Max nodded, pacing. “Except you didn’t know Michael was on the third floor, did you, Winston?”
“Huh?”
Max walked toward him. “A few hours before Martino was murdered, a new patient had been secretly whisked into the room down the hall — Michael Silverman. Naturally, you wanted to find out who he was. So you broke into Harvey’s private files that night.”
“Now, hold on a minute.”
“But you screwed up,” Max continued. “Dr. Riker was on the floor at the time. He heard you in the lab. So you knocked Harvey out.”
“Slow down a second.”
“Then you went downstairs, killed Martino—”
“I didn’t kill anybody!” he interrupted. “Okay, I admit it. I was in the lab that night. I broke into the file cabinet and saw Silverman’s name. I knew the NIH boys would be interested in him, so I tried to find out more. That’s when Harv interrupted me. I guess I panicked a little. My instructions were not to get caught under any circumstances. So when Harv came in the lab, I hit him in the back of the neck. But I didn’t kill Martino — I swear it.”
“You’re a martial arts expert.” It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yeah, so?”
“And the blow to Sara’s neck was delivered by a martial arts expert.”
“Whoa, back up a second, Lieutenant. I didn’t touch Sara Lowell. For that matter, I never touched her husband or Janice or that Martino guy. Christ, I felt awful when I heard about Janice. She was a fine woman.” Winston lowered his head into his hands. “I never hurt anybody, I swear. I was just trying to gather information for a branch of the government that has every right to know what was going on in here. There is nothing illegal in that.”
“What else do you know?”
“Nothing. I swear.”
Max stopped his pacing and restarted his nodding. “You better not be holding out on me. Or else.”
He had tried to sound tough, but it came out too whiny. Damn.
“Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that’s it. Yes. Ohhhh, ohhhh, I’m cominnngggg!”
Michael tried to ignore the continuous cries of the prostitute in the next room and consider his options.
One, he could try to break the chain manacled to his ankle. The problem lay in the fact that the steel was rather secure; more to the point, it would not budge.
Two, he could yell out the window for help. But suppose George or his accomplices heard him?
Three…
There was no three. He stood and tested how far the chain would allow him to roam. He could get close to the window but not to the door. George probably did that on purpose. The door was a scrawny-looking thing with rotted wood and a lock that a strong gust of wind could break in two.
He sat back down, his nose throbbing painfully. Downstairs, the topless bar was in full swing now. The music was considerably louder than earlier, the vibrations from the deep bass potent enough to reach inside Michael’s chest. Prostitutes and their clients walked about freely in the hallway. Michael heard doors shut on both sides of his room. Then a woman yelling:
“Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that’s it. Yes. Ohhhh, ohhhh, I’m cominnngggg!”
The woman screamed into her fake orgasm. The man grunted into his real one.
The sessions never lasted more than a couple of minutes. Then it would all start again. The prostitute would come upstairs with a new john. There would be the same giggling. The same fake orgasm. The same “Fuck me” words shouted at the same rehearsed pitch. Over and over. Performance after performance. The woman’s high-pitched squeals of delight were incessant, monotonous, passionless, as though Michael were listening to a robot or an actress who had learned her lines too well.
Okay, let’s think this through. Harvey tells me Raymond Markey wants to use me as the clinic’s guinea pig. Next thing I know, I’m in the Orient with a psychopath. So what can we conclude from all this? Just one thing: I have to get the hell out of here.
Cramps ripped through his stomach. The cause, he knew, could be his hepatitis or withdrawal from the addictive SR1 or… or something new.
Something AIDS-related.
“Fuck me, big stallion. Oh yeah, that’s it…”
The very air had mingled with the sleazy surroundings, giving everything around him a dense and seedy feel. Breathing nauseated him. The women’s cries were maddening in their repetition, hour after hour, endless. He put his hands to his ears and tried to block them out, but the sounds were right outside his door:
“Come on, Frankie,” a whore purred with a thick Asian accent.
“Right behind you, sweetheart. Damn, I spilled my drink.”
“This way, Frankie. Tawnee going to show you good time, you see.”
“Might just be the other way around, honey,” the man, an American, slurred. He was clearly inebriated.
“I take care of your big cock. You see.”
“Bet your ass you will.” The man stumbled, bumping into walls like a pinball.
“You like that, Frankie?”
“Yeah, that’s wonderful.”
“You want to go in room now, Frankie?”
“Sure thing, sweetheart.”
“Okay, but money before is for boss man. You give Tawnee big tip, yes?”
“Let’s talk about it in the room.”
Michael froze. He saw the doorknob turn.
“No, Frankie, this way,” the whore said.
The door shook. “Damn door is stuck.”
“Over here, Frankie. That sign say no enter.”
“Fuck the sign, sweetheart. I’ll get us in. You just keep rubbing my balls.”
“No, Frankie, wrong room.” Her warnings were more urgent now, but Frankie did not pay heed. “That’s boss man’s room, Frankie. He get mad. Come over here. Frankie!”
Frankie threw his shoulder against the wood. The lock grudgingly gave way. Michael’s eyes widened as the door began to swing open.
“No, Frankie, wrong room.” The whore quickly reached through the portal. She maneuvered Frankie out of the way, fixed the lock, took hold of the door, and began to swing it closed. For the briefest of moments she looked at Michael, her eyes stained with fear and sympathy. Then she turned away. Michael’s heart sank as the door closed.
“Come on, Frankie,” the whore tried to enthuse. “We go have fun. You like too much.”
“I hope so, sweetheart. Let’s party!”
Then Michael heard another door open and close.
Frankie’s penis remained flaccid.
“What’s the matter, Frankie?” Tawnee asked. “You no like me?”
Frankie looked down. The whore was licking his balls — and doing a yeoman’s job of it too. Still, no hard-on. Super-strange. Frankie’s sexual dysfunctions usually came from the flip side of a softy: premature eruption of ol’ Mount Vesuvius. Not being able to achieve a serviceable, gargantuan erection was something new to him.
Super-strange.
It wasn’t the alcohol either, though he had drunk enough to knock out a battalion. Shit, Frankie had been blitzed plenty of times. Plenty. But his “Throbbing Warhead” had never had any trouble engaging in the past. The Big Fella was usually swollen to the size of a Louisville Slugger by now, splitting the little lady in two nice, even pieces. And it wasn’t the chick’s fault either. She was a pro in every way, her tongue licking gently at him like a kitten near a saucer of milk. A beautiful thing really. Screw the cream-colored ponies and crisp apple strudel — getting sucked off by a working pro was one of his favorite things.
But suddenly the dog had bitten, the bee had stung, he was feeling sad. Check that. He was feeling unhorny. And why?
Because he was a basketball fan.
“Lie down, Frankie. Relax.”
He obeyed, but his mind was elsewhere. He had read in the International Herald Tribune a couple of days ago about the kidnapping of Michael Silverman. Super-strange stuff. It had happened in some AIDS clinic on the East Coast of the USA.