“Are you in trouble with the law?”
“The cops are probably looking for me.”
Crowe’s face broke into a huge grin as he shifted the car into high gear. “A fugitive from the law seeking refuge in the Crowe’s nest! And we thought the Sixties were over! What are you doing?”
Neal crouched down on the car floor. “Hiding. At least until we get over the bridge.”
“Far out.”
Crowe’s Nest occupied the top floor of a three-story house overlooking the Bay from Telegraph Hill.
“A pleasant stroll,” the artist explained, “for Crowe to visit the cafes, bistros, dim-sum places and Italian restaurants that contribute to the overall splendor of Crowe’s existence.”
Neal sat down in a canvas deck chair beside a gigantic sculpture created from the remains of a 1962 Plymouth Valiant, the tailpipe of which was positioned in a fairly impressive phallic display. The walls were decorated with masks-African masks, Chinese opera masks, harlequin masks, even hockey goaltenders’ masks. The walls, the carpet, and all the furniture were stark white.
“The monochromatic color scheme makes Crowe stand out all the more,” said Crowe. “Now please go and cleanse yourself lest you sully the snow-white purity of your present and, may I add, exalted, surroundings.”
Neal took a wonderful, hot shower, scrubbing away all traces of black pancake makeup, mud, and sweat. Then he wrapped himself in one of Crowe’s huge white towels and found that Crowe had laid a white terrycloth robe out for him.
He was further surprised to find that Crowe had used the time to start making breakfast: Texas-style French toast, grapefruit, coffee, and champagne. Crowe motioned Neal to sit down at the table beside the picture window. White tablecloth, white linen napkins.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” Neal said.
“Neither did you know that Rubens could paint.”
“Makes a great sandwich, though. Interesting table.”
“Of course. Nineteen fifty-five Renault drive shaft and windshield glass.”
“Do you always have champagne with breakfast?”
“Every day, since corporate America began to recognize Crowe’s surpassing genius.”
“The French toast is wonderful.”
“When Crowe creates, he creates wonder.”
“What do you want to know about my situation, Crowe?”
“Only how I can help.”
“You’re doing it.”
“Then that’s what I need to know.”
After breakfast, Neal took a cab to the Hopkins. He figured that whoever had tried to shoot him didn’t have a way to connect him to the hotel and, in any case, wouldn’t try to take him out there. Besides, he needed to make a private phone call and pack his stuff.
What he needed to do was talk to Graham. He dialed his number, let it ring three times, and then hung up. He waited thirty seconds and dialed it again.
But Graham didn’t answer. Ed Levine did.
“Where’s Graham?” Neal asked.
“Neal Carey, my favorite fuck-up!”
“Where’s Graham?”
“In the old country, probably slumped over a table in some dirty pub. I’m handling his caseload.”
“I only talk to Graham.”
“I’m sure he’ll be touched to hear that, asswipe, but he’s on vacation. You’ll talk to me.”
Vacation? Neal had known Graham for ten-plus years and had never known the man to take a day off. “Are you kidding?” Graham had asked him. “My job is lying, stealing, and cheating. How much more fun could I have?”
“Neal? Neal, sweetheart?” Levine was saying. “What are you calling for? Have you fucked up the job yet? Maybe paid Pendleton to stay in Frisco and put the hooker on a plane to AgriTech, something like that?”
Something is wrong here, Neal thought. Something is very strange. Careful now.
“I haven’t even found him yet,” Neal said. “He’s not where you guys said he would be.”
“Neal, you couldn’t find your arm in your sleeve.”
Witty, Ed. This was the guy who had once given Joe Graham one glove for Christmas.
“Where is Graham?” Neal asked again.
“Jesus, cut the cord, will you? What is he, your mommy? Seeing as how he had to go to England to change your diaper, he decided to take the ferry ride to Ireland and visit the home of his ancestors. He’s probably at the Dublin Zoo, all right?”
No, it’s not all right. Graham had told him a hundred times that he never wanted to go to Ireland: “We got rain and whiskey right here in New York.”
“Yeah, all right,” Neal said.
“Lighten up, college boy,” Levine said. It was a continuing source of resentment: Friends had put Neal through Columbia, Levine had put himself through night school at City. “Come home. The job is over. Pendleton came back all by himself. Called a little while ago from Raleigh airport, and he’s on his way in to the lab.”
“Swell.”
You lying sack of shit.
“So go back to your little cottage, pack up your shit, and get your ass back to New York. We might just decide to make you work for a living.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“What’s the matter, Neal? Pissed off because the job ended before you could be a big hero? Cheer up. At least you didn’t kill this one.”
Levine laughed and hung up. Neal dialed another number.
“AgriTech. May I transfer your call?”
“Dr. Robert Pendleton, please.”
“One moment.”
Here we go again.
Another voice, a harsh male voice, came on the line. “Who is this?”
“Who is this?”
“Why are you inquiring about Dr. Pendleton?”
“Why are you inquiring why I’m inquiring?”
“Please identify yourself or I will have to terminate this call.”
Terminate this call?! What the hell is going on with this stupid case? Who says stuff like “terminate this call”? Security types, that’s who.
“This is the assistant manager at the Chinatown Holiday Inn,” Neal said. “Dr. Pendleton left some medication behind when he checked out, and I wanted to know if I should FedEx it, or whether regular mail would do.”
“One moment.”
They must all go to the same school, Neal thought.
“Dr. Pendleton says that regular mail will be sufficient.”
“May I confirm that with him personally, please? Company rules.”
“He’s very busy at the moment.”
“I’m sure he is. Thank you.”
Neal packed in a hurry. Suddenly he didn’t want to be in the hotel, where anyone could find him. There were too many contradictions. Joe Graham never takes vacations and hates Ireland, but he’s on vacation in Ireland. Ed Levine says that Bob Pendleton is back at work, but he isn’t, because AgriTech security relays a message from him about medication that doesn’t exist. And someone tries to kill me because I found Pendleton.
Whoever was diddling the door was doing it well, because it barely made a sound. But Neal Carey had done a lot of doors and he heard it like it was an alarm bell. Which it was.
Someone had picked up his trail and was planning something nasty in the ever-so-nice Mark Hopkins, and there was no way out of the tiny room.
Which was maybe okay, he thought.
Neal grabbed the letter opener off the desk and waited behind the door. He was scared as hell, but he was also getting a little tired of being jerked around, and whoever was coming through the door was going to get a little surprise in the form of a letter opener swung fast and hard.
Neal’s heart raced like the ball on a roulette wheel as he heard the lock click and watched the door handle come up. If the guy had a gun, he had to beat him to the punch, so to speak-put him down hard and keep him down so he could ask him a few questions.
The door came open slowly and Neal let loose. The point of the opener stuck into the intruder’s arm and quivered.
“What’s the matter? You got a babe in there, you don’t want me to come in?”
Joe Graham was staring at him curiously.
“Come in.”
Graham plucked the letter opener from his rubber arm. He looked disgustedly at the sleeve of his shirt. “This is a new shirt, Neal. I just bought it.”