Wetbones

these drunks from time to time,' his supervisor said. 'I don't know why we never get around to firing him'

Garner pushed the door open and went in. It was a cluttered studio apartment, smelling powerfully of a catbox and some hidden rot. The cabinets and drawers had been opened, their junky contents dumped on the floor. A half empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the floor beside him, Blume sat facing Garner in a green cloth easy chair in the very centre of the room. He was in his underwear, sitting in front of an old black and white TV set currently showing a wonky double image of Barbara Walters interviewing another 'reclusive' movie star. Blume was staring at it, motionlessly, unblinking. Garner could see the gray and white TV screen reflected in both Blume's eyes in nearly perfect miniature. Beyond him, above the crap-lumpy cat box, was a half open window onto a fire escape. No sign of the cat. The cat had abandoned ship.

There was a book held in Blume's hands. A bio graphy. There was something about the way it was set up in his hands that made Garner feel sure it had been put there by someone else, set up like a prop. The title of the book was Remembering Trotsky

Garner didn't bother saying anything. He took a moment to decide if he wanted to walk around behind Blume. He hated to give them the satisfaction. But in the end, he did it. He stepped behind Blume and saw the ice pick stuck to the handle in the back of Blume's skull. Just one small trickle of blood dried on the bald scalp beneath the handle.

Garner turned away, grimacing, thinking it would have been a better effect if they'd turned off the TV. He caught a tiny blinking red light in a far corner, next to a huge heap of old Los Angeles Times. It was a call-recorded light on a Sears answering machine, the phone on top of it.

He circled Blume widely and went to the phone, hit the answering machine's play button. There was a message from the agency, telling Blume if he didn't at least call in before midnight he was fired. And then there was a message from another of Blume's clients.

A petulant, phone-fuzzed voice said, 'Blume? You there? No? Okay. This is Jeff Teitelbaum. I get this cryptic phone message from you saying that Sam Denver was seen at the sites of three Wetbones murders – if I'm hearing this slurred-up mumbling of yours right it says 'not long after killings'… What the fuck? You trying to give me a heart attack with this cryptic shit? If you think my brother is one of those Wetbones victims just fucking come out and say so and get your ass over here. You can't leave me messages like this and just… Shit! I'm at the Culver City hospital right now but I'll be home in a half hour or so… I want you over here personally.

My address in case you're too blitzed to find your fucking rolodex is…'

Garner dug through Blume's things for a pen, finally located a stub of a pencil and scribbled the address down on the back of a tract for Brick's drug recovery program. He folded it up and carefully put it in his pocket, then looked around for notes or tape recordings or photos – anything pertaining to Blume's investigation.

He found nothing relevant. They'd have taken anything like that, of course.

He made a quick, anonymous call to the LAPD to report the body, then hurried out, keeping his mind focused on his errand so as not to think about crack. Hurrying to find a bus that would take him to Jeff Teitelbaum's part of town.

Los Angeles

'You're really not going to that party?' Jeff asked again, as they walked into the overlit, almost empty lobby of the hospital. The one Mitch had run away from. 'I mean, Christ, you got a deal trembling on the verge with Arthwright. Not a good time to snub his party.'

'Arthwright.' Prentice grimaced. 'I don't think I want to know Arthwright all that well.'

'It's your career.'

Prentice shrugged. What was he supposed to tell Jeff? That he kept hearing Amy in his head warning him away from Arthwright and Lissa? That he was afraid of Lisa – for no clear reason at all? That he didn't quite believe there was a party to go to – and he wasn't sure why? And he hadn't yet told Jeff where the party was. The Doublekey Ranch. After what the old lady with the parrot had told him about her niece's death, he didn't much want to go out to the ranch…

Jeff went on, 'So, did the doctor tell you what he wanted?'

'You can ask him yourself,' Prentice said, nodding toward the small white-coated brown-skinned man coming through the double doors into the lobby. Doctor Drandhu.

Drandhu advanced, one hand extended for shaking, smiling nervously. 'Mr. Prentice! Mr. Teitelbaum! Correct?' His accent was native Indian, but his English was otherwise controlled with a brittle formality as he shook both their hands with fingers that felt like they were made of bird-bones, and said, 'I am thankful you were able to come. Oh you have hurt yourself, Mr. Prentice?' He was looking at the bandage on Prentice's left hand. The cut still smarted dully.

'Yeah. On a busted bottle in the tub.' He still felt strange after the dream in the tub. He wanted to run out and get a drink

'Not a very professional bandage, Mr. Prentice, would you like me to…?'

'No, no thanks. What's up? You said it was something about Mitch?'

'It is related, yes, yes. Please. There is someone I must show to you.' He led the way through the double doors, down the antiseptic-reeking halls. 'I asked you to come because your brother, Mr. Teitelbaum, was one of my first ES patients…'

'ES?' Jeff asked. 'You've got a name for it?'

Drandhu smiled shyly. 'Emaciation Syndrome. This is my term. When I find out more about it I will write a paper. But there is so little I understand now, I am sad to say. So very little. I am a little frightened, to be frank, and feeling very much alone. When I try to interest my colleagues they say I am mistaking AIDS or drug-induced for something distinct. But I don't think so, no. The patients are negative for AIDS and… no, there are no drug indications. But the wasting and the self mutilation…'

'My ex-wife had the same thing. If it is a disease,' Prentice said.

Drandhu looked at him with interest. 'Oh yes really? That is very interesting. They knew each other, the boy and your wife?'

'A little. But…' He shrugged. He didn't want to get into it that far, yet. 'Anyway, yeah: it occurred to me and Jeff that it's just too big a coincidence, Mitch and Amy having the same kind of sickness. Mitch had just started to lose weight but the rest of it was there.'

'I will talk to you about that just a little later if you do not mind. I would like to take some notes. But now there is a man here with ES – he asked to speak to you. He said he knew what was causing his problem but didn't want to tell me. I think he is afraid… Oh, yes, here he is, here is – Mr. Kenson?'

They'd stepped into a private room; a generic hospital room. Kenson was lying on a white hospital bed. He was strapped onto the bed, under the sheet, its mattress cranked up so he was near sitting position. The straps weren't psycho-restraints, Prentice judged – they were to keep him from falling off the bed. And Kenson looked as if he could fall off, quite easily: he was a shrunken caricature of the man Prentice had watched on TV years before. His eyes were sunken and unaligned, looking at separate parts of the room. His lips were flattened onto his few remaining teeth. His arms were bandaged wrist to shoulders. A bottle of glucose water hung from a portable stand, feeding into a tube that bit with a steel needle into a vein on the back of Kenson's bony hands. 'It must have hurt like a bitch when they put that IV needle in,' Jeff said softly, as they came to stand beside the bed.

Kenson nodded. 'Did.'

Drandhu seemed flustered by the lack of introductions. 'I should perhaps say, this is Mr. Louis Kenson, and this is Mr. Teitelbaum and Mr. Prentice his friend. Mr. Teitelbaum's brother was the one I told you about, Mr. Kenson -' Drandhu turned hastily to Jeff. 'I do not mean to lapse confidentiality, no, but it seemed so important to find the connections -'

'Don't worry about it,' Jeff said. He drew a chair from the opposite wall and sat down by the bed. 'You wanted to talk to us, Kenson, I think?'

'Yeah.' His voice a croak. 'I thought maybe you'd seen some things. I mean… You know what your brother was into? See, if I tell the doctor here, he's going to think…' He paused to wet the scraps that were his lips. 'He's going to call in the psychiatrists… I figure if I have somebody else here who knows… I was hoping you might have found the kid. Brought him here too. I guess not huh?''

Jeff shook his head. Prentice looked around for a chair. There wasn't another one. He was suddenly very tired. He hadn't been sleeping much. And looking at Kenson made him feel drained himself

'Well – maybe we shouldn't talk about this,' Kenson went on hoarsely. His voice drifting to join his gaze