Her smile said it all. 'I'm in charge of Final Accounts. Extension four-eighteen.'
With that, she spun around in a swish of silver and gold. She walked quickly away, leaving me with a snappy reply left unspoken.
I cashed my few chips, found that I'd only just broken even. I retrieved my coat from the cloakroom and stepped into the cool L.A. night.
On the way up to my office, I decided to stop at La Vecque's floor. A puddle of light spilled out from under his door.
I rapped a few knuckles against the rotting wood veneer.
'Who the hell's bothering me at this hour?' He paused. 'I've got a shotgun!'
'Relax, Doc. It's me.'
'Dell? Get in here.' The door unlocked.
I pushed it open and entered to see La Vecque duck into his record room. He emerged a moment later with a plaque and a file folder.
'Take a look at these.' He punched the tiny keys on the plaque, calling up two nearly identical body-shaped images. Their only difference lay in their coloring.
'Me, right?' I balanced the plaque on my fingertips.
'Right. Last month's scan and today's. Notice the changes in coloration where your bones are? And the changes in places such as your intestines and prostate? They correspond to absorptive and transmissive differences in the oscillations of the magnetic waves we used to make the scan.'
'Of course,' I said with as much authority as I could. He had me stumped. The pictures seemed to be almost exact opposites in coloration.
'Your lab reports show large amounts of cancer cells in your urine and feces. I was sure it meant that the cancer had spread to your vital organs. The scan says otherwise. The incidence of cancer cells in your body has sharply declined. I don't understand the mechanism, but somehow you're excreting your sarcoma.'
'What?'
'Damn it, Dell, you're pissing out your cancer. I couldn't be totally sure from the scan, but your lab reports and blood tests show it. You've gone into some kind of spontaneous remission and you're rapidly expelling both your metastatic cancer cells and the osteogenic cells.' He ran a spotted hand over his bald, sweat-dappled head and waved his other hand around in helpless circles.
'I don't know what's causing it, I don't understand the transport mechanism, I don't even know if I'm just crazy. You're
.'
'Oh.'
'`Oh' is all he can say. Look, Ammo, you're not dying anymore. You're-' He stared up at me and narrowed his eyes. He looked as if he'd seen his mother in a cathouse.
'Your hair!'
My hands shot up by reflex. It felt the same. 'What's wrong?' He'd gotten me all fidgety.
'Your roots are black!'
That might have angered a showgirl. I was stunned. I turned to see my reflection in his sink mirror. My mess of grey hair seemed to float a millimeter above my scalp. Peering closer, I saw black roots at the base of the dull, old fibers.
'What is this?' I didn't like surprises.
'Don't ask me, Dell. I never majored in miracles. Give me a million bucks and I might be able to find an answer for you. Or just pay me the fifty you owe me and we'll call it square.'
I peeled off a few orange sawbucks and handed them over. He tossed them onto an instrument tray and shut off
