up Sammy’s card and made a few notes. She’d buttoned up the lab coat and assumed a prim, professional expression.
‘Well, doctor?’ Sammy said.
‘You have nothing to worry about, Mr Jones. Your condition is the result of a dietary irregularity-lack of calcium, principally. Do you drink much milk?’
The gratitude and pleasure on Sammy’s face was childlike. ‘Never touch the stuff.’
‘You’ve built up an imbalance in your body chemistry. I recommend milk and goat’s cheese, also green vegetables. As much as you can get down.’ Marcia scribbled on a prescription pad.
‘Sure thing. And…?’ Sammy said.
Marcia tore off the sheet. ‘These pills. Twice a day before meals.’
‘You mean three times a day.’
‘No. Skip lunch. You should eat only a light breakfast and a high calcium dinner. No meat.’
‘Pasta?’
‘Light on the oil.’
Sammy jumped to his feet and thrust his manicured hand at Marcia’s middle. ‘Thank you, doctor. Thank you.’
‘Here’s your prescription. Have you got your Medicare card?’
‘Let’s make it cash,’ Sammy said.
Benjamin and I had agreed that there was no point in lying, no working through go-betweens. We didn’t want Sammy worried out of his mind. I arrived at Benjamin’s office by arrangement late the following day to find the two brothers drinking coffee. Sammy said it was the first decent coffee he’d had in days. Benjamin didn’t say anything. Sammy was expansive and ready to apologise for our misunderstanding of a few nights back.
I cut him off and spread the photographs out on the desk beside his coffee cup. I’m no artist of the lens, but the pictures were eloquent enough. Marcia looked delicious in her unfastened coat, Sammy’s closed eyes could be taken for transports of ecstasy, and so on. Sammy looked at the photos and slowly reddened from his soft chin to his retreating hairline. He looked across the desk at Benjamin and his eyes were moist.
‘You set me up. Your own brother.’
‘It was for your own good, Samuel. Believe me, your own good, and mine and everybody’s.’
Your own brother.’
‘I’m not your brother, Sammy,’ I said, ‘but I am your friend, or I can be if you play ball.’
‘What’s the rules?’ Sammy said softly.
Benjamin got up and took the coffee pot off the warmer. He poured some more into Sammy’s cup and filled a cup for me.
‘First, you lay off Ruby. Leave her rent alone, don’t hassle her in any way. Meet any reasonable requests she has as a good tenant.’
‘And?’
‘You stop pissing around with hoods like Turk. Stop acting the big shot.’
‘Attend to business,’ Benjamin said.
I sipped some of the terrific coffee. ‘Exactly.’
‘Or?’ Sammy said.
‘I take the pictures to Karen along with the doctor’s report on you — that you presented for a suspected venereal disease and so on.’
Sammy snarled, ‘Doctor!’
I said, ‘She is a doctor, Sammy, and she gave you the straight goods. There’s nothing wrong with you. You took a few doses of Spanish fly, which caused you a few temporary problems. That’s all’
The cloud that had been gathering on Sammy’s brow lifted. You mean it? That woman really is a doctor?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I just got your urine tests back. You’re clean.’
Sammy drank his coffee in one gulp. The flush in his face receded and he grinned. Then he exploded into laughter. ‘You guys,’ he said. ‘You fuckin’ guys. You finally get me to go to a doctor. Me, scared shitless of doctors. And I’m OK?’
I nodded. ‘Sound as a bell. Sammy, while you’re laughing, I can’t quite see why you were worried. I mean, you haven’t stepped out of line, have you?’
Sammy looked at his brother. ‘You knew, didn’t you?’
Benjamin nodded. ‘I knew the scheme’d work, Cliff. Sammy worries about toilet seats, mosquitoes, knives and forks in restaurants…’
‘You can catch things,’ Sammy chuckled as he spoke.
It was time to cut through the hilarity. ‘Okay, Sammy,’ I said. ‘I’m glad you’re happy. We did you a favour, fine. But the terms still apply. Get ahold of yourself, or Karen makes your life a living hell. I don’t need to spell it out, do I?’
Sammy shook his head; suddenly glumness enveloped him. ‘It’s not that easy.’
‘How so?’ Benjamin said.
Sammy waved his hand and it was almost as if he was saying goodbye to buffed nails and shaped cuticles. ‘It’s Turk,’ he said. ‘He’s kinda… pressing me. You know?’
‘Don’t worry about Turk,’ I said.
A little checking turned up something odd and interesting about Turk. He didn’t have a permanent place of residence; instead, he moved around a circuit of city hotels, staying two weeks or three weeks at a time in one place after another. Not five-star hotels, but not fleapits either. The sorts of places I like to stay in myself, and where I stick out-of-town clients. Spending some money on the street and using the phone, I located his current hostelry, the Sullivan in Elizabeth Street, where I happened to know the security man.
Bert Loomis is an ex-cop, ex-bank security man, ex quite a few things. He’s fifty-five and looks every minute of it, especially around the eyes, which have seen most of the dirty things there are to see. I judged that $50 would be about right, and it was.
‘Fifteen minutes, Hardy,’ Loomis said. I noticed that he didn’t touch the knob, just slipped the card in the slot and edged the door open with his knee.
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Where’ll you be?’
‘Nowhere.’
He jerked his head; I went into the suite and heard the door close behind me. I had to work fast, and Turk made it easy. He lived light-basic toilet articles in the bathroom, clothes in the closet and drawers. Condoms, a vibrator and pornographic material in a bedside cabinet. Beer and wine in the bar fridge, hard liquor on top. Two suitcases, empty. Dirty clothes in a heap in the corner of the little balcony room that overlooked the park. The drawer in the solid writing desk was locked and the Sullivan didn’t run to a security safe for guests. I picked the lock and emptied the drawer out on the bed. Personal papers, money matters-bank books, chequebooks, statements, bills from a firm of accountants, three passports.
I checked my watch. Twelve minutes. Time was up. I turned on the radio and dumped a drawer full of underwear onto the floor, where it could be seen from the doorway. Then I moved across to the door, opened it and left it propped open with the toe of one of Turk’s high-heeled boots. According to the passports, Konstanides/Lycos/ Mahoud measured 183 centimetres-he’d looked taller in the Skin Cellar and the boots explained why. I stood inside the bathroom, two metres from the doorway, with my. 38 Smith amp; Wesson at the ready. I was there because I knew Bert Loomis couldn’t resist a doublecross or a dollar.
Turk was quiet, but I could sense and smell him. He edged through the door, and I could imagine him standing in the short hallway, hearing the radio, looking at the mess on the floor. I could feel his tension. I stepped out with the. 38 levelled at 150 centimetres. Turk was fast: he saw me, ducked, pulled out his own gun and came on. But the round hole staring at him had held his attention for just long enough, and I had the advantages of height and readiness; I moved aside, reached forward and clubbed his bald head with my metal-loaded fist. The barrel and trigger guard tore his skin, and the blow almost stunned him. His knees gave and I chopped at his right wrist, bringing my left hand down hard and bunched. He dropped his gun. I hit him between the eyes with my left and felt
