“Thanks,” she said quickly, then looked at Bernie. “So I knew something was wrong, and we instituted a search. Animals wander off sometimes, and Dean had been acting a little weird, but we usually have really good security. But we didn’t find anything.” Good security was an understatement. Allan and Jimmy had lost their jobs thanks to Dean’s escape.
Bernie leaned forward while John suddenly got up. “The paper said that NYPD Animal Control took Dean in.”
Clare nodded. “They called us first, since we’re the only people in the city who have orangutans. Our animals have transponders so we can verify who they are, so they sent me to Animal Control.” She shuddered at the memory. “God, what an awful place. All these animals stuck in tiny metal cages and treated like crap. I mean, I know, most of ’em are involved in crimes and stuff, but God.”
A napkin appeared in front of her face. She looked up to see John, with a look of what she guessed was concern on his face. “Thanks,” she said as she took the napkin and wiped the tears away. She even almost smiled; John was trying way too hard.
He sat back down next to Bernie, across from her. “So you checked the transponder.”
“Well, yeah, but I didn’t really need to, y’know? I know my Dean.” She wiped new tears with the napkin. “The poor little guy was scared to death. They did blood tests on him, and he was hopped up on amphetamines of some kind, can you believe that?”
“Who would do that?” John asked.
“Well, duh, somebody who wanted to kill those two kids.” God, what kind of idiot was this John guy?
“So it wasn’t Dean’s fault?” Bernie said, sounding relieved.
Clare shook her head. “And we were so afraid that we’d lose him. Sometimes the families of victims insist that the animals be euthanized, and judges usually come down on their side.”
“Really?” Bernie said. “That’s awful.”
At this point, she couldn’t work up much outrage. “It’s typical. They’re part of this world, too, but try to get most humans to acknowledge that. In fact, I’m going to law school part-time so I can make the laws about this kinda thing tougher.”
“Good for you,” Bernie said. “I actually almost went to law school.”
“Really? Why’d you give it up?”
Bernie hesitated. “Weird family stuff,” he said quietly. “Anyhow, I’m real happy with what I’m doing right now, believe me.”
“Well, good for you. Still, you should think about it. So many lawyers these days are just in it to represent corporations and make big money—we need more people who care about the world, y’know? Where were you gonna go?”
“Stanford—that’s where I did my undergrad work.”
Clare whistled appreciatively. “I’m at NYU. I wish I had more time for class, but it’s expensive, and I work a lot of hours here.”
John then said, “I’m sure you’ll get through it fine. You seem determined.”
“I am, yeah,” Clare said quickly to John, then looked back at Bernie. All that, and brains, too, if he made it through Stanford.
But then John said, “You said families of the victims usually ask for the animals to be—to be euthanized.” John pronounced the word as if he’d never used it in conversation before, which struck Clare as odd. “But they didn’t ask for that this time?”
She’d been hoping to quiz Bernie more on his law-school aspirations, but John seemed determined to actually do their job, which Clare supposed she could understand. “No, Dean lucked out.” Was it her imagination or did John wince every time she referred to the orangutan by name? “Both the kids were members of WCS, and their families were sympathetic. Once the blood test proved that Dean was drugged, they didn’t insist, and the cops were in a good mood that day, so they let us have him back.” She shook her head. “I remember one time—in Minnesota, maybe?—a meerkat bit a kid who was too stupid to actually pay attention to the sign that said not to stick your hand over the fence. The family refused to give the kid a rabies test, so the zoo had to euthanize the entire family of meerkats.”
“Sounds to me,” John said, “like the wrong family got put down.”
Clare nodded, conceding the point to John, then turning back to lose herself in Bernie’s eyes. “So Dean’s back with us, but we won’t put him back out in the habitat yet.”
“Why?”
“You kidding? He’s, like, totally traumatized. I just came back from feeding him, and he wouldn’t eat until I left. He won’t go near Hank, and he won’t let me hold him.”
John’s mouth fell open. “You hold him?”
Clare couldn’t believe he’d even ask that. “Of course. But now when I try, he—he hisses.”
Bernie bit part of his lower lip for a second, which Clare thought was just adorable. “Clare, can I ask a favor?”
“Of course,” she said without hesitation. Then added with what she hoped was a coquettish smile, “You can ask.”
“Can we—can we see Dean?”
That wasn’t what she’d been hoping for, especially since it meant she would have to disappoint him. “I’m sorry, but I so totally can’t. Right now, they’re just letting me in there.”
John leaned forward. “Well, if you say it’s okay—”
“It’s not up to me. They only let me in because I’m their handler. We may wind up sending them both back to Philadelphia because of this. I’m sorry, but I’ll get in a huge amount of trouble, and—and then they won’t even let me see them anymore.” Bernie was cute, but he wasn’t that cute. Hank and Dean were her boys, and she wasn’t letting anything jeopardize her relationship with them.
Not even Bernie.
They asked a few more random questions and then they got up, which surprised and disappointed her. “Well,” Bernie said, “thanks for your help. If you think of anything else to share with us, give me a call, okay?” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a ratty piece of paper. “I’m sorry, we’re outta business cards. We ordered them, like, three weeks ago, and still nothing.”
All of a sudden alarm bells were going off in Clare’s head. Why weren’t they asking more questions? And they hadn’t been taking notes or anything.
Still, she took his phone number. She wasn’t a complete fool. Maybe she could talk to him without his partner and his drooling.
John shook her hand for a little too long and said, “It was a real pleasure meeting you, Clare. I hope Dean gets better.”
“Thanks.” She broke the handshake before John did, and then watched them both walk toward the staircase that would take them up to other parts of the zoo, or to one of two exits.
And that was it.
Frowning, Clare stared at the number, which had a 650 area code. She was pretty sure that NG was located in Washington, D.C., and their area code was 202. She was also pretty sure that 650 was in California somewhere. Of course, that could’ve been Stanford’s area code, in which case Bernie would’ve had it from when he went there, but why wouldn’t he have changed it to D.C. when he moved there after leaving Stanford?
And why didn’t they ask more questions about Dean or the drugs that were used or any of the other questions on Frieda’s list?
She shook her head, got up, and walked over to the small wooden ticket booth near the entrance to Wild Asia.
“Hey, Clare,” the woman in the booth said, her voice echoing in the small booth and coming out through the glass partition. “What’s up? Who were those guys you were talking to? The shorter one was hot.”
“Gina, can you call Bill for me? I need to talk to him.”
Bill was the head of security—and the one who fired Jimmy and Allan. Much as she hated to admit it, she was pretty sure he needed to know about John Mayall and Bernie Watson…
FIVE
On the road
The Bronx, New York
Thursday 16 November 2006
“Nice work, givin’ her your phone number.”
Sitting in the passenger seat, Dean had been hoping to get
more than a sigh from his brother. But then, Sam was driving, since Dean had decided that he didn’t want to get behind the wheel again until they were somewhere sane.
Sam was rationalizing like crazy. “I just wanted her to be able to get in touch with us, in case—”
“In case she wanted to stare at you some more? C’mon, dude, she was totally into you. I mean, I even brought her a napkin when she got all misty-eyed, and she barely noticed.” He leaned back, clasping his hands behind his head. “She was tuned in to Sam-TV.”
“Well,” Sam said, “maybe she appreciated somebody not trying so hard.”
“That was not trying hard. That was trying normal.”
“Maybe you woulda had better luck if you gave your real name.” Sam grinned. “I mean, she obviously likes to hold guys named Dean. Or maybe you’re not hirsute enough.”
Dean had been hoping Sam wouldn’t bring that up. Not that there was a chance in hell that Sam wouldn’t, but he liked to dream, sometimes. “Look, it’s just—” Then Dean cut himself off. An orangutan had the same name as him. There was just no comeback for that, and he was a good enough poker player to know when it was better to lay down than to keep playing. “So what’s the next step?”
“You’re just embarrassed ’cause you don’t know what ‘hirsute’ means.”
“I’m not an idiot, Sam. It means hairy. Now will you focus for a second? What’s our next step?”
“You’re the one carrying on about how she was ‘into me,’ and I need to focus?” Sam kept going before Dean could answer that. “It’s almost six, I think we should head back to Afiri’s, see if he’s home.”
“Fine by me.” It had taken the better part of a day just to get someone at the zoo to talk straight to them. It had taken all of his considerable charm and Sam’s sincere facial expressions to convince the zoo brass that they just wanted to ask some questions for a magazine. “All we got for a day’s work is that someone drugged the monkey, brought him out to do the two students, and then left it for Animal Control—which we pretty much already knew.”
“You think it was someone from the zoo?” Sam asked.
Dean shrugged. “Maybe. That’d explain how they got past security, but—well, c’mon, you saw these people. Clare, that Frieda lady, they were nuts about the critters. They’d have to be to work there. I can’t see one of them abusing an animal like that, just for some kind of literary re-creation.”
“If that’s what this is.” Sam sighed as he got off the crowded highway and into a tangle of traffic at the end of the exit ramp, making Dean wonder if there was an open road to be found anywhere in this stupid city. “I wish I could figure out what they’re trying to do here.”
“No bells going off, huh?”
Sam shook his head. “Not so far. I’ll dig into Dad’s journal tonight, see what’s up. It’s still another four days until the twentieth—that’s the new moon, so that’s probably when the next one’s gonna be. So we’ve got time to figure it out.”
Eventually, they worked their way back to Afiri’s place. Dean, who prided himself on an excellent sense of direction and on being able to find anything as long as it was on a road, had no idea how they got there. This whole area of the Bronx was hilly and twisty and turny and it gave him a headache. Give me flat, straight roads any day. San Francisco wasn’t as bad as this.
This time when they pulled up to Afiri’s Colonial, there was a dirt-spattered four-by-four in the driveway with a bumper sticker that said, don’t like my driving? call 1-800-u-bite-me. However, there was a spot on the street next to the driveway, so Sam pulled into it. The front of the Impala was blocking the driveway a little, but Dean figured they were going to be in the house of the guy they were blocking, so no big deal, and it beat trying to find somewhere to parallel park.
“Whoa! Ash wasn’t kidding, that is one fine ride you got there!”
Dean looked up as he got out of the car to see a man standing on the porch. He had long scraggly hair that was mostly brown, a thick beard that was mostly gray, and a pair of thick plastic tinted glasses. He wore a Grateful Dead concert T-shirt and ratty jeans that were stained with brown and green and yellow. Dean decided he could live a happy life without knowing what caused those stains. He was also barefoot.
“You gotta be Manfred Afiri,” Dean said. “I’m Dean Winchester, this is my brother Sam.”
“Yeah, Ash said you’d be comin’ by. How is that old bastard anyhow? Please, God, tell me he finally got a better haircut.”
Smirking, Dean said, “Nope, still all business on the top—”
“—and a party in the back.” Manfred shook his head. “I mean, hell, I ain’t one to talk about retro ’dos, but at least mine is a retro that’s respected, know what I’m sayin’, man?”
“Absolutely,” Dean said. He and Sam walked toward the front porch.
Sam said, “We heard you have spirit problems.”
“Yeah, it’s kinda harshing my mellow, y’know? But we’ll get to that in a minute. I was just puttin’ on a cuppa joe. C’mon in, put your feet up, and we’ll rap.” He grinned. “Sorry, retro slang to go with the retro ’do. We’ll hang. It’s hang, right?”
“Close enough.” Dean looked at Sam and grinned. I think I like this guy.
That feeling was cemented when they came into the house and Dean heard the strains of Jethro Tull’s “For a Thousand Mothers.” Dean found himself involuntarily air-drumming to Clive Bunker’s riff. “Good music choice.”
“Yeah, I been on a Tull kick lately. I wanna cover ’em, but nobody can play the flute, and it ain’t Tull without the flute, y’know?”
“Got that right,” Dean said as he looked around the house. The front door opened to a foyer that was covered with framed concert posters that dated back to long before he was born: the Beatles at Shea Stadium, the Rolling Stones at Fillmore East, the Isle of Wight Show in 1970.
Turning left, he saw the massive living room, which was covered in dusty old furniture—a couch, an easy chair, and a rocking chair, as well as a big china closet and a sideboard that was covered with bottles of alcohol—piles of newspapers, magazines that had musical instruments on the covers, three guitars on stands in one corner, several amplifiers, an entire wall filled with vinyl records, another wall filled with tapes and CDs, and an entertainment center that included a battered old television and a shiny metal stereo system that included turntable, tape deck, and six-CD changer. At first, he couldn’t see the speakers, then realized there were four of them spread around the room for maximum killer sound value.
It took Dean a second to realize that Manfred and Sam weren’t around. Turning, he saw they were heading toward the kitchen, which was through the hallway next to the staircase, straight back from the foyer.
“You’ll have to excuse my brother,” Sam said, “he’s in the midst of having an orgasm.”
A grin peeked out from Manfred’s beard. “Sorry ’bout the mess, but the housekeeper ain’t come ’round this year yet. C’mon.”
They went back into the kitchen, which was also a mess, with dirty pots and pans in the sink. Manfred shoved some of them aside so he could fill the coffeepot with water.
“That’s a nice setta wheels you got there, fellas.” Manfred grinned again. “Sorry, what is it, ‘ride’ now? Anyhow, it’s a ’sixty-seven, right?”
“Yup,” Dean said with pride. “Had to rebuild it from scratch a while back, too.”
“Whoa.” Manfred poured the water into the coffeemaker and then opened the freezer and took out a jar filled with coffee grounds. “Special blend,” he said at Sam and Dean’s quizzical looks. “Where’d you find a 427 engine?”
“Got a friend with contacts. Runs a junkyard. He tracked it down for me.” Besides giving them a place to stay after Dad died, Bobby Singer also had been vital in providing Dean with the parts to rebuild the Impala after the truck totaled it.
“Groovy. Or, maybe, cool. Sweet?”
“Sweet works, yeah,” Dean said with
a grin.
“Used to have one’a them back when it was a new car. Wouldn’t do me much good now—the trunk’s big, but it don’t fit the rig, y’know? S’why I got the Soccer Mom-mobile. Anyhow, that old contraption died on my way down to Florida back in ’seventy-eight.” He chuckled. “Funny, I was drivin’ down there with Becky t’get married, and the damn car died. Shoulda seen that for the omen that it was. We split back in ’eighty-six.”
“So, Manfred,” Sam said, “you have a ghost?”
“Yeah, it’s pretty bad.” After scooping the grounds into the receptacle, Manfred put the jar back in the freezer and retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator, placing it on the kitchen counter next to the coffeemaker and a chipped sugar bowl. “I dunno how much Ash toldja, but I’m with a band called Scottso. We play up in Larchmont every weekend—Friday, Saturday, Sunday night, we do three sets. It’s our thing, y’know? And every time I get home from a gig, there’s some crazy broad makin’ awful noises and screeching and goin’ crazy, and I just gotta get outta the house.”
“It’s only on those nights?” Sam asked.
“Yup.” The coffeemaker started making gurgling noises as the now-boiling water mixed with the grounds and were poured into the waiting pot. “Oh, wait, not every time. There was this one Friday night when someone rented out the Park in Rear for a private party, so we didn’t play that night.”
“And no ghost?” Sam asked.
Manfred shook his head.
Dean had to ask: “Is it really called the Park in Rear?”
Another toothy grin—well, mostly toothy, as Manfred was missing a molar or two. “Yeah, but don’t try that in the phone book. Nah, it’s called ‘Nat’s Place,’ but nobody calls it that. See, there’s this gigunda sign that says ‘Park in Rear’ real big on top, ’cause it ain’t legal to park on the street there, and the parking lot entrance ain’t easy to see from the road. So we all call it that.” He pulled three mugs down from one of the cabinets and poured the coffee. Sam got the one that had the dictionary definition of the word coffee written on it, while Dean’s said there’s too much blood in my caffeine system. Manfred kept the one with the Metallica logo for himself, which disappointed Dean somewhat.
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