'To tell you the truth,' she said, 'I don't know what the hell is going on.'
'You and me both,' John said, and sat back, sighing. 'That hit the spot. This is probably the only solid food I'll have all day.'
'Take the leftover sandwiches with you,' she said. 'I insist.'
'You'll get no argument from me,' he said with a sheepish grin. 'I can use the calories. Listen, after I leave here, I'm going back to Twentieth Street. Callaway's murder wasn't my squeal, but I want to hang around the edges and see if the guys running it come up with anything.'
'Like what?'
'They'll check all the trash baskets, garbage cans, and catch basins in the area to see if they can find the knife. And they'll brace all the neighborhood stores, bars, and restaurants-flashing a photo of the dear, departed Father- to ask if he was in last night, and if so, was he with someone.'
'John, that'll take days.'
'At least,' he agreed. 'Maybe weeks. But it's got to be done. Hey, you look sad. What's wrong, Red?'
'I am sad,' she said. 'You know about what? I'm sad about Sidney Loftus, aka Father Brian Callaway. I know he was a swindler and con man. I know he was taking Olivia Starrett and other religious saps for every cent he could grab. He was bad. But I still feel sorry for him, dying that way.'
'That's a luxury I can't afford,' John said. 'Feeling sorry. I let myself feel and I'm no good to the Department.'
'I don't believe that.'
'Believe it,' he insisted. 'I'm like a surgeon. He goes to cut out a cancerous tumor, he can't feel sorry for the patient; it would interfere with his job. All he's interested in is if he's getting out the entire malignancy. He's got to think of the person under his knife as a thing. Meat. He can't be distracted by feeling sad or feeling sorry.'
'Is that the way you think of people-as things?'
'Only the bad ones. Sid Loftus was a thing, so I can't feel anything toward him. I don't think of you as a thing. You know how I feel about you.'
'How?' she challenged.
'All the time,' he said, and she laughed.
'You're a bulldog, you are,' she said.
'It sounds like a line, doesn't it?' Wenden said. 'It's not. It's a very, very serious pitch. I think it would make us both happy. All right, so it would be a temporary happiness. Nothing heavy, nothing eternal. Just a great rush that doesn't hurt anyone. Is that so bad?'
'You don't know,' she objected. 'That it wouldn't hurt anyone. You can't predict.'
'I'm willing to take the risk,' he said. 'Are you?'
She was silent.
'Think about it,' he entreated.
'All right,' Dora said, 'I will.'
Chapter 29
He said his name was Ramon Schnabl, and no one questioned it or even considered inquiring about his antecedents. He was a serious man, and the few people who had heard him laugh wished they hadn't. He was reputed to be enormously wealthy which, considering the nature of his business, was likely.
He was an extremely short, slender man whose suits were tailored in Rome and his shoes, with an invisible build-up, were the creation of a London cobbler. Everything he wore seemed tiny, tight, and shiny, and it was said that the toilet seats in his Central Park South apartment were custom-made as he might fall through a conventional design.
He was not an albino, exactly, for his eyes were dark and there was a faint flush to his thin cheeks. But he was undeniably pale, hair silver-white, skin milky, and even his knuckles translucent. He favored platinum jewelry and double-breasted white suits that accented his pallidness. He also wore, indoors and out, deeply tinted glasses as if he could not endure bright light or garish colors.
Turner Pierce thought him a dangerous man, quite possibly psychotic. But Helene thought him a fascinating character. What attracted her, she said, was the contradiction between his diminutive size and the menace he projected. Ramon never threatened, but associates were always aware that the power to hurt was there.
His apartment was as colorless as the man himself. The living room had blank white walls, a floor of black and white tiles set in a checkerboard pattern, black leather furniture with stainless steel frames. Over the cold white marble fireplace was the room's sole decorative touch: the bleached skull of an oryx.
Ramon and Turner sat facing each other in matching clunky armchairs. The host had provided glasses of chilled Evian water. He was both a teetotaler and rigidly anti-smoking. At the moment, his guest was wishing fervently for a cigarette and tumbler of iced Absolut.
'Matters are progressing well,' Schnabl said in his dry, uninflected voice. 'You agree, my friend?'
'Oh yes,' Pierce said. 'No problems.'
'None?' the other man said. 'Then tell me why you appear so troubled.'
'Do I?' Turner said, wishing he could peer behind the dark glasses and see the eyes that saw so much. He tried a laugh. 'Well, you know they say a man has only two troubles in this world: money and women.'
'And which is yours?'
'Not money,' Pierce said hastily. 'No trouble there at all. I have a personal problem with a woman.'
'Oh?' Schnabl said. 'Surely not Helene, that dear lady?'
Turner shook his head.
'Then it must be Felicia Starrett, Clayton's sister.'
Turner nodded, not questioning how Ramon knew. This little man knew everything. 'Not a serious problem,' he assured Ramon. 'But she is inclined to be very emotional, very unpredictable.'
'A bad combination, my friend. Vindictive?'
'I'm afraid the possibility is there.'
'I thought she was dependent on you for her supply.'
'She is,' Turner said, 'but it isn't working out quite as I had planned. She still wants more.'
'More?'
'Me,' Pierce said, realizing he was giving up an edge but not seeing any alternative.
'I understand, my friend,' Ramon said, totally without sympathy. 'You have a management problem.'
'Yes,' Turner said, 'something like that.'
'Perhaps stronger medicine is called for.'
Pierce looked at him, puzzled. 'Such as?'
Ramon regarded him gravely for a moment. Then: 'I am introducing a new product line. Large crystals of metham-phetamine that can be smoked. On the street it is called 'ice.' I believe it may be the preferred recreation of the 1990s; other products will become declasse. The great benefit of ice is that it produces euphoria that lasts twenty-four hours. It might prove to be the answer to your management problem.'
'Thank you,' Turner Pierce said humbly.
He met Felicia that night. They dined at Vito's, and he smiled at her blather, laughed at her jokes, and held hands when they strolled back to his apartment. A tumescent moon drifted in a cloudless sky, and the whole night seemed swollen with promise: something impending on the wind, something lurking in the blue shadows, ready to pounce, smirking.
'What a hoot,' she chattered on. 'Clay divorces Eleanor and marries Helene. And you and I tie the knot. One big, happy family! Right, Turner? Am I right?'
'You're right,' he said. 'We'll be the fearless foursome.'
'Love it,' she said, squeezing his hand. 'The fearless foursome-that's us. We might even have a pas de quatre some night if we all get high enough. Would you go for that?'
'Why not,' he said.
She wouldn't even let him pour brandies, but began removing her clothes the moment she was inside the
