Outside Irene’s block he paused. He stood in a doorway and checked himself over. The Maxi-Pad box was showing signs of wear and tear; bits were disintegrating from the wet and his flanks showed through gaps where the friction of his running had caused the damp cardboard to wear through. His shoulders were red and a little sore from the rubbing of the plastic braces. Making his fingers stiff claws he tried, incongruously, to put a parting in his hair.
He crept up to the apartment door. The lobby was lit, but no-one sat at the lectern. He pressed the buzzer on the aluminium pole and waited. Nothing happened. He was beginning to feel nervous and ordinary again, now that his heroic epic run was over. It was beginning to disappear, wear off. He was being normal once more, ringing doorbells, visiting, asking favours. He pressed the buzzer.
A door opened in the rear wall of the lobby and a small man came out, shrugging on a jacket. Henderson, suddenly wary — like an Amazonian native suspicious of his first encounter with strangers — shrunk back against the wall out of sight.
“Yeah?” came a metallic voice from the pedestal.
“I want to see Ms Stien,” Henderson whispered loudly in its direction.
“What?”
“Come to the door.”
The man advanced cautiously. With dismay Henderson saw that it was Bra.
“Who is it?” Bra asked, peering into the shadows.
“Bra,” Henderson whispered from his hiding place, “it’s me, Mr Dores.”
“Who are you? Where are you?”
“Here. To the side. Your right.” Henderson waved.
“Come out of there, ya fuckin’ freak!”
Henderson stood up and stepped into view. Bra backed off in patent shock.
“Hello, Bra, It’s me, Mr Dores. I need to see Ms Stien. I’m in terrible trouble.”
“What?…Get outa here! What are you?”
“Look, Bra. It’s…it’s a matter of life and death.”
“Get your ass outa here, ya fuckin’ geek! I warn you, I gotta gun in here!”
“Bra, it’s me. Mr Dores. You know me. I was here the other day.”
“I count to ten. I call the cops.”
He saw Bra lift the phone. With bitter, disgusted tears in his eyes he ran off into the dark. That little bastard knew it was me, he swore. He had done that deliberately. He ran full tilt down the road towards Central Park. A significant portion of his box came away revealing a section of pallid haunch. The rain still fell with healthy force; it showed no sign of relenting. At this rate he’d be naked again in half an hour — swaddled only in a plastic belting. But now he didn’t feel so wonderful — so transformed at the prospect. He had no money, he couldn’t even phone anyone…What he needed were clothes. It had never struck him as the key prerequisite for survival in the West. If you’re half naked you are a non-person, a subversive, a deviant. You can do nothing unless you are properly dressed. Shoes, trousers, a shirt-the sine qua non of social action.
He needed clothes…Perhaps he could mug somebody? Dare he return to his apartment? But what if Freeborn and Sereno were there? What if they had discovered his escape by now? And then, suddenly, he remembered where he kept a second suit of clothes. The Queensboro Gym. His fencing gear. He looked at his watch. Five o’clock. Only a matter of hours until it opened. He looked up at the sky. Keep raining, he implored. He set off. Straight down Fifty-ninth Street, all the way.
♦
Henderson found a place to hide in a basement well opposite the gym. To his alarm it was beginning to get light with inconsiderate speed. Soon the first keen commuters would be arriving. Like witches and hobgoblins people like him should be off the streets by the time the first cock crowed, he thought. He felt, lurking close behind him, rank breath stirring the hairs on his nape, a vast implacable exhaustion waiting to pounce. He confirmed the time: half five. The gym opened at seven. He was suddenly gripped by a fierce hunger and realized he hadn’t eaten for twenty-four hours.
He looked at the grey empty streets, still hosed by curtains of rain. A puddle the size of a football pitch swamped the intersection of York and Fifty-eighth. A car had been abandoned in the middle, the water lapping at the radiator. Around its perimeter stepped a neat, waterproofed, track-suited figure, carrying small dumbbells in each hand. See, Henderson told himself, there are madder people than me out on the streets…
“Teagarden! Eugene, over here! Over here!”
Teagarden trotted over and looked down at him.
“Well, Mr Dores. What a surprise.”
Henderson clambered out of his basement well. His Mary Mount Maxi-Pad box was now the consistency of porridge. With every step part of it fell away.
Teagarden looked at him.
“Yeah…” he nodded. “Pretty good.”
Henderson shrugged. “Well…”
“Told you you shouldn’t ought to have gone down there. What happened?”
“Long story, Eugene.”
“I’m sure.”
“Going to the gym?”
“Yes.”
“Saved my life, Eugene.”
They strolled across the street to the gym. Teagarden unlocked the door and switched on the lights. Henderson sat down opposite his locker with a squelch. He suddenly felt like crying. He also felt like telling Teagarden that he loved him, so abject was his gratefulness, but he refrained.
“Whew,” he said. “Quite a night, one way and another.” Now that it was over all the emotions he had pent up overwhelmed him, like a football crowd invading the pitch. For a few moments his brain succumbed to the mindless violence.
“Like some coffee?” Teagarden said.
“Please.”
The gym was quiet and cool; it seemed like a sanctuary, a holy place. Teagarden went off to boil a kettle. Heh-derson stood up. With both hands he ripped away chunks of his Maxi-Pad box. A shower. A meal. A change of clothes…
“Well hello there, Mr Dores.”
He looked up. Freeborn, Sereno and Gint stood at the end of his file of lockers. Gint was pointing his gun at him. “Quite a dance you’ve led us, Mr Dores,” Sereno said. “Luxora and back in twelve hours. Quite a dance.”
“Shoot the fucker,” Freeborn implored. “Off him, Peter.”
“First he has to tell us where the paintings are.”
“How did you…? I mean…”
Sereno waved his address book. “Not many New York addresses, Mr Dores. Peter spent the night in your apartment. We’ve just been there. Missed you by minutes at Ms Stien’s.”
“Blow him away, Peter! Waste the bastard!”
Sereno glanced suspiciously at Freeborn.
“Where are the paintings, Mr Dores?”
“They’re burnt, destroyed. Duane burned them on Loomis Gage’s instructions. Ask Freeborn.”
“Give me the fuckin’ gun!” Freeborn leapt for Gint’s hand but was elbowed easily away. Then Gint went very still.
“Don’t move,” Teagarden said. “Or else this thing’s gonna be stickin’ out your mouth.”
Teagarden held a sabre to the back of Gint’s neck, the point on his hairline. Gint stood like a man who has just had an ice-cube dropped down his shirt, back arched, chest out.
“Drop the piece and kick it over to Mr Dores.”
Gint did this. Henderson picked the gun up. It was somehow much heavier than he imagined. He pointed it vaguely at Freeborn.
Teagarden walked round Gint keeping the point of his sabre at his neck.
“OK, shitbrains, beat it.”
Freeborn turned and ran. Sereno watched him go.
“So the paintings are burnt,” Sereno said. “Making sense, at last.” He and Gint backed off.
“Duane burned them. Look at the bottom of the garden behind the Gage mansion.”