"Yeah. But I ain't in what you might call a High Place."
Alan had an urge to tell Tony what had happened today. He tried to think of a way to phrase it so he wouldn't sound delusional, but couldn't find one. Damn, this was frustrating! He needed to talk to someone about this, yet he couldn't bring himself to spill it for fear of what people would think. He knew what he would think.
So he turned the conversation away from himself.
"How's business?"
"Great! Too great. Had to pass up a big party this weekend to fly up to Syracuse for a meeting with a client. Hate to miss one of Sylvia Nash's parties."
Alan was startled. "You know Sylvia Nash?"
"Sure. Did a few closings for her around here. That lady either really knows what she's doing with real estate or she's just plain lucky. Everything she touches turns to gold."
"Them that has, gets."
"Well, from what I can gather, she didn't always have. Greg Nash came back from Nam, joined his father's insurance agency, married Sylvia, insured himself to the eyeballs with term, then got blown away in that Seven-Eleven. With double indemnity and all, Sylvia became a millionairess overnight. She's tripled and quadrupled that since then. Good businesswoman. Unfortunately, she doesn't quite live up to her reputation as a loose woman."
"Oh?" Alan said, trying to sound casual.
Tony's eyebrows rose. "Got your interest now, ay?"
"Not really."
"Yeah? You should've seen your eyes bug when I mentioned her name."
"Just wondering how you got to know her."
"Riiiight. You got something goin' with her?"
"You know me better than that. I just treat her little boy, that's all."
"Yeah. I do remember her talking about you—like you could walk on water."
"She's very perceptive. But how do you know she doesn't live up to her reputation?"
"We dated a few times."
The thought of Sylvia in Tony's arms pained him. "And?"
"Never got to first base with her."
That was a relief. "Maybe it's your technique."
"Maybe. But I don't think so. There's a lot of anger in that woman, Alan. A lot of anger."
They both lapsed into silence, Alan thinking about Sylvia and how he had never thought of her as angry. He had only seen her with Jeffy, however, and then there was only love for the child. But Tony was a perceptive guy. Alan couldn't easily brush off his impressions.
Finally, he broached the subject he had wanted to see Tony about.
"Tony… could you look into something for me?"
"Sure. What?"
"It's about a patient who died in the ER last night."
"Malpractice potential?"
"I doubt it." Tonight at the hospital, Alan had taken a look at the pathology report on the derelict. He had been suffering from early lung cancer and end-stage alcoholic cirrhosis. A walking dead man. "His name was Walter Erskine—no identification on him, but his prints were traced through the V. A. He was born in 1946, grew up in Chillicothe, Missouri, and served in Nam in the late sixties. He was treated once for a mental condition at Northport V.A. Hospital in 1970. That's all that's known about him."
"Isn't that enough?"
"No. I want to know more. I want to know what he was like growing up, what happened to him in Nam, and what happened to him since Nam."
"Why?"
Alan shrugged, wishing he could tell Tony. But not yet. He couldn't tell anybody yet.
"It's a personal thing, Tony. Can you help?"
"I think so. I'll have to hire an eye, which is no problem— I use them on occasion."
"Great. I'll pay all expenses."
"You bet your ass you will."
They had a little laugh over that and Alan felt himself relaxing for the first time all night. At least now he felt he was doing something about whatever it was that had happened. In his gut he sensed that this Walter Erskine was the key. He had done something to Alan last night. And somehow, some way, Alan was going to find out just what.
___9.___
At the Party
Sylvia was standing at her bedroom window on the second floor when Charles Axford strolled into the room. His tuxedo jacket was open and his hands were thrust into his pants pockets. She liked the way clothes fitted on his solid, just-under-six-foot frame; he looked his forty-four years, with his rugged face, his salt-and-pepper hair thinning a bit on top, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, but she liked the look.
"Where've you been?" Sylvia asked him.
"Down the hall discussing the national debt with Jeffy," he said blandly.
Sylvia smiled and shook her head. Charles was testing the limits of bad taste again. She framed a nasty remark about his daughter, Julie, but didn't have the heart to say it. Besides, it would only spur Charles to elaborate on his opening comment. And where Jeffy was concerned, he was on very thin ice.
"What did he say?" she asked with equal blandness.
"Not much. He's getting a bit of kip, actually." He sat on her bed and leaned back on his elbows. "Anybody special coming tonight?"
"The usual crowd, plus a special treat: Congressman Switzer and Andrew Cunningham of the MTA."
Charles' eyebrows lifted. "Together? In the same bloody house?"
She nodded, her smile mirroring his. "Only they don't know it yet." She was definitely looking forward to seeing what happened when those two enemies ran into each other tonight.
"Oh, this is going to be jolly!" he said with a laugh as he got up from the bed and kissed her on the lips. "That's why I love you, Sylvia."
Sylvia said nothing. She knew he didn't really love her. He was simply responding to her sense of mischief.
She had met Charles Axford, M.D., at the McCready Foundation when she had taken Jeffy there for a comprehensive evaluation. Charles had been and still was chief of neurological research at the Foundation. Although he had taken no particular interest in Jeffy, he had taken a very definite interest in her. They had had an on-again, off-again relationship for three years now.
Sylvia wasn't sure what attracted her to Charles—or "Chuckie" as she liked to call him when she wanted to get under his skin. It certainly wasn't love. And it certainly wasn't because he was irresistibly handsome.
Simply put: He fascinated her.
She had never met anyone like him. Charles Axford could find something to dislike or distrust in anyone. Anyone! That along with the fact that he did not give a damn about what anyone thought of him resulted in one of the most sarcastic, cynical, verbally offensive human beings on earth. His acid wit coupled with his British accent made him a devastating gadfly. No treasured belief, no sacred cow, no religious, moral, or political dogma was safe from him. Charles believed in nothing, cared for nothing except his work, and was not above putting even that down if the mood struck him. In a rare, self-revelatory moment after too much to drink one night, he had told Sylvia that a man with no illusions can never become disillusioned.
Perhaps that was the key, she thought as she disengaged herself from his embrace. Perhaps that was why at the slightest provocation he gored anyone who came within range. No one was safe. Not Jeffy, not even her. He was like a rare jungle frog she had seen on a television special—harmless-looking enough until it spit venom in your eyes. Sylvia found that the sense of imminent danger when he was around added a little zest to life.
"I hope it won't crush you to learn that you won't be the only doctor here tonight."
"Hardly. Doctors are the bloodiest boring people on earth— except for me, of course."
"Of course. The other two are both G.P.s, by the way. And they used to be partners."