“Beauregard Gamin. We, that is I, am nothing more than a gatecrasher. I was at the Blue Note to see Miles blow”—BC had in fact read a review by Nat Hentoff of the performance in the Village Voice—“and a pretty hep character mentioned your pad was the place to meet the coolest cats in town.”
“The coolest cats, you say?” Hitchcock’s eyebrows went up in amusement. “I think Miles is in the library. I tried to get him to play, but he’s having more fun standing around the musicians and intimidating them.”
BC had assumed the faint sound of jazz in the apartment came from a hi-fi. He was impressed, and showed it.
“Back in Oxford, Mississippi, where I come from, the only Negroes we ever let indoors wore livery.” He glanced at a beautiful Negress who had her arm around a bearded white man. “You can’t imagine how exciting this is for me.”
“Change will come to the South just as it has to the North. If it’s not Martin Luther King, it’ll be Mary Jane.”
“A wonderful girl! I hope to meet her one day!”
Hitchcock looked at BC sharply again. “So, did I hear you say you were looking for Richard Alpert before?”
“I’ve heard that he traffics in, how shall I put it, mind-opening experiences?”
Hitchcock was silent for so long that BC was sure she was going to throw him out. But finally she laughed and said, “My God, Mr. Gamin, you practically sound like a G-man. Just call it acid, please.”
BC lowered his eyes modestly. “Pardon me, Miss Hitchcock. It must be that Southern reserve.”
“I’m from New England. From my point of view, you’re all flatulent windbags.”
“I, ah …” BC had never spoken to a woman who was so matter-of-factly rude. “I believe flatulent windbag is redundant.”
Hitchcock threw back her head and laughed the kind of laugh that would have caused BC’s mother to stab her in the throat with a kitchen knife.
“Oh, you are a hoot, Mr. Gamin. You hold on. I’m going to see if I can find Dickie. Don’t hesitate to grab him if you see him. Big guy, thick beard, rather less hair on his head. Black turtleneck with a gold medallion on his chest.”
BC waited fifteen minutes before he realized Hitchcock probably wasn’t coming back, and then began to make his way through the apartment in search of her. He’d just finished his second revolution when he turned and collided with a large, solid man. Coarse strands of beard rasped across his lips and he felt something hard strike his chest. A pair of hands landed on his hipbones, pushing him back a few inches, then held him there.
“Easy there, young fellow,” a soothing voice, mildly redolent of anise, breathed into his face.
BC wanted to step back, but the hands on his hips rooted him to the spot. He looked up into a tangle of black beard, liberally laced with gray. A pair of warm brown eyes sat atop furred cheeks, glinting at him like a benevolent bear’s.
“I, uh, that is, pardon me …”
“Do we know each other?” the man said, still holding BC in place. A big cavey warmth radiated from his chest and stomach.
“No.” BC’s eyes fell to the gold medallion dangling from the man’s throat. “That is, are you Richard Alpert?”
A smile appeared in the beard.
“As long as you’re not a federal officer or vice cop, I am.”
He laughed, and the shaking was just enough to dislodge his hands. BC stepped back.
“My name is Beauregard Gamin.” BC stuck out his hand, which Alpert took in both of his and held softly but firmly, as though it were a wild bird. “I was hoping to meet you.”
“And what have I done to earn the attention of such a handsome young peacock?”
BC grinned in spite of himself, smoothing the front of his vest.
“I heard that you, that is, it’s my understanding—”
“Oh, are you the Southern gentleman Peggy mentioned? Goodness, she didn’t do you justice.”
“Do you think you can help me out?”
Alpert smirked. “It’s my mission in life to help out men such as yourself. Open your mouth and say aahh.”
BC blushed. Before he could say anything, however, Alpert laughed and said, “Just kidding. Follow me.”
He led BC into a nearby bedroom where two—no, three—legs protruded from a pile of jackets. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a wax paper envelope, peeked inside. BC saw something that looked like a sheet of perforated paper. Alpert tore off a stamp and held it up between two pinched fingers.
“Now then—”
“Actually, I’d prefer to take it with me if I can.” BC looked around the messy room. “I’ve heard that setting plays a vital role, and I’d prefer something more familiar. Intimate.”
On the bed, the big toe at the end of one leg scratched the ankle of one of the others with a sandpapery sound.
Alpert frowned. “A guide is every bit as important as setting, and I’m leery of leaving you alone for your first experience. LSD is an extremely powerful drug.”
“So I’ve heard,” BC said drily.
Alpert deliberated with himself, then shrugged. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a somewhat battered card, slipped it into the envelope with the acid, and pressed it into BC’s hand. Once again, he refused to let go.
“These are my numbers. I want you to call me at any time—before, during, after.” He squeezed BC’s fingers. “Perhaps I can lure you to Millbrook for a more in-depth experience.”
“Millbrook?” BC felt his hand sweating inside Alpert’s furry paws. “Miss Hitchcock has a house there, doesn’t she?”
“Her brother, Billy. It’s quite a special place.”
“Well, if this is everything people say it is, no doubt I’ll want a second experience.”
“Oh, don’t take all of this at once! You’ll be jumping off rooftops thinking you can fly!”
It was another fifteen minutes before BC could get away from Alpert, and even then it took a gaggle of floppy-haired boys and girls to drag the big man away. BC tucked the envelope inside his jacket and headed for the hall. But at the top of the stairs he was stopped by a tall, sturdy-looking man in a bland gray suit. The man opened his jacket just enough to show BC the butt of his pistol.
“Whoa, man,” BC said. “Guns are so uncool.” He smiled, but the man didn’t get the joke.
“I hope you will come without a fuss, Agent Querrey.”
BC heard a trace of an accent. There was nothing particularly Russian about it, yet somehow BC knew the man was KGB. As casually as possible, he turned and looked toward the other end of the hallway. Another gray-suited man waited there. He had a softer face than his companion, with shoulders like ham hocks and a scowl curling his pudgy lips.
BC turned back to the first agent. His eyes traveled up and down the gray suit disdainfully.
“You could have at least dressed the part.”
Washington, DC
November 19, 1963
Melchior was sitting on a bench in Fort Washington Park when Song’s Cadillac pulled up, a newspaper flapping in his hands in the breeze coming off the Potomac. He looked up with a tired smile on his face as the whiplash form of Chul-moo opened the back door, then frowned when he saw Ivelitsch step from the car. The Russian scanned the surroundings, then pulled his hat lower on his head and reached back to hand Song out of the car with a familiar air Melchior didn’t like at all.
“What is this, the prom? Jesus Christ, Song, why don’t you just pick him up at the Soviet Embassy next time?”
Song turned up the fur collar of her coat against the breeze. “Relax. We made sure we weren’t followed.”
“I’m kind of surprised to see you here actually,” Ivelitsch said.
“You don’t sound happy about it,” Melchior replied. “Actually.”
“I don’t know why you went in in the first place. The Company suspects you of murdering three agents, after all.”