“Where are we going?”
“I told you—to talk to Proudy. What do you think the chances were of us getting in to see him with that cop around?”
“You don’t even know where he is!”
“Sure I do—seven seventeen. It ought to make him feel right at home, because he was in seven seventy-one at the Consort. When that crazy broad at the desk got his record, I read the number. It’s no trick to read a three-digit number upside down. Speaking of tricks, though, did you see where Madame S. went when she left?”
As the elevator bumped to a stop, Sandy shook her head.
“Me neither. And she didn’t take this elevator, because it was there after she was gone, and nobody brought it back down. Hell, we’ll probably never know. Come on.”
They stepped into a wide hallway, sunny at the far end where a window faced the west, with a plaster ceiling and plaster wall painted yellow from four feet above the floor; in spots the dark linoleum had worn through to the boards. There were benches along the walls, and on them sat men in unstarched gray-white cotton pajamas and slippers. A few looked up, but it was without interest or intelligence.
“You think this Sergeant Proudy will be here?”
“Not out in the hall,” Stubb said. “From what I heard downstairs, he’s been cutting up too rough.” One of the silent men stood, pulled down the trousers of his pajamas, and began to masturbate.
“Jim, I’m scared.”
“Don’t be. It’s been a hell of a time since that poor guy’s seen a woman who didn’t look like the boss. Now he wants one last little hunk of fun out of life, and he’s so doped he won’t remember you five minutes after you’re gone.”
“Suppose they gang up on us?”
“Suppose they don’t?”
The door to one of the rooms along the hall opened, and a husky young man in starched white stepped out. “I’m sorry, folks,” he said. “But this floor’s off limits to visitors.”
Stubb flashed his badge. “I’m here to see Sergeant Proudy—Thirteenth Precinct.”
The young man hesitated. “He really is a policeman, then?”
“Sure, he’s a cop. Before he got sick like this, a pretty good cop. Where is he?”
The young man looked at Sandy. “Are you from the police too?”
Stubb said, “No, she’s his sister-in-law. The girl down at the desk said since I was going to see him, she could come up with me.”
“We’ve had a lot of trouble here today … . You are a policeman?”
“The hell with this,” Stubb said. “Get out of my way.”
From behind him, Davidson called, “Don’t do it, son. Make him show you the buzzer.”
Sandy whirled, and Stubb turned wearily to look at him.
“Hello, Stubb. Hello, Miss Duck. Can I ask just what you’re doing here?”
The attendant said, “They came up to see the policeman in seven one seven.”
“Do tell. So did I. Actually,” Davidson smiled at them, only a trifle grimly, “I wanted to see his doctor first. But when they phoned his office, he wasn’t there, so I figured I’d come up and see Chick. Did you say this guy told you he was a police officer, son?”
“I didn’t,” Stubb declared. “I just showed him a badge. This girl’s my witness.”
The attendant said, “He said he was from the Thirteenth Precinct. Are you a real cop?”
Stubb chuckled. “Show him your buzzer, Captain.”
“I will,” Davidson said. He took a badge case from the pocket of his coat and held it out. “Take a good look this time, son.”
“And I didn’t say I was Thirteenth Precinct, I said Proudy was. I said, ‘I’m here to see about Sergeant Proudy, Thirteenth Precinct.’”
Sandy interjected, “That’s the truth, Captain.”
“What does the badge say—Junior G-Man?”
“Actually, it’s ‘International Private Investigator,’” Stubb told him. “Want to see it?”
“I’ll wait. In fact, I won’t have to see it at all, if you’ll tell me what the Gypsy girl’s interest in Proudy is.”
Stubb shrugged. “As far as I know, she hasn’t any.”
Sandy pulled at his sleeve. “You mean Madame Serpentina’s a real Gypsy?”
“That’s right, lady,” Davidson said. “And out on the street, this guy said he was working for her, and she confirmed it when she told him to come in and help her. Now I find him up here asking about Chick.” He glanced at the attendant. “Right, son?”
The attendant nodded.
With a squeeze of Stubb’s arm that said please don’t tell, Sandy lifted herself on her toes and raised her voice to match. “Captain, I’m sure Mr. Stubb meant no harm at all! Why Mr. Stubb is one of the nicest, finest—”
Through the closed door of a room nearby, a voice called, “Mr. Stubb, is that you? Please, please help! It’s Nimo!”
Initial Interview
Dr. Bob pushed open the door of Candy’s room, glanced at her, then looked up and down the hall before stepping in and closing the door.
“How are we today?”
“Strung out. What was that they shot me up on? It felt like I was packed in cottonwool, and now the cottonwool’s going away.”
“Would you like a drink of water?”
“Hell, yes. I’d like a drink of anything.”
He took the cap from a white plastic container, ran in water from the little bowl in the corner, and closed the container with a top from which a flexible plastic tube protruded.
“You’ll have to get used to drinking lying down. It isn’t easy at first. If you’ll turn your head to the side, you’ll find that helps.”
Candy put the tube in her mouth and sucked water until the container made a noise like an empty soda glass.
“Good. I hope you feel better now.”
“My head hurts. What are you writing things down for?”
“My report. I have to put down what you say, especially how you feel. This is your initial interview.”
“My head hurts because of that dope you shot in me. It didn’t hurt when I came in here.”
Dr. Bob nodded. “Have you ever used narcotics?”
“Sure.”
He glanced up. “Did you use them today—the day you came here?”
“Huh uh.”
“Yesterday?”
“No. It’s been a while. I don’t think I’ve even had a toke in a couple weeks.”
“Marijuana. What else?”
“Oh, you know. Uppers to try to get skinny. Smack a few times. Coke.”
“You used heroin?”
“Yeah, I had this friend that used to give me some. I just snorted it. I figured I’d let myself get a little habit and drop some weight, then I’d go to a clinic and kick it. Only I never really got to like it that much. A doc I knew told me I lacked the addictive personality. What I want to know is if I do, how come I eat so much and get crocked every time somebody opens a bottle? Is that different?”
“Usually. What’s the name of your doctor?”
“I can’t tell you that.” Candy sounded offended. “You know, professional ethics.”
“I don’t think you understand. When you see your physician, professional ethics prevent him from revealing what passed between you. You, on the other hand, are completely free to tell a third party—certainly another physician—whatever you like.”
“I don’t think you understand. He saw me.”
“You’re a therapist?”
“Uh huh. A sexual therapist. I mean, usually I call myself a hooker, because it saves the argument. But what I am really is a sexual therapist.”
“You’re saying you’re a prostitute.”
“Huh uh, a sexual therapist. You’re a doctor, right? So guess my weight. If you want, you can even feel me up, like they do at the carnivals.”
Dr. Bob stared at her, rubbing his chin, then made a note on his pad.
“I’ll give you a clue. I’m five eight, no shoes.”
“Two hundred pounds, I suppose.”