were almost a caricature of perfection.
“Has he talked to you yet?” Harper whispered to Carson.
“No. You?”
“He buttonholed me this morning.”
Vanderwagon turned. “What did he ask?”
“Just a lot of sly questions about the accident. Don’t be deceived by his looks. That guy is no fool.”
“Sly questions,” Vanderwagon repeated, picking up his knife a second time and wiping it carefully. Then he laid it down and carefully squared it with his fork.
“Why the hell can’t we have a nice steak once in a while?” Carson complained. “I never know what I’m eating.”
“Think of it as experiencing international cuisine,” said Harper, slicing open the sweetbreads and stuffing a jiggling piece into his mouth. “Excellent,” he said, his mouth full.
Carson took a tentative bite. “Hey, these aren’t bad,” he said. “Not very sweet, though. So much for truth in advertising.”
“Pancreas,” said Harper.
Carson laid down his fork with a clatter. “Thanks a lot.”
“What kind of sly questions?” Vanderwagon asked.
“I’m not supposed to say.” Harper winked at Carson.
Vanderwagon turned sideways and gave Harper a penetrating stare. “About me.”
“No, not about you, Andrew. Well, maybe a few, you know. You were, shall we say, in the thick of things.”
Vanderwagon slid his uneaten plate away and said nothing.
Carson leaned over. “This is from the pancreas of a
Harper shoveled another mouthful in. “Who cares? That Ricciolini can cook anything. Anyway, Guy, you grew up eating Rocky Mountain oysters, right?”
“Never touched ’em,” Carson said. “That was just something we served to the dudes as a joke.”
“If thy right eye offends thee,” Vanderwagon said.
The others turned to look at him.
“Getting religion?” Harper asked.
“Yes. Pluck it out,” Vanderwagon said.
There was an uneasy silence.
“You all right, Andrew?” Carson asked.
“Oh, yes,” said Vanderwagon.
“Remember Biology 101?” Harper asked. “The Islets of Langerhans?“
“Shut up,” Carson warned.
“Islets of Langerhans,“ Harper continued. “Those clusters of cells in the pancreas that secrete hormones. I wonder if you can see them with the naked eye?”
Vanderwagon stared at his plate, then slowly brought his knife up and sliced neatly through the sweetbreads. He picked up the piece of organ with his fingers, looked carefully at the incision he’d made, then dropped the morsel again, sending sauce and pieces of mushroom flying onto the white tablecloth. He poured some water into his napkin, folded it, and carefully wiped his hands. “No,” he said.
“No what?”
“They’re not visible.”
Harper snickered. “If Ricciolini saw us playing with our food like this, he’d poison us.”
“What?” Vanderwagon said loudly.
“I was just kidding. Calm down.”
“Not you,” Vanderwagon said. “I was talking to
There was another silence.
“Yes sir, I will!” Vanderwagon shouted. He came to attention suddenly, knocking his chair over as he stood up. His hands were straight at his sides, fork in one and knife in the other. Slowly, he raised the fork, then swiveled it toward his face. Each movement was calculated, almost reverent. He looked as if he was about to take a bite from the empty fork.
“Andrew, what are you up to now?” Harper said, chuckling nervously. “Look at this guy, will you?”
Vanderwagon raised the fork several inches.
“For Chrissakes, sit down,” Harper said.
The fork inched closer, the tines trembling slightly in Vanderwagon’s hand.
Carson realized what the scientist was about to do the instant before it happened. Vanderwagon never blinked as he placed the tines of the fork against the cornea of one eye. Then he pressed his fist forward with slow, deliberate pressure. For a second, Carson could see, with horrifying clarity, the ocular membrane yielding under the tines of the fork; then there was the sound of a grape being stepped on and clear liquid sprayed across the table in a viscous jet. Carson lunged for the arm, jerking it back. The fork came out of the eye and clattered to the floor as Vanderwagon began to make a high, keening noise.
Harper leaped forward to help but Vanderwagon slashed with his knife and the scientist fell backward into his chair. Harper looked down in disbelief at the red stripe spreading across his chest. Vanderwagon lunged again and Carson moved in, bringing a fist up toward his gut. Vanderwagon anticipated the blow, jerked sideways, and Carson’s hand glanced harmlessly off Vanderwagon’s hipbone. A moment later, Carson felt a stunning blow to the side of his skull. He stumbled backward, shaking his head, cursing himself for underestimating the man. As his vision cleared he saw Vanderwagon bearing down on him and he swung with his right, connecting with the scientist’s temple. Vanderwagon’s head snapped sideways and he crashed to the floor. Grabbing the wrist that held the knife, Carson slammed it to the floor until the knife came free. Vanderwagon arched forward, screaming incoherently, fluid streaming from his ruined eye. Carson gave him a short, measured blow to the chin and he rolled sideways and lay still, his flanks heaving.
Carson eased back carefully, hearing for the first time the tremendous hubbub of voices around him. His hand began to throb in time with the beat of his heart. The rest of the diners had come forward, forming a circle around the table. “Medical’s on the way,” a voice said. Carson looked up at Harper, who nodded back. “I’m okay,” he gasped, pressing a bloodied napkin against his chest.
Then there was a hand on Carson’s shoulder and Teece’s thin, peeling face passed his field of vision. The inspector knelt beside Vanderwagon.
“Andrew?”
Vanderwagon’s good eye slid around and located Teece.
“Why did you do that?” Teece asked sympathetically.
“Do what?”
Teece pursed his lips. “Never mind,” he said quietly.
“Always talking ...”
“I understand,” Teece said.
“Pluck out ...”
“Who told you to pluck it out?”
“
“We’re going to do just that,” said Mike Marr as he made his way through the circle of diners, pushing Teece aside. Two medical workers lifted Vanderwagon onto a stretcher. The investigator followed the group toward the door, leaning over the stretcher, crooning: “Who? Tell me who?”
But the medic had already sunk a needle in Vanderwagon’s arm and the scientist’s one good eye rolled up into his head as the powerful narcotic took effect.
The studio’s Green Room wasn’t green at all, but a pale yellow. A sofa and several overstuffed chairs were lined up against the walls, and in the center a scratched Bauhaus coffee table was piled high with copies of
