An Affair Of Sorcerers

honeycomb of inner offices of the largest talent agency in the world; William Morris, with its worldwide network of offices, represented about half of all the name actors, writers, directors and singers in the world. They'd represented me during my later years with the Statler Brothers Circus. Now I wanted to talk to Jake about Bobby Weiss.

Jake was twenty-eight; with a full head of bushy blond hair, he looked younger. When I walked into his office he was talking up some kind of deal into a telephone receiver that was part of a ten-button console; five of the ten buttons were lighted and flashing. He hung up, swung around in his swivel chair, saw me and grinned broadly. His grin faded as he rose and looked me up and down.

'Hello, sweetheart,' Jake said. 'For Christ's sake, what's the matter with you? You look like the lead in a cancelled pilot.'

'Overwork. You know how it is with us hotshot private eyes. Don't you watch television?'

'No shit, Mongo; you look terrible.'

'I'm all right,' I said, shaking his hand. 'It's good to see you, Jake.'

'Likewise.' He drew a long, thin cheroot from a plastic container in the pocket of his double-breasted sport jacket. He lighted the cigar and waved smoke away from his milky blue eyes. 'You want a drink? I've got some Chivas in the drawer.'

'Yeah. . uh, on second thought, no thanks.' I had no idea how Scotch and antirabies serum would mix, and it didn't seem like a good time to experiment; the way I felt, I'd probably come down with instant bubonic plague. 'I want to talk to you about Harley Davidson.'

'Davidson? Christ, I haven't seen anything on him in six months. He left us, you know. What do you hear?'

'He's dead. I found his body. .'I had to stop and think; time was collapsing in on itself, and it seemed inconceivable to me that only a few hours had passed since I'd walked into Bobby's rotting apartment. 'I found his body this morning.'

'God damn,' Jake said thoughtfully, shaking his head. He took a deep drag on his cheroot, breathed out the smoke with his words. 'I'm really sorry to hear that. I liked that kid. What happened to him?'

'He killed himself. In slow motion.'

'Drugs,' Jake said, nodding. 'I heard things, but I hoped they weren't true.' Eight of the ten buttons were flashing now. Jake glanced at the console unconcernedly, looked back at me. 'Poor son-of-a-bitch,' he continued quietly. 'The air's thin up there where he was, and it's stone fucking cold.'

'He seemed fine while he was with you, Jake; top of the charts, and a network show in the offing. And he looked healthy enough in his pictures. What happened between the two of you?'

Jake shrugged and ran a hand through his thick blond hair. 'His contract was up; he decided he wanted to leave so that he could sign up with a guy by the name of Sandor Peth. What the hell? Harley wanted to leave, it was his right.'

'Peth's name was dog shit when I was here. Why would Davidson want to leave the people who'd taken him to the top in order to sign with a creepy second-rater like Peth?'

Jake shook his head. 'It's tough to figure, isn't it? Peth is a creep, and a rip-off artist. It looks like Harley went straight downhill after signing with him.'

'He may have started sliding slightly before that.'

'I don't follow you.'

'I think he got involved with some nasty people who specialize in giving bad advice. I was hoping you might know something about it.'

Jake stared into space for a few moments, then ground out his cigar and popped a mint into his mouth. 'Well, Harley had an absolutely enormous ego-occupational requirement, you know. He was easily influenced by anybody who knew how to play up to that ego. That's about all I can say.'

'Jake, it's important for me to find out who greased the skids under that kid-if that's what happened. It could tie in with a case I'm working on.'

Jake nodded thoughtfully and began drumming his fingers on the cluttered desk top. I was beginning to worry about the flashing buttons on his telephone console; Jake obviously wasn't. 'Harley was getting pretty deeply involved in the occult a few months before he left,' Jake said at last. 'Could that be any help?'

'It certainly could,' I said, feeling my blood pressure go up a few notches. My face felt hot. 'The problem is that an interest in the occult wouldn't make him any different from ninety percent of the other people in the business, right?'

'Sure; it's the Age of Aquarius, you know. But Harley had gone past the point of comparing sun signs at cocktail parties. At the beginning he seemed to be on an astrology and palmistry trip. He was really manic about it, you know?' Jake clucked his tongue disapprovingly. 'Then, I think he got into witchcraft. He didn't talk so much after that.'

'And then he left you to sign with Sandor Peth. You think Peth's a witch?'

Jake's laugh was high-pitched, boyish. 'Peth's a son-of-a-bitch, for sure, but I don't know anything about his being a witch.' He shook his head, laughed once more, then grew serious. 'Peth personally insures the lives of everyone in his stable. I'll bet that shmuck is going to make a bundle off Harley's death.'

'Did Davidson ever mention the name John Krowl?'

'Christ, yes,' Jake said with an expansive wave of his hand. 'Harley was one of Krowl's favored clients-and very proud of the fact. That's a status symbol in this town.' He suddenly rose and walked quickly to a filing cabinet near his desk. 'I just remembered: Harley left something here that might interest you,' he continued, opening a sliding metal drawer and quickly riffling through a bank of files. 'It was during his manic phase that I told you about. He brought me in a copy of a horoscope he'd had done. He was really riding high at that time, and something about the horoscope amused him. He said it was terrible.'

Jake found what he was looking for, drew it out of the file and handed it to me. The paper was heavy bond. In the center were two concentric circles divided into twelve sections by intersecting lines. Each section was filled with what I assumed were astrological symbols. They were meaningless to me. The margins of the paper were filled with more symbols-also meaningless. What did mean something to me was the heavy, block-print handwriting; I'd seen it before.

The signature at the bottom of the page read Jones.

'Can you make a copy of this for me, Jake?' I asked tightly.

'Keep that,' the agent said. 'I don't want it. I wouldn't even have it around if I weren't such a compulsive filer.' He grinned sardonically. 'I guess Harley was right; his horoscope wasn't so good after all.'

'Definitely not,' I said, pocketing the paper. 'Thanks, Jake.'

'Hey, sweetheart, I hope you're going home to bed.'

'I have miles to go before I sleep.' I was trying to be funny. I promptly banged into the doorjamb and ricocheted out into the hallway.

It was after six, but Madeline Jones often worked evenings in her lab and I thought I might reach her there. I used a pay phone in the lobby of the MGM Building to call her. The phone rang eight times before Mary Szell, Mad's assistant, answered.

'Hello?'

'Mary, is Mad there?'

'Who's this?'

'Mongo.'

'Mongo? I didn't recognize your voice. Do you have a cold?'

'Something like that. Is Mad around?'

'You haven't heard?'

'Heard what, Mary?'

'Mad's in the hospital. She's had a nervous breakdown. She collapsed here yesterday afternoon.'

A hot flush started somewhere between my shoulder blades, flashed down my spine, then turned icy. I shivered spasmodically. Everyone was full of surprises.

Someone was banging a gong; I listened hard and it turned out to be Mary's voice calling my name.