An Affair Of Sorcerers

the first place. You want to get out on the streets; I want you out on the streets. Kathy and I need you. Like I said, I just don't want you to die out there, or end up developing rabies. So investigate, and work as quickly as you can. But you must take it easy, and you must make sure you get back here every day for your injection. Clear? You obviously have a high pain threshold, not to mention incredible endurance. But your mind and body can only take so much. Pace yourself, and we'll get along just fine.'

'Got it,' I said, pulling on my jacket and heading for the door.

'Mongo,' he said. I stopped at the door, turned back. The doctor smiled wanly. 'I've been waiting for your questions-or comments-on Esteban.'

'What's to say, Joshua? Kathy's still alive, and that's the only important thing. I'm sophisticated enough to know that doctors aren't wizards or sages. Esteban may have nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Kathy's still alive. It's irrelevant. I don't care what's keeping her alive-so long as she's alive.'

'I'll drink to that,' Joshua said quietly. There was an odd, questioning tone to his voice. 'Esteban hasn't slept at all; the man doesn't seem to need it. He just lies there with Kathy, rocking back and forth and humming to her. He spent an hour with the Younger woman. During that time we monitored Kathy, and she started to slip again; Esteban had to go back to her. It's the most incredible thing I've ever seen.'

'You sound impressed.'

'I am impressed, and I wanted you to know. You impress me. It was quite a feat, the way you smoked out Jordon to free Esteban.'

We stared at each other for a few moments, and I finally nodded. 'Thanks, Joshua. I got lucky. Let's just hope that Esteban continues to impress. Thanks for taking care of me. I'll be in touch.'

The sleep orgy had left me groggy, but my body seemed to be tolerating the second shot better than it had the first. The pain in my belly was more of a dull, throbbing ache than the acid burn it had been, and my vision was clear. I left my car where it was and took a cab to Times Square, where the phone book had told me Sandor Peth had an office. I bought two hot dogs with sauerkraut from a Sabrett vendor and washed them down with a Coke. I waited ten minutes to see how they'd settle, then went looking for Peth.

Appropriately enough, Peth's office was on 42nd Street, New York's mecca of polymorphous sex, gimcrack novelty stores and Instant Sleaze, just off Times Square, a floor above a porno movie house. To judge by the score or more of facsimile gold records tacked to his walls, Peth had to be making tons of money; as a manager, he was getting a flat twenty percent of the artist's take from each one. However, his wealth wasn't reflected in his office space. Old coffee cartons, sandwich wrappers and grease-stained paper bags overflowed a flowered metal wastebasket and littered the floor.

Peth seemed to be wearing most of his money. He looked like his reputation; he sat behind his scarred wooden desk like a bloated spider, alternately talking into two telephone receivers. Despite the fact that it was a muggy August day and the office lacked air conditioning, Peth was wearing a three-piece suit that must have cost at least four hundred dollars. He was sweating, and he would occasionally remove a silk handkerchief from his breast pocket and wipe his brow. He had a globular face in which two small black eyes were set like raisins in a clump of rising dough. The fringe of dark hair that circled the bumpy bald dome of his head was cut short. Every finger on both his hands, including the thumbs, had a diamond ring on it. In his own way, Peth was a striking figure. If you were into sloth and repulsion.

There was no secretary, so I simply walked into the office and waited by the door. Intent on his dual conversations, riffling through what looked like a pile of contracts on his desk, Sandor Peth took some time to notice me. His voice was croaking, phlegmatic, his conversation rapid-fire and punctuated with references to network shows, 'The Coast' and 'thou's.' He suddenly wheeled in his chair, saw me and arched his eyebrows inquisitively. He curtly finished his conversation on one line, talked for another minute or two on the other, then hung up.

'A dwarf!' he coughed, letting the pudgy fingers on his left hand hover over the telephone-console buttons as though waiting for them to decide on their own which button he should push next. 'I love it! What the hell do you do?'

'Snoop,' I said evenly. I wanted his undivided attention.

'Snoop?' His fingers continued to hover indecisively over the buttons, wriggling like fat worms.

'My name's Frederickson. I'm a private investigator. I'd like to ask you some questions.'

Peth leaned back in his swivel chair and roared with laughter. His body shook, but the laughter never reached his eyes, which were like blotches of thick paint, with no light or life. 'Great! A stand-up comic!' His laughter tapered off to an obscene chuckle. Peth was a bit overcooked, I decided, like a refugee from one of the fifth-run movie houses on the street below. But he was real and sitting in front of me, raw and rancid at the center. 'Jesus Christ,' he continued absently when his laughter had run its course. 'Who the fuck do I know that would be playing practical jokes on me?'

'How about Harley Davidson?'

Peth had started another chorus of laughter; now it shut itself down in stuttering dribbles until finally he was looking at me soberly. 'Frederickson,' he said thoughtfully. 'A dwarf. Seems to me I've heard. . You used to be with the Statler Brothers Circus? Mongo the Magnificent?'

'You've got it, sweetheart.'

'Jesus fucking Christ,' he said, thin white lines appearing at the corners of his mouth. 'You are a private detective. And you're heavy.'

'That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me today.'

Peth scowled; on his face, a scowl was a formidable expression. 'What the fuck do you want with me?'

'I told you: I want to ask you some questions about Harley Davidson.'

'What do you know about Davidson?'

'For openers, he's dead.'

Peth made an effort at projecting surprise and grief, but gave it up after about ten seconds. 'Son-of-a-bitch,' he said casually, tapping a fat, bejeweled index finger on his desk.

'Yeah. Son-of-a-bitch.'

Peth shrugged and started to pick up the phone. 'Well, that's tough; but show biz is tough.'

'Funny how Davidson started sliding after he signed with you.'

'What the fuck does that mean, dwarf?'

There was no way Sandor Peth was going to give me information voluntarily, and with his street smarts he'd be almost impossible to trick. I knew I was probably wasting my time confronting him directly, but he was one more button that had to be pushed. On the other hand, he could be a very big button; there was no telling what might pop out if I pushed hard enough. There was no doubt in my mind that Peth was in some way-no matter how peripherally-responsible for Bobby Weiss's death, if only because he had passively stood by while it happened. For that reason alone, I wanted to kick him a few times and see which way he bounced.

'That's the talk around town,' I said.

'What's the talk around town?' he shouted, half-rising out of his chair. Peth obviously had a hair-trigger temper.

'The talk is really a question,' I said evenly. 'What did you promise-or do-to that kid to get him to leave William Morris and come over to a guy who operates out of a shithouse like this one?'

'Watch your mouth, dwarf,' Peth said menacingly. 'There's a simple answer to your question: Davidson felt I could do more for him than Jake Stein.'

'Oh, yeah,' I said, emphasizing the sarcasm, watching him. 'Everyone can see what you did for him. What did you offer him, for Christ's sake?'

Peth was not about to enlighten me. 'I'm going to sue you, dwarf!' he shouted at me. 'I'll sue you for slander!'

'So, sue. From what I hear, you'd be a tough guy to slander.' I smiled. 'How much money are you going to make off Davidson's death? I know you had him insured.'

Now Peth was having to make a considerable effort to control himself. His knuckles were white where his hands gripped the edge of his desk; he held the tight grip until he stopped shaking.

'I'm a businessman,' he said in the tone of a man who was just trying to be reasonable. His voice sounded as though it were being filtered through a thick wad of cotton, and his face was blotched with pink and white patches.