He started squirming in his cage, but he didn't let go of the gun. I pushed with my foot on the glass until the chair tipped over and Barry tumbled out onto the carpet. The gun fell into a corner. The glass slid back down to rest, propped between the chair and the carpet, intact.
I went over and took Barry by the collar and shook him a little, until my anger subsided and his shirt started ripping, then I put him down. I would have hated for him to get the impression I didn't like the way he was dressed.
When I looked up, I saw Pansy watching us from halfway down the stairs, her hands folded neatly on the railing. She didn't look overly concerned. I had no idea what she thought was happening, or whether she still possessed the equipment necessary to speculate. I didn't particularly want to think about that. I was ready to go. The possible imminence of the kangaroo was not the only reason.
Barry was all balled up on the carpet, looking like nothing so much as an aborted fetus. I stepped over him and picked up the gun. It played me the music again. The violins didn't know the action was over. I put it in my pocket, smoothed down my jacket, and stepped out into the foyer. Pansy didn't say anything.
"You ought to buy your little boy a coloring book or a stamp album or something," I said. "He's got way too much time on his hands. He's liable to take up masturbation."
As I went out the door, I heard Pansy utter "masturbation" into her little microphone, but I was gone before I could hear the answer.
CHAPTER 4
I RAN INTO A CHECKPOINT IN THE HILLS ON MY WAY TO Testafer's place. They were idling in a narrow spot on the road, and I didn't see them until it was too late. An inquisitor waved me over, walked up, and leaned into my window.
"Card," he said.
I gave it to him.
"This looks pretty clean," he said.
"It's new," I said. I looked him in the eye and hoped he didn't see my hands shaking on the wheel. They were shaking for a few reasons. The gun in my pocket was one of them. The make not in my bloodstream was another;
He motioned another guy to come over to my car. "Take a look," he said. "Rip Van Winkle." He flipped him my card. It was funny: I hadn't felt much attachment to it before, but I experienced a sudden fondness for it seeing it in the hands of two boys from the Office.
"Beautiful," said Number Two. "Wish I saw more like this."
I restrained my urge to comment.
"You got papers for the car?" said Number One.
"Rental," I said. The receipt was in the glove compartment and I got it out.
He glanced at it and handed it back.
"Where you headed?" he said.
I shrugged. "Taking a look at the old neighborhood."
"Got plans?"
I thought about it. I wondered how hard they'd laugh if I told them I was a private inquisitor on a case six years old. "I'm still getting my bearings," I said.
It made him smile. He turned to Number Two. "Hear that? He's getting his bearings."
Number Two smiled and stepped up to my car. "What did you do, Metcalf?"
"Nothing, really," I said. "Stepped on some toes. It's ancient history."
"Who sent you up?"
I thought fast. In all likelihood these were Kornfeld's boys. "Morgenlander," I said.
They traded a look.
"That's a tough break," said Number Two, and there was honest sympathy in his voice. He handed me back my card. I'd said the right thing.
"Damn shame," said Number One. "They should have sprung the last of his guys years ago."
I put my card in my back pocket and kept my mouth shut. I was suddenly okay in their book, which didn't mean good things for Morgenlander. It gave me a sinking feeling, one I wouldn't have expected to feel. I shouldn't have been surprised; Morgenlander's days were obviously numbered even six years ago. But I guess some stupid optimistic part of me had been hoping he'd squeak through.
"Okay," said Number Two. "Just don't use up all your money driving around in a rental car and reminiscing. You're a young guy. Get a job."
I thanked them and said so long. They went back to their roadblock, and I rolled up my window and drove away.
I thought about Kornfeld, and decided I didn't mind if a rematch occurred. I had a lot less to lose this time. I owed the guy a punch in the stomach if nothing else, and if his underbelly turned out to be six years softer, all the better.
Yes, Kornfeld had earned a spot in my mental appointment book, but Dr. Testafer came first. I wanted Grover's help, voluntary or not, with a couple of missing pieces. I found his street and parked in the clearing at the end of the driveway. Standing in the clearing brought back memories. I'd snorted make here three days or six years ago, depending on how you counted, and it made my nose itch to think of it. I tried to put make out of my mind as I walked up to Testafer's house, but it was tough. The issue was like a jack-in-the-box with an overanxious spring; it jumped out at the slightest prompting.
The house looked pretty much the same—the main house, that is. The little house on the left didn't look occupied. I guess Testafer had sworn off sheep after Dulcie. I rang the bell, and after a minute Testafer came to the door.
He'd always looked to me like he'd been fifty years old since adolescence, and six more years didn't really make him look any older. He was still red in the face, as if he'd been running up stairs, and there might have been fewer of the wisps of white that were trying to pass for hair, but given what little he was working with, he looked good, surprisingly good. Last I'd seen him, he was hiding between two parked cars, dodging bullets, a fish out of water. Up here in the doorway of his house, he looked more comfortable.
"Hello, Grover," I said.
He looked at me blankly.
I felt a fist of sudden anger curl in my stomach. He was going to pull a Pansy on me.
"Inside," I said, growling it. I put my hands on his chest and pushed him backwards into the house, and kicked the door shut behind me. "Get the memory."
His eyebrows arched incredulously. "Go," I said. I pushed him, and he stumbled ahead of me into the living room. The whole thing stank to me all of a sudden, stank terribly. I wanted to hit him, but he was too old to hit, so I reached down and swept my arm across a table covered with glass and ceramic baubles, and they crashed into a thousand pieces on the floor. Testafer just kept backing up until he fell into the couch. I turned to pull down the shelf of old magazines, but it wasn't there anymore.
"Where's the memory?" I said. "Get it out."
The door to the kitchen swung open and a guy came out with a drink in each hand—gin and tonic, if Pansy's memory had it right. He was about as old as Testafer, but he was as thin and white as Grover was fat and red. It didn't take me any time to figure it out. Testafer had a boyfriend. It wasn't a surprise. After he quit the practice, he must have missed handling penises. In a funny way I understood.
I stepped up and took the drinks. "Take a walk," I said.
The guy let go of the drinks like he'd made them for me. Grover spoke, and it came out a whisper.
"You'd better go, David," he said. "I'll be fine."
David picked hi? way quietly through the broken glass and pottery strewn across the doorway and obediently disappeared. Grover had switched from sheep that walked like men to men that walked like sheep.
When I turned back to him, he had his memory out on the couch beside him, the mike cord in his hand. I'd learned fast to despise the sight of the things. He looked at me with desperate eyes, and for an odd moment my anger abated and I felt sorry for him, but it didn't last.
"Metcalf," I said.
He knew what I wanted. He said it into the memory. His voice came back out quiet and slow, as if he'd spent a lot of time on this particular entry.
"The detective," it went. "A dangerous, impulsive man. Maynard made the mistake of bringing him in, and he wouldn't go away. Danny Phoneblum's oppositional double, and a fundamentally undesirable presence."
Testafer looked up at me blankly, his mouth tight,
while his voice poured out of the machine. I found myself smiling. I sort of liked the description. At the very least it was reassuring to find some trace of my work left somewhere. I handed Testafer one of the drinks, and he sipped at it nervously while we waited to see if the entry was exhausted. It was.
"That's a very old memory," he said softly, his eyes full of fear. I studied him for some sign of genuine recollection, some hint of hostility or guilt, but it wasn't there.
"That's okay," I said. "It's up to date."
He didn't get it, or maybe he did and it scared him. Either way the effect was the same: he sat staring at me, blankly astonished, like a baby when you make faces at it. I sat down in the chair across from him and took a pull at the drink in my hand. Gin and tonic, all right. I was running out of steam, and the liquor tasted awfully good. I couldn't feel my anger anymore, and I wasn't particularly trying. It seemed too much to stay angry at a guy who didn't have the faintest idea what I was talking about. I felt the weight of the past like bal-last, something only I was stupid enough to keep carrying, and I began to wonder if it was time to cut loose. Testafer made it look sort of good. For a moment I envied him, and began patting the pockets of my coat to locate the little envelope of make.
For a moment. Then I thought about what I was thinking, and took a deep breath and put the drink on the floor and licked my Lips clean of the taste of alcohol and forgot about the make. I carefully curled the fingers of the fist of my anger, got up from the chair, and went over and picked up Testafer's memory. The cord to the mike stretched out between us. Testafer looked up at me, eyes wide, his mouth a little open. I felt my anger now, felt it clear and cold, and I wanted him to feel it too. I hoped it made him feel vulnerable to see his memory in the palm of my hand.
"Dulcie the sheep," I said through my teeth.
His eyes showed maybe the first glimmer of something more than funhouse fear.
"Say it," I said.
He said it.
"Your steadfast companion," came his voice out of the memory. "Her life was tragically cut short. The murder remains unsolved."
"That's a lie," I said. "Orton Angwine was pinned with the sheep's killing."
Testafer looked extremely uncomfortable. The hand that held the mike was shaking. "Angwine was convicted of killing Maynard only," he said.
"Who killed the sheep?" I said.
His eyes closed.
"Who killed the sheep?" I said again.
He leaned over and pursed his Lips into the microphone.
With his eyes closed he looked like he was praying into the device. "Who killed the sheep?" he repeated.
"The murder remains unsolved," said the memory.
"The murder remains unsolved," he said to me, but he didn't open his eyes.
"I solved it, Grover. Open your eyes and tell me who killed the sheep." I reached down and gripped his hand hard until he dropped the mike. This time he opened his eyes, but he didn't speak.
"You don't need this," I said, showing him the memory. "You had me going for a minute there, but you blew it when you closed your eyes. Who killed the sheep?" I dropped the box and the microphone on the floor and crushed them under my shoe. It was all plastic and wire and chips, and it crumbled pretty easily even on the soft pile of the carpet. I kicked it, spread it with my toe, until it was mixed with the first mess I'd made there. Testafer got redder and spilled his drink trying to put it down, and I think his eyes were getting wet around the edges before he caught himself and reeled it all back in.
"I killed her," he said when he could without choking. "Tell me how you knew."
"That wasn't hard," I said. "I ruled you out at first because you hit the intestine. You didn't need to; to kill her, and someone who knew enough would avoid making such a mess. But you're no surgeon, and you're certainly no veterinarian. If hitting it was clever, it almost worked, and if it was stupid, you almost got lucky. Almost."
He didn't tell me which it was. I guessed stupid and lucky.
"Dulcie knew things that could have broken the case open," I said. "I didn't get them out of her, but you didn't know that. I left you there feeling violent and frustrated and panicked. Even at the time I wondered if you would hit her. It wasn't too big a jump to pin you with the killing."
I watched Testafer crumble and age on the couch in front of me. For six years he'd kept these memories from himself. It was obvious he'd been using the Forgettol and the memory device as a public front. But it was equally obvious, from the way he was deflating, that he was living through the visceral part of the memory now for the first time.
"For God's sake," he said through his hands. "Don't dig it all up again." He sounded as if he were being confronted with the carcass, literally.
"Relax," I said. "I'm not such a stickler for animal rights. You can buy me off with the answers to a couple of questions."
I meant it. Not that I thought he'd suffered enough—I wouldn't presume to weigh suffering against sins. But from here on I was in this game for my own satisfaction, and as far as Testafer was concerned, I was satisfied.
I gave him a minute to dry himself up.
"Celeste didn't go out of town eight years ago," I said. "She came here to stay with you. You were the family doctor. You delivered Barry, and she trusted you. Phoneblum was getting abusive and she needed out."
He nodded confirmation.
"Phoneblum didn't introduce Maynard to Celeste—you did. You were training him into your practice, and they met and the sparks flew, despite your warnings."
"That's pretty much right," he said.
"Celeste and the sheep were pals from when they lived up here together, during Celeste's hideaway. Dulcie knew all about Phoneblum, and you thought I'd squeezed it out of her. You didn't believe it when she said she'd kept her little black lips zippered, and you were angry at both of us, and you took it out on her."
He only nodded.
"She did all right by you, Grover. She didn't squeal. Maybe you would have preferred it if she never let me in the door, but she didn't volunteer anything important."
He was quiet. He'd sobbed once and he wasn't going to sob again. He was going to put up a good front and answer my questions. Except I was done. That was the last piece of the puzzle. I didn't need any more information out of Testafer, and I didn't need to sit there looking at his fat red face while he sorted out his misery. I needed to move on, to finish the job—and I needed make, badly. I was out of my seat and about to leave, when I suddenly had an idea. The idea went like this: Testafer was a doctor and Testafer was a rich man and Testafer was a man who liked to snort something better than Office make, or had, six years ago.
"You don't have any old make sitting around, do you?" I asked. "Something just a little less crude than the standard issue? Something without so much Forgettol in it?"
He smiled.
"I was about to ask you the same thing," he said.
CHAPTER 5
I SAT IN MY CAR WITH THE DOOR OPEN, PUT MY HANDS ON the wheel, and watched them tremble. It wasn't stopping. I needed addictol and I needed it soon.
I drove to the makery. The lights were on, and some tainted analog of hope stirred dimly in my heart. It didn't seem too far-fetched that the maker might have a few old ingredients sitting around that he could cobble together into some semblance of my blend. If not, I'd be happy enough to take some addictol straight, nothing on the side, thanks, see you later. When I went in, the hope faded like it was bleached. A guy was feeding his card into a vending machine on the far wall. There was no counter, no wall of little white bottles, no friendly old maker. Nothing. The machines covered the walls like urinals in a train station bathroom, and I didn't have to watch him get a packet to know what they were for.
I went out, feeling sick. The complimentary packet of make was burning a hole in my pocket, but it wasn't a commodity. I could obviously help myself to as much as I liked, anytime I liked. I had a funny idea about only snorting a little, but I knew that was a joke. If I got
started, I wouldn't stop for a while.
I drove up into the hills towards Phoneblum's old place. Night was falling over the trees and rooftops, and I tried to let it ease me out of my funk, but it was no go. My gut was clenched with need. I pulled the car over to the side of the road and tossed the packet of make into the woods so I wouldn't be tempted. If I wanted it later, the stuff was available, but I had work to do now. And I had more than my own memory to worry about. It was obvious I was going to have to do a lot of other people's remembering for them.
At first I didn't recognize Phoneblum's place. The big fake house was gone, leaving the stairwell naked on the crest of the hill. I parked anyway, feeling pretty sure I had business at this address no matter what it looked like on top. It wasn't the kind of property that changed hands too often.
The difference no doubt mirrored the transfer of power that had obviously taken place while I was away, from Phoneblum to the kangaroo. Phoneblum was the big fake house projected on the top of the hill, all bluff and ornament, concerned with cloaking his evil in style. And the kangaroo—when I realized I was comparing a kangaroo to a stairwell I had a laugh at myself, and let it go.
I wanted to draw a bead on the kangaroo, but I wasn't ready to tangle with him, not yet. So I turned off the engine and the lights and watched the moon come up. My hands were in motion again, the thumbs twitching, but I was getting used to it.
I always get bored on a stakeout, and this time it was no different. I thought about Maynard and Celeste and the hotel room, and I thought about Walter Surface, and I thought about the kangaroo. I thought about Catherine Teleprompter, wondered where she was and how she looked now. I thought about a lot of things. Eventually I thought about make, and I thought about it a lot, and I thought about a lot of it. Big piles. I'd laughed at plenty of junkies in my day, all the while making damn sure I had a straw for my nose when I needed it, and now I went back and apologized to each and every one of them. My system was trying to run without the fuel that had made it go for years, and it was hell. I could feel my bloodstream panhandling my fat reserves for whatever last traces of the vital addictol they had stored away, and I could feel my fat cells turning out their pockets and saying sorry pal, there's nothing left.
Gun, with Occasional Music Page 20
