effort to find someone. Plus, as an ex-con, he probably knew how to get done any number of things David could scarcely even name. He'd done Ed a favor, after all, and the man with the awkward flesh wound might be willing to point him in the right direction.
Even if Ed hadn't stolen his file, David would have had no way to get ahold of him without going out and tracking him down. David had not been surprised to find that he was unlisted-the only Ed Pinkerton in the area had turned out to be a ninety-year-old veteran of the Second World War-so he only had the bookmark to go on.
David parked at a broken meter in front of a shop that advertised inflatable sheep. He walked toward Amok, enjoying a small flare of pride at operating like a noir detective. Any notion of pride quickly vanished, however, when he entered and realized just how out of his league he was.
A twanging East Asian tune played over the speakers, interspersed with pleading in a foreign tongue and screams that David, who had heard a fair variety of screams at work each day, could not dismiss as staged. Wraiths of incense smoke curled in the air, dispersing, disappearing. The narrow store was lined with bookcases that displayed books cover-out, and a sinewy man in a leather vest leered across an old cash register at the front, tufts of grayish hair escaping from the V above the vest's buttons. Massive spiderweb tattoos worked their way up both his arms and clutched the balls of his shoulders. A bar pierced his septum, protruding a few centimeters beyond each nostril.
Several customers perused the shelves, indifferent to the ambient wailing. David pretended to do the same, though he could not shake the cashier's stare or the feeling that he'd been immediately recognized as an impostor. A book called Jugular Wine, positioned between Red Stains and the more respectable-looking Sodomy and the Pirate Tradition, caught his attention. He flipped through a few pages with a sort of horrified interest, then lowered the book and risked a look around.
A man too predictably clad in an overcoat shuffled through the front door to the counter, his nose glowing the broken-vessel red of a confirmed alcoholic. The tattooed cashier hunched over the counter, speaking in a lowered voice that David had to strain to make out. 'Got something up your alley.'
The alcoholic made some gesture that rippled his overcoat, and the worker pulled an unlabeled VHS videocassette from beneath the counter and slid it toward him.
David only heard bits and pieces of the cashier's next comment. 'Buddy of mine… crime-scene guy in Tokyo… '
The alcoholic withdrew a hand from his overcoat pocket and tossed three balled twenties on the counter. The VHS tape disappeared with his hand into the same pocket and then he was shuffling back toward the door, never having uttered a word.
Setting down Jugular Wine, David couldn't help but register his amazement; he felt as though he'd just wandered into a particularly unsavory episode of The Twilight Zone. The books on the shelves, the background 'music,' the customers-they represented a seemingly vast undercurrent of society, people with alternative deviant needs and desires, not only buyers of such materials but creators, publishers, distributors.
Gathering his courage, David approached the cash register. 'Hello,' he said. 'I'm looking for… well, I have this friend who-who shops here, and I've been-'
'Book records are confidential,' the man snapped. 'Kennie Starr found that out when he tried to subpoena records of Ms. Lewinski's purchases at Kramerbooks in '98. So if you're going to, go ahead and serve me and get the fuck out.'
David held up his hands and took a step back. 'I'm not serving you anything. I'm not even making any inquiries about his reading habits. I was just wondering if you knew this guy. He's quite striking-looking. Very pale skin, bright red hair that he just shaved.'
'Confidentiality is of the utmost importance to our customers,' the man said. He sneered, revealing a set of perfect, glistening teeth. 'Good friend, huh?'
'Look,' David said. 'He's not a friend.' He knew he was losing ground, but he couldn't exactly reveal that he'd treated Ed without violating his patient confidentiality. 'He's someone I met last week. I helped him out of a jam. I know he frequents this store, and I thought if you saw him, you could mention-'
'I don't involve myself in my customers' lives,' the man said.
'There's nothing involving about it. I'll pay you to give him a message for me.'
'I don't take bribes.'
'Think of it as a delivery fee.'
When the man leaned over the counter, the spiderwebs bulged. 'I don't know who you're talking about. We have a lot of customers. I suggest you buy something or get the fuck out.'
David elected to get the fuck out.
Chapter 35
Realizing he was running late for the resident meet-and-greet, David raced back across town. His annoyance that The Eagles now qualified for the Oldies radio station was quickly replaced with dismay when the news cut in. 'The Westwood Acid Thrower is still on the loose after a daring escape from the UCLA Medical Center last night. Sources indicate that ER Division Chief Dr. David Spier was in a standoff with the LAPD after he refused to release the suspect due to-'
An abrupt disquietude seized David. He clicked off the radio and drove in silence. His untainted career had not prepared him for being the center of controversy. Now every decision he made would be before the glaring spotlight of the media.
Before going to the Sunset Recreation Center, he stopped at home and changed into a suit. Dinner was over by the time he parked and arrived at the banquet hall on the third floor. People were milling on the back terrace, enjoying the summer evening. An immense semicircle of a balcony, the terrace overlooked the UCLA track, its view broken only by the occasional tree. David was amused to find he'd coiled his stethoscope inside his jacket pocket from force of habit.
He nodded to his colleagues as he made his way through the crowd outside, taking care to seek out the new faculty members. Carson wore Birkenstocks beneath his slacks, and a wide grin. Near the bar, Don spoke in hushed tones to a busty blonde in a sequined dress, drawing close to whisper so their cheeks touched. Other colleagues seemed to huddle together after David walked by, probably discussing his treating 'The Westwood Acid Thrower.'
David ordered a cranberry juice and soda, and stood at the concrete balustrade alone, sipping his drink from a too-small red straw. Large overheads lit the track, a few remaining athletes toiling below through the tail end of a practice. The crack of a starting gun carried to David on the breeze, and he thought of days when he too ran and lifted and sweated and woke up unsore to do it all over again.
A soft hand on his shoulder broke him from his thoughts, and he turned to see Diane at his side, wearing a black wraparound dress. A single chain of pearls rested across her upper chest, kinking slightly over the lines of her clavicles.
'I know,' Diane said. 'You're not used to seeing me dressed. Any luck tracking down our friend at the seedy bookstore?'
'No. But I got to leaf through a coffee-table book featuring clitoral pierces, so the outing wasn't a total loss.'
Diane grimaced.
Two attendings at the bar looked away quickly when David caught their eye. Being scrutinized by his own goddamn colleagues on top of everything else. His anger departed quickly, though; he'd made his bed. Turning back to the track, he saw that dark clouds had gathered by the mountains, threatening a shower. 'I see Don's no longer with his wife.'
'You didn't hear? He got one of those photo traffic tickets, the kind like in Beverly Hills where a camera snaps your picture at an intersection when you run the red light.'
'Don't you mean if you run the red light?'
'Anyway, the picture showed up at home, and his wife opened it, and there was Don in the car with some nurse from peds.'
