disrespected him,” the gangster informed me. “But when they brought him to trial the judge said he was what they call chemically insane. His aunt worked for these rich white people and they send him off to the Sunset Sanatorium. Doctors give him some pills an’ say he’s cured and can go home, only he likes it there so takes a job as a orderly. It was a good gig until they figured out that he was sellin’ prescription drugs from their medicine cabinet and buyin’ recreational drugs for the wealthy clients they had.”
At the end of this speech he shrugged and gazed into my eyes.
I silently nixed the thought of asking about Fell because, as far as I knew, the body hadn’t been discovered yet.
“Thank you, Mr. Jones,” I said.
This response surprised him.
“You don’t wanna know nuthin’ else?”
“No. Why?”
“I’on’t know. I thought maybe you heard that Willie was workin’ for me when he was up at the loony bin.”
“Did you send him down to New York to kill me?” I asked.
“No.”
“I just wanted to hear a little about the man tried to kill me. If you don’t have anything to do with that, then I don’t have any more questions.”
Big Mouth’s stare was interminable. He was the master of his world because he paid attention to every detail.
“What you thinka Brenda?” he asked at last. “You know, I’m gonna get her a recordin’ contract.”
“She’s a beautiful woman but . . .”
“But what?”
I stood up.
“But,” I said, “you got a soul singer on your center stage and all the young muscle outside studyin’ how to throw rhymes. And you know the only dis worse than disrespect is the disconnect.”
Big Mouth frowned at me, but I was already moving away.
E€„
34
I called Katrina on my way back to the Minerva.
“Are you all right?” she asked me.
“Fine. I’m just up here in Albany looking into a few things.”
“Be careful.”
“I will.”
When I got off the phone I realized that my ire at Katrina was based on events from long ago, events that no longer mattered. I wasn’t mad at her, and she was genuinely concerned about my well- being. But like with Baum’s Tin Man, the only thing missing was a heart.
I SLEPT LONG and hard in the old bed. It was one of the few times I could remember that I didn’t dream about fire or falling. Opaque drapes kept out the summer sunlight, so I didn’t rouse until almost seven. I washed, shaved, and dressed in a different suit that looked just like the one I wore the night before. I ate scrambled eggs and bacon while scouring the
After breakfast I got directions from the concierge and drove my rental southeast of the city about twenty-five miles.
The Sunset Sanatorium was set off from the highway behind a forest of maples. The thirty-foot wrought-iron gate was painted violet-pink, and the road leading to the guard’s kiosk was paved in real cobblestone. The buildings beyond the sentry’s station were made of brick and covered in ivy. It looked more like an Ivy League college campus than a mental institution.
When I pulled up next to the booth a black man in a powder-blue uniform and a dark-blue, black-brimmed cap came out to brace me.
“Can I help you?” he said.
I handed him a business card that said I was Ben Trotter, a private detective working out of Newark.
“Looking for information on a Willie Sanderson,” I said while he read.
“Willie doesn’t work here anymore,” the middle-aged, dark-brown man informed me.
He was short and slight, built for the long haul—the kind of man who could carry half his weight in tobacco or cotton from way out in the fields.
“Yeah,” I said. “I know. They got him in a hospital after he tried to kill a man. My client wants to know why.”
The guard had descended, like me and many of our brethren, from a long line of suspicion. He pinched a corner of my card, regarding it with unconscious intensity. I believed that I could read that stare. He was thinking that there was something wrong with my brief explanation. But he was looking beyond the lie, to see if I posed a problem or if I was okay. After a moment he came to the conclusion that I was okay enough.
“Make a left at the end of this road,” he said. “The second building on your right is number four. That’s the human resources office. I don’t know what they can tell you, though.”
“Thanks,” I said and drove on.
I PARKED IN the lot that the guard directed me to but didn’t go into the HR offices. Instead I walked around the other side of the building into a large quad where a couple dozen patients and their handlers were taking the sun.
It was like no other mental institution I’d seen. The staff wore gray-and-white clothes that were uniforms only because of their similarity of color, while the patients dressed for leisure. It might have been a Florida retirement community, except many of the residents were middle-aged, and even young.
I walked around, getting a feel for the place, trying to understand something, anything, about the environment that Willie Sanderson had been immersed in. He was my only living link to the murderous conspiracy.
“Hello, young man,” a white woman said.
She was older, maybe seventy-five, wrapped in a summer frock of swirling emerald and turquoise and holding a pink parasol up against the sun. She was seated on a violet-pink wrought-iron bench.
“Hello,” I said.
“Are you a visitor?”
“I guess so,” I answered, sitting down.
“You don’t know?” She was small with big eyes and lots of red rubbed into her thin lips.
“Well,” I said lightly, “I’m not a patient, and I don’t work here, so what’s left?”
The older woman smiled and then grinned. Her teeth weren’t well maintained but the mirth outshone her bad hygiene.
“Do you know somebody here?” she asked.
“I know somebody who used to be here.”
“Who’s that?”
