by Del Howison
Hank shuddered as he noticed a couple of the rearmost legs still twitching.
He kicked it into a corner.
* * *
“The usual table, Detective?” Maurice said with a practiced smile.
Hank nodded and followed the Serendipity’s maître d’ to a second-level table for two just off the dance floor.
“Thank you, Maurice.”
He passed him a fin he could barely afford as they shook hands. He ordered a scotch and water and started a tab. This was the last night he’d be able to do this until the Mandarin came across with some lucre.
He shook his head. All it takes is money. You don’t have to be smart or even good looking, all you need is lots of do-re-mi and everybody wants to know you. Suddenly you’re Mr. Popularity.
As Hank sipped his drink and waited for Luann to take the stage, he felt his shoulder start to bum. Damn. Not again. The pain had lasted only half an hour after the bite, and then his shoulder felt as good as new. But now the pain was back and growing stronger.
Heat spread from the bite, flowing through him, flushing his skin, breaking him out in a sweat. Suddenly he had no strength. His hands, his arms, his legs … all rubbery. The glass slipped from his fingers, spilling scotch down the pleated front of his shirt.
The room rocked and swayed as he tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He felt himself falling, saw the curlicue pattern of the rug rushing at him.
Then nothing.
* * *
Hank opened his eyes and found himself looking up at a woman in white. He looked down. More white. Sheets. He was in a bed.
“Where—?”
She looked about fifty. She flashed a reassuring smile. “You’re in St. Luke’s and you’re going to be just fine. I’ll let your doctor know you’re awake.”
Hank watched her bustle out the door. He felt dazed. The last thing he remembered—
That bite from the millipede—poison. Had to be.
The pain had tapered to a dull ache, but he still felt weak as a kitty.
A balding man with a graying mustache strode through the door and stepped up to the bed. He wore a white coat with half a dozen pens in the breast pocket and carried a clipboard under his arm.
“Detective Sorenson,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m Dr. Cranston, and you’ve got quite a boil on your back.”
“Boil?”
“Yes. A pocket of infection in your skin. You shouldn’t let those things go. The infection can seep into your system and make you very ill. How long have you had it?”
Hank pulled the hospital gown off his shoulder and gaped at the golf-ball-size red swelling.
“That wasn’t there when I put on my shirt tonight.”
Dr. Cranston harrumphed. “Of course it was. These things don’t reach that size in a matter of hours.”
A flash of anger cut through Hank’s fuzzy brain. “This one did. I was bitten there by a giant bug around seven o’clock.”
Cranston smoothed his mustache. “Really? What kind of bug?”
“Don’t know. Never seen anything like it.”
“Well, be that as it may, we’ll open it up, clean out the infection, and you’ll be on your way in no time.”
Hank hoped so.
* * *
Bared to the waist, Hank lay on his belly while the nurse swabbed his shoulder with some sort of antiseptic.
“You may feel a brief sting as I break the skin, but once we relieve the pressure from all that pus inside, it’ll be like money from home.”
Hank looked up and saw the scalpel in Cranston’s hand. He turned away.
“Do it.”
Cranston was half-right: Hank felt the sting, but no relief.
He heard Cranston mutter, “Well, this is one for Ripley’s.”
Hank didn’t like the sound of that.
“What’s wrong?”
“Most odd. There’s no pus in this, only serous fluid.”
“What’s serous fluid?”
“A clear amber fluid—just like you’d see seeping from a burn blister. Most odd, most odd.” Cranston cleared his throat. “I believe we’ll keep you overnight.”
“But I can’t—”
“You must. You’re too weak to be sent home. And I want to look into this insect. What did it look like?”
“Send someone to my place and you’ll find its back half.”
“I believe I’ll do just that.”
* * *
Two days cooped up in a hospital room hadn’t made Hank any better. He had to get out to seal the deal with the Mandarin. But how? He was able to get up and walk—shuffle was more like it—but he still felt so weak. And the pounds were dropping off him like leaves from a tree.
The boil or whatever it was had gone from a lump to a big open sore that wept fluid all day.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, looking out at the fogged-in city when Cranston trundled in. “Well, we’ve identified that millipede.”
Here was the first good news since he’d been bitten.
“What is it?”
“The entomologists over at Berkley gave it a name as long as your arm. Other than that, they weren’t much help. Said it was very, very rare, and that only a few have ever been seen. Couldn’t imagine how it managed to travel from the rain forests of Borneo to your bed.”
“Borneo,” Hank said. Everybody had heard of the Wild Man from Borneo but … “Just where the hell is Borneo?”
“It’s an island in the South China Sea.”
“Did you say South China Sea?”
Cranston nodded. “Yes. Why? Is that important?”
Hank didn’t answer. He couldn’t. It was all clear now.
Good Christ … China …
The Mandarin had sent his reply to Hank’s demand.
“There’s, um, something else you should know.”
Cranston’s tone snapped Hank’s head up. The doctor looked uneasy. His gaze wandered to the window.
“You mean it gets worse?” Cranston’s nod sent a sick, cold spike through Hank’s gut. “Okay. Give it to me.”
Cranston took a breath. “The millipede may or may not have injected you with venom, but that’s not the problem.” His voice trailed off.
Hank didn’t know if he wanted to hear this.
“What is the problem then?”
“You remember when we did a scraping of the wound?”
“How could I forget?”
“Well, we did a microscopic examination and found what, um, appear to be eggs.”
Hank’s gut twisted into a knot.
“Eggs!”
“Yes.”
“Did you get them all?”
“We don’t know. They’re quite tiny. But we’ll go back in and do another scraping, deeper this time. But you should know—”
“Know what?”
Cranston’s gaze remained fixed on the window.
“They’re hatching.”
* * *
Next day, one of the green soft heels, a grade-one detective named Brannigan, stopped by to ask about Chinatown. He’d been assigned to look for a missing white girl last seen down there. He was asking about the Mandarin. Hank warned him away, even went so far as to show him the big, weeping ulcer on his shoulder.
Suddenly he was seized by a coughing fit, one that went on and on until he hacked up a big glob of bright red phlegm. The blood shocked him, but the sight of the little things wriggling in the gooey mass unnerved him.
“Oh, God!” he cried to Brannigan. “Call the doctor! Get the nurse in here! Hurry!”
The eggs had hatched and they were in his lungs! How had they gotten into his lungs?
Sick horror pushed a sob to his throat. He tried to hold it back until Brannigan was out the door. He didn’t think he made it.
* * *
Hank stared at the stranger in the bathroom mirror.
“It’s not unprecedented,” Cranston had said. “Larvae of the ascaris roundworm, for instance, get into the
circulation and migrate through the lung. But we’ve no experience with this species.”
He saw sunken cheeks, glassy, feverish eyes, sallow, sweaty skin as pale as the sink, and knew he was looking at a dead man.
Why hadn’t he just played it straight—or at least only a little bent—and taken a payoff here and there from the bigger gambling parlors? Why had he tried to go for the big score?
He was coughing up baby millipedes every day. That thing must have laid thousands, maybe tens of thousands of eggs in his shoulder. Her babies were sitting in his lungs, sucking off his blood as they passed through, eating him alive from the inside.
And nobody could do a damn thing about it.
He started to cry. He’d been doing that a lot lately. He couldn’t help it. He felt so damn helpless.
The phone started to ring. Probably Hanrahan. The chief had been down to see him once and had never returned. Hank didn’t blame him. Probably couldn’t stand looking at the near-empty shell he’d become.
Hank shuffled to the bedside and picked up the receiver.
“Yeah.”
“Ah, Detective Sorenson,” said a voice he immediately recognized. “So glad you are still with us.”
A curse leaped to his lips, but he bit it back. He didn’t need any more bugs in his bed.
“No thanks to you.”
“Ah, so. A most regrettable turn of events, but also most inevitable, given such circumstances.”
“Did you call to gloat?”
“Ah, no. I call to offer you your wish.”
Hank froze as a tremor of hope ran through his ravaged body. He was almost afraid to ask.
“You can cure me?”
“Come again to Jade Moon at three o’clock this day and your wish shall be granted.”
The line went dead.
* * *
The cab stopped in front of the Jade Moon. Hank needed just about every ounce of strength to haul himself out of the rear seat.
The nurses had wailed, Dr. Cranston had blustered, but they couldn’t keep him if he wanted to go. When they saw how serious he was, the nurses dug up a cane to help him walk.
He leaned on that cane now and looked around. The sidewalk in front of the restaurant was packed with Chinks, and every one of them staring at him. Not just staring—pointing and whispering too.
Couldn’t blame them. He must be quite a sight in his wrinkled, oversized tux. Used to fit like tailor-made, but now it hung on him like a coat on a scarecrow. But he’d had no choice. This had been the only clothing in the closet of his hospital room.
He stepped up on the curb and stood swaying. For a few seconds he feared he might fall. The cane saved him.
He heard the singsong babble increase and noticed that the crowd was growing, with more Chinks pouring in from all directions, so many that they blocked the street. All staring, pointing, whispering.
Obviously Jiang had put out the word to come see the bad joss that befell anyone who went against the Mandarin.
Well, Hank thought as he began his shuffle toward the restaurant door, enjoy the show, you yellow bastards.
The crowd parted for him and watched as he struggled to open the door. No one stepped up to help. Someone inside pushed it open and pointed to the rear of the restaurant.
Hank saw Jiang sitting at the same table where they’d first met. Only this time Jiang’s back was to the wall. He didn’t kowtow, didn’t even rise when Hank reached the table.
“Sit, Detective Sorenson,” he said, indicating the other chair.
He looked exactly the same as last time: same black pajamas, same skullcap, same braid, same expressionless face.
Hank, on the other hand …
“I’ll stand.”
“Ah so, you not looking well. I must tell you that if you fall this one not help you up.”
Hank knew if he went down he’d never be able to get up on his own. What then? Would all the Chinks outside be paraded past him for another look?
He dropped into the chair. That was when he noticed something like an ebony cigar box sitting before Jiang.
“What’s that? Another bug?”
Jiang pushed it toward Hank.
“Ah no, very much opposite. This fight your infestation.”
Hank closed his eyes and bit back a sob. A cure … was he really offering a cure? But he knew there had to be a catch.
“What do I have to do for it?”
“Must take three times a day.”
Hank couldn’t believe it.
“That’s it? No strings?”
Jiang shook his head. “No, as you say, strings.” He opened the box to reveal dozens of cigarette-size red paper cylinders. “Merely break one open three times a day and breathe fine powder within.”
As much as Hank wanted to believe, his mind still balked at the possibility that this could be on the level.
“That’s it? Three times a day and I’ll be cured?”
“I not promise cure. I say it fight infestation.”
“What’s the difference? And what is this stuff?”
“Eggs of tiny parasite.”
“A parasite!” Hank pushed the box away. “Not on your life!”
“This is true. Not on my life—on your life.”
“I don’t get it.”
“There is order to universe, Detective Sorenson: Everything must feed. Something must die so that other may live. And it is so with these powdery parasite eggs. Humans do not interest them. They grow only in larvae that infest your lung. They devour host from inside and leave own eggs in carcass.”
“Take a parasite to kill a parasite? That’s crazy.”
“Not crazy. It is poetry.”
“How do I know it won’t just make me sicker?”
Jiang smiled, the first time he’d changed his expression. “Sicker? How much more sick can Detective Sorenson be?”
“I don’t get it. You half-kill me, then you offer to cure me. What’s the deal? Your Mandarin wants a pet cop—is that it?”
“I know of no Mandarin. And once again, I not promise cure, only chance of cure.”
Hank’s hopes tripped but didn’t fall.
“You mean it might not work?”
“It matter of balance, Detective. Have larvae gone too far for parasite to kill all in time? Or does Detective Sorenson still have strength enough left to survive? That is where fun come in.”
“Fun? You call this fun?”
“Fun not for you or for this one. Fun for everyone else because my master decide grant wish you made.”
“Wish? What wish?”
“To be part of game—your very words. Remember?”
Hank remembered, but …
“I’m not following you.”
“All of Chinatown taking bet on you.”
“On me?”
“Yes. Even money on whether live or die. And among those who believe you soon join ancestors, a lottery on when.” Another smile. “You have your wish, Detective Sorenson. You now very much part of game. Ah so, you are game.”
Hank wanted to scream, wanted to bolt from his chair and wipe the smirk off Jiang’s rotten yellow face. But that was only a dream. The best he could do was sob and let the tears stream down his cheeks as he reached into the box for one of the paper cylinders.
THE BANDIT OF SANITY
ROBERTA LANNES
DANIEL FREDERICKS SAT behind his glass and chrome desk in his Donghia chair and crossed his legs. He picked at a speck of dust on his wool gabardine Hugo Boss slacks and smiled at his handmade Italian shoes. He luxuriated in the sensation of just having worked out, showered and dressed his best, and eaten a spa-made breakfast at the Phoenix Health Club. Catching his reflection in the chrome picture frame of his infant son, he thought perhaps he could use another self-tanning session.
The light blinked over the door informing him his next client had arrived. She was twenty minutes early, as usual. He took her handwritten file from the cabinet behind his desk and set it in fron
t of him.
Jeanette Samuelson. Age 34. Married with two children. Husband stockbroker. Original complaint: dysphoria with an anxiety axis.
Visit 1—10/9/02—General anxiety over being an adequate mother and good wife. Depressed over changes in her body after pregnancy. Breast-feeding two boys 7 mos and 1 1/2 yrs old.
Visit 2—10/16/02—Discussed marriage. Loneliness and obsessive concern for her children are connected. Her friends are all married with children of similar age. Mother and father live nearby and mother tends to interfere and criticize. Mother-in-law lives across the US, but phones daily for support, which patient more readily accepts. Bitch mother insists that daughter must not breast-feed, and puts daughter down. Patient received suggestion to disregard mother and tell her to eat shit and die.
Daniel’s notes changed from one session to another, sometimes during a session, which disturbed him. The tone shifted and the handwriting changed. For the first few months, he went to doctors, expecting something neurological. After all, he was in top psychological form after ten years of analysis. The doctors tested and scanned and probed without finding a diagnosis to explain the aberrations in Daniel’s motor and mental lapses. He began to notice his tennis game was off; setting up serves and wailing the ball at his opponents or spectators, then snapping back into form. Occasionally, his wife was complimentary about his sexual performance, which was unlike her. He was a rote lover, uninterested in innovation or in pleasing her. Daniel was further upset by the fact that when his wife commented on her grateful pleasure, he couldn’t recall having had sex at all. One moment they were cuddled in bed, the next he was in the shower.
He worried that he might slip out of himself and hurt the son he so adored. Rory was nine months old, the image of himself at that age. He’d rather kill himself than hurt his angel boy. So far, the only sign he’d done anything odd was finding himself with Rory in the tub, suddenly aware they were naked, giggling over a game he could only vaguely remember playing. They both had erections, but that wasn’t unusual. They were boys, weren’t they? And he often bathed Rory to give his wife a break.
Then there were days he didn’t care about how he dressed or what he said, too tired to keep the dark Daniel at bay. He fought with it, sure it was an obsessive reaction formation over his perfectionism and rigidity, working through it by ego splitting. He watched the two Daniels warring; one choosing a pressed handmade shirt, the other putting a tattered old Pendleton jacket over it. The one washing his hair and letting it dry flat, the other desperately combing and spraying to repair it.
