Gretchen searched his face for a long moment while he fought for composure. “It’s nothing… Nothing at all,” he stammered, fully aware that he was deceiving neither of them. “I… It’s simply that I was wondering how to— How to ask Mr. Burne how he— How he pays Rubor Tumor. There aren’t any shillings these days.”
“With frozen CO2 slugs,” Burne smiled. “It’s all right, doctor. I will never reveal Ildefonsa Lafferty’s confidences. You may tell Miz Nunn as much or as little as you both think best.”
10
“You’ll have to tackle her alone, Gretch. I won’t see her. I don’t dare.”
They were pacing the Guff’s “Strøget,” the long, exclusive shopping boulevard which was sternly protected by private police. All traffic except pedestrians was prohibited. Only shoppers with Class A identification were admitted.
Shima was deeply disturbed. Gretchen was trying to soothe him and satisfy her curiosity at the same time.
“Now what’s all this, baby? You had a thing with Ildefonsa Lafferty. Yes?”
“The Girl from Ipanema. Two years ago.”
“Does Ipanema signify anything?”
“That was a pop tune centuries ago about this girl on the beach who never looked at the guy who loved her. Lovely tune.”
“Was Ildefonsa lovely?”
“I thought so.”
“Then why the crise de nerfs? You’ve had go-rounds with loads of women.”
“Before I met you, and not all that many.”
“D’you feel the same about the others? Won’t. Don’t dare.”
“I can’t even remember their names.”
“Then what’s so special about Ms. Lafferty?”
“She murdered me.”
“Was it love?”
“For me, yes.”
“And still is?”
“I’m still dying, if that’s love.”
“Love shouldn’t kill.”
There was a long pause while they strolled, threading their way through the crowds of shoppers. Suddenly Shima began murmuring in a low voice with his head averted, as though making a shameful confession, “When I was a kid in Johnstown, P.A., back in the forties, I—”
“Johnstown! The forties? That was the time of their fifth flood.”
“Yeah, but that’s not what I’m telling you. My Grandfather—I called him Grandy—decided he wouldn’t live long enough to see how I’d turn out, so he invented a fiendish forecast of my future.”
“What?”
“He gave me a fifty-franc gold piece.”
“Franc?”
“Uh-huh. Grandy was the French side of the family. Back then the fifty-franc gold piece
was the equivalent of… oh… maybe a hundred of today’s computer credits. A fortune for a kid.”
“How was that fiendish?”
“The coin was a counterfeit.”
“My God! Did he know?”
“Sure. It was deliberate. That was the forecast; to see how I’d behave after I discovered it; try to pass it, sell it, exchange it, ask him for a genuine coin, squeal on him to the fuzz, whatever.”
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. When I found out the gift was a phony I was hurt and disappointed, but I never did anything. I put the fake away in a drawer and never mentioned it. Grandy was very sad. He said, ‘Ah, le pauvre petit. He will never be able to cope with the hard knocks.’”
Shima fell silent. At last Gretchen asked, “And that adds up to…?”
“I thought, I wanted, I believed that Ildefonsa was making a genuine gold gift to me, and I gave whatever gifts I had in return.”
“Ah! Including a pet diamond?” Gretchen snapped jealously.
“I try to give you more than the diamond. I tried to give her more, but she was a false coin. A counterfeit. I’ve put her away in a drawer. I can’t take her out again.”
“So underneath that bright, brilliant, witty facade, you’re just a poor, romantic schnook.”
“I can’t take the knocks, which is why I’ve spent my life hiding in labs. If there’s one thing for sure, it’s Newton’s Third Law of Humor. For every joke, there’s an equal and opposite hurt.”
She kissed his cheek. “I’ll be extra gentle and kind to you, I promise, and I’ll tackle this Ildefonsa bitch alone.”
“She’s an Ipanema hard-case, Gretch. She won’t be easy to crack. She feels nothing. I know.”
“One way or another I’ll get what we want. You just keep her locked up in that drawer and throw the key away.”
Ildefonsa Lafferty was assault prone. Gretchen took her in with one lightning rake of the eye, as only women can, and itemized her coldly. Dyed red hair, but manifestly a natural redhead, as the milky skin, brows, lashes, and Mount of Venus proclaimed through the transparent white shift. (“Flaunty display. Trashy!”) Not tall. Juicily rounded. Thrusting plummy breasts. (“Should lose ten pounds.”) Assured. Defiant. Glowing with— What? (“Chutzpah!”) Hateful. (“How could Blaise ever have—?”)
“So? What d’you see?” Ildefonsa challenged.
Gretchen accepted the défi. “That you’re an open invitation to rape.”
“Thank you, but flattery will get you nowhere. Come in. Gretchen Bunn, is it?” (Gretchen had been carefully and accurately announced by Oasis Security downstairs.) “Come in, Gretchen Bunn.”
(“Blaise was right; this one won’t be easy.”)
Ildefonsa led Gretchen out of the mirrored foyer into the enormous living room. It looked odd and interesting. There were illuminated vitrines filled with curious collections; sundials, ear trumpets, walking sticks, matchbook porn, French letters, death masks, dog collars. But there was no noting details in the presence of this volupt. Her crimson glory outshone everything, and she was only too aware of it. Gretchen was pleased to see that despite her overpowering assets this fata Morgana moved awkwardly. (“Badly coordinated—except in bed, most likely.”)
Answering Gretchen’s opening rape reply, Ildefonsa said, “I chase them into the horizontal first and accuse later, but only if the performance is below standard.”
“I can believe that.”
“You better believe it.”
“And I’m sure your standards are exalted.”
“Why not? I’ve earned them.” Ildefonsa contemplated Gretchen indifferently. “I’d say you’re an open invitation to a climbing plant.”
“Yes, I would enjoy being wrapped around.”
“By what? Men? Women? Beans? Grapes?”
“I never could dig a gig with chlorophyll, Miz Lafferty. Men only.”
“At least that’s the plural. There’s hope for you, Miz Funn.”
“It’s Nunn. Gretchen Nunn. Hope for me? You think my horizons should be enlarged?”
“Let’s say enhanced and enyanced.”
“So you know Guff Blurt.”
“I’ve heard enough to know the score.”
(“This sex contest will get me nowhere; she’s too old a hand at it. Try the humble approach.”)
“You’re right, Miz Lafferty, I—”
“Call me Ildefonsa, child.”
“Thank you, Ildefonsa. I’ve intruded because my horizons should be enyanced.”
“By me? Sorry, child, I don’t dig the dyke gig.”
“No, not that way. I’ve come to the Venus Mantrap for advice.”
“Venus Mantrap? Don’t be insolent. There is a brain inside this beautiful red bod.”
(“Oops! She has a redheaded temper. Careful!”)
Gretchen smiled. “Red is beautiful. I have to back the black numbers.”
“That figures.” Ildefonsa gave her a token smile, then broke into song in a peanut-whistle voice: “It take a long, tall, brownskin gal to make a preacher put the Bible down…”
Gretchen applauded enthusiastically. “Heavensville! Wherever did you learn that bijou?”
“From a long, tall, brownskin stud.”
“It’s a perfect line for me. Thank you. You know, this is my lucky day. I knew it would be when I hit six on the black three times running this morning.”
“Three sixes. Adding up to eighteen. Quite a score.”
“Or six hundred sixty-six?”
Ildefonsa shook her head. “You’re a dreamer. No stud in this world can score that.”
“If any stud could score six sixty-six, you’d be the one to make him.”
“Don’t be jealous of your betters, child.”
(“Safe. She doesn’t connect me with 666 Hell Gate. I’ve kept my promise to protect Burne. Now let’s get what we need from her.”)
“Not jealous, Ildefonsa. Envious.”
“I don’t blame you.”
“I don’t have your kind of luck with men.”
Ildefonsa snorted. “Luck!”
“So that’s why I followed my lucky number to 18 Canker Alley and the Rubor Tumor Pharm.”
“The Rubor Tumor Pharm? I don’t know it. Rubor Tumor. What a yummy name.”
“But you must know it, Ildefonsa.”
“Are you calling me a liar, child?”
“No. Wait. I asked them for a prescription that would turn men on.”
“You can’t mean it.”
“But I do. Rubor Tumor told me that they’d put together that kind of prescription for you.”
“That is a lie. I don’t need that sort of thing.” Ildefonsa wrinkled her milky brow. “It’s a crazy mistake. Or else they were guffing you. I’ve never been there. I didn’t even know about the Pharm until you told me just now. It has to be a guff.”
“Rubor Tumor claims they compounded some sort of sexy incense for you that turns men on.”
“What? Incense? Sexy incense?”
“So they said, and that’s why I’m here… to ask you what it is and how you use it… if you’ll be kind enough to tell me. I need all the help I can get.”
“But I never—” She stopped in mid-sentence, thought, then burst out laughing. “Of course. That must be it. He must have told them the incense was for me.” She gave Gretchen a genuinely friendly look. “Thank you, Gretchen. I haven’t had a good laugh in ages.”
“But he, Ildefonsa? Who? I don’t understand.”
The redhead was so delighted that she did a complete volte-face and was almost affectionate. “Never you mind who, lovey. That’s a secret. But I can tell you that the incense wasn’t intended to grab men, it was meant to grab the— No, I won’t tell you; you’d never believe it. I’ll show you. We’re meeting in the hive this afternoon, and I’ll bring you along. A new face will be entertaining and, who knows, you may even join up. I have the feeling that you’re just our type.”
“Wait a minute; you’re going
too fast. What’s all this? Meeting? Hive? Entertaining? To who?”
“All will be known shortly, Gretchen, including the quote sexy unquote incense,” Ildefonsa giggled. “No questions now. I’ll give you lunch, and then you’ll come along with me to the hive.”
It was an avant-garde apartment in the chic, nostalgic style of the Communist era of Old New York City in the 1930s. A fortune had been spent transforming it into a converted brownstone flat with naked linoleum-covered floors, fruit and vegetable crates and barrels for furniture—designed and built by Antique Plastique, Inc.—monk’s-cloth drapes over the windows, oil lamps constructed of piled books, a battered player-piano, old wooden kitchen tables covered with front pages of The Daily Worker, posters of Marx, Lenin, the Kremlin, and Moscow University tacked to the walls. This simulation of left-wing poverty was an extravagant luxury; hardly a hive.
The bee-ladies were already assembled when Ildefonsa Lafferty ushered Gretchen into the lounge. They looked up with surprise and delight.
“Nellie, dear, you’ve brought a new face. How wonderful! Will she join our commune?”
“That’s up to her, Regina. This is Gretchen Nunn. Gretchen, our Queen Bee, Regina.” (The name on the registry board of the Oasis had read; Winifred Ashley.)
“Good afternoon and welcome, BB,” Regina said in a lovely, mellifluous voice. She was a large lady in a flowing gown, gracious and aristocratic.
“BB?” Gretchen asked.
“My dear, do forgive me, but you’re such a ravishing Black Beauty that the nickname just tripped off my lips. Let me introduce your new friends. You’ve met Nell Gwyn of course. This lady is Mary Mixup.” Regina indicated a slender fair girl with her hair cut like a helmet and the body and legs of a dancer.
“Hello, BB,” she said. “So nice meeting you. I would have thought that Regina would give you more a name like Trojan.”
“How do you figure that, Mary?” Nell asked.
“They were both horses, weren’t they? Not that BB’s a horse.”
Nell nodded. “Makes sense. To her.”
A small, compact woman, dark, with vivid blue eyes and an emphatic manner, stepped forward. “I can’t WAIT to be introduced, BB. I MUST clasp your hands and welcome you. ALAS! Alas! alas! Too, TOO im-PET-uous.”
GOLEM 100 Page 9
