Norman was embarrassed. "A lot of the better psychics won't come onto your show, Dr. Venkman. They think you're too skeptical."
"Me?" Venkman said, astonished. "Skeptical? Nor man, I'm a pushover. I think professional wrestling is real!"
Venkman looked up. There was a commotion brew ing from the studio next door. Several plainclothes policemen strode out of two swinging doors, followed by a small army of men in suits, with serious expres sions.
"What's all this?" Venkman asked Norman.
"They just interviewed the mayor on Cityline" Norman replied.
"The Mayor of New York City!" Venkman ex claimed. "Why, he's an old friend of mine."
Venkman ran down the corridor as the mayor and his top aide—a mousse-laden, no-nonsense, three-piece suit named Jack Hardemeyer—emerged from the studio next door.
"Lenny!" Venkman called, waving at the mayor.
Mayor Leonard Clotch wheeled around and, spot-
ting Venkman, wiped a trickle of sweat from his upper lip and almost ran down the hall in the opposite direc tion.
"Hey, Lenny!" Venkman called. "It's me! Peter Venk man."
Two plainclothes cops stopped Venkman in his tracks. Hardemeyer marched up to Venkman and, after adjusting his hair, placed a heavy hand on Venkman's chest.
"Can I help you?" He sneered.
Venkman, while appreciating the sneer, didn't like the man's attitude. "Yeah," he said, "you can get your hand off my chest."
Hardemeyer offered a serpent's smile and dropped his hand. "I'm Jack Hardemeyer. I'm the mayor's assistant. What can I do for you?"
Venkman straightened his tie. "I'm an old friend of the mayor's. I just wanted to say hello."
Hardemeyer emitted a harsh laugh. "I know who you are, Dr. Venkman. Busted any ghosts lately?"
"No," Venkman admitted. "That's what I want to talk to the mayor about. We did a little job for the city a while back and we ended up getting sued, screwed, and tattooed by desk worms like you."
Hardemeyer offered Venkman an angry stare. "Look," he replied, bristling. "You stay away from the mayor. Next fall, barring a disaster, he's going to be elected governor of this state, and the last thing we need is for him to be associated with two-bit frauds and publicity hounds like you and your friends. You read me?"
"Yeah, Venkman thought to himself, and it's strictly big print.
The two plainclothes cops flanked Venkman, help ing him get the point. "Okay," Venkman said smoothly.
"I get it. But I want you to tell Lenny that because of you, I'm not voting for him."
Hardemeyer smiled smugly and, spinning on his heels, marched off with the two plainclothes cops. Venkman watched them move out of the hallway.
Heaving a sigh, he trudged through the reception area, where a small group of his fans and possible guests were gathered.
The fans applauded him.
"No, really, you're too kind." Venkman was nearly grimacing.
One man was holding a crystal the size of a Toyota.
Another man had a small TV antenna glued to the hat he was wearing.
A fellow in full voodoo uniform sat next to the candy machine, burning incense.
A fat woman petting a hairless cat smiled up at Venkman.
Venkman smiled at them all, but at a strange angle. He was losing it. He was definitely losing it. He winked at the woman. "Nice cat. Very unusual. I had a bald collie once myself."
Venkman eased himself out the exit door and walked toward the elevator.
After thinking about it a second, he ran.
4
Dana Barrett walked up the stairs of the Manhattan Museum of Art, her portfolio and artist's box in her hand. She weaved
her way through the crowds of tourists and visitors milling toward the museum's en trance.
Little Oscar would be safe today, she knew. She gave strict instructions to the baby-sitter not to take the boy out of the apartment.
Dana flashed her ID card at the guard at the main entrance and, ignoring his smile, walked into the back of the museum, where the large restoration studio was housed.
Since leaving her dreams of cello playing behind, Dana had earned a living restoring some of the oldest long-lost paintings of the Western world; chipping, cleaning, and urging them back into full bloom.
She stepped into the restoration studio and glanced upward with a slight shudder.
A titantic portrait of Vigo the Carpathian stared down at her. The seventeenth-century despot bore a
striking resemblance to the Incredible Hulk dressed for an evening in Camelot. Vigo's dark, evil eyes seemed to leap out of the painting toward Dana.
Actually it was the artistry of a young, wiry, and decidedly quirky artist, Janosz Poha, that was bringing Vigo "to life."
Janosz was the head of the department and incred ibly talented. He was also incredibly creepy to Dana's way of thinking. What he saw in the ugly painting of Vigo was beyond her.
Dana walked over to a ninteenth-century painting, this one a landscape, her mind still on little Oscar, and began to clean the years of soot and dust off its surface.
Janosz stopped working on Vigo for a moment, and staring longingly at Dana, softly padded up behind her. He looked over her shoulder and smiled. He opened his mouth and spoke, his words emerging in a thick Eastern European accent.
"Still working on the Turner?" he said casually, sounding a tad like a talking Veg-O-Matic.
"Oh?" Dana said, startled. "Oh, yes. I got in a little late this morning, Janosz. I'm sorry. I'll have it finished by the end of the day."
Janosz twisted his scarecrow face into a grin. "Take your time. The painting's been around for a hundred and fifty years. A few more hours won't matter."
Dana forced herself to emit a polite laugh. She began to work again, hoping her young boss would just go away. "You know," Janosz continued, "you are really doing very good work here. I think soon you may be ready to assist me in some of the more important restorations."
"Thank you, Janosz," Dana said, still not facing the man. "I've learned a lot here, but now that my baby's a little older, I was hoping to rejoin the orchestra."
At the mention of Dana's baby, the figure of Vigo in the painting seemed to glow slightly, its dark eyes gleaming. Slowly, deliberately, the painting turned its mighty head and gazed down at Dana.
Dana, her back toward the mural, did not notice. Neither did Janosz, who was deeply involved in gazing at Dana himself. "Oh, I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "We'll be very sorry to lose you."
Dana continued to clean her landscape. "I didn't really want to quit the orchestra in the first place," she explained. "But it's a little hard to play a cello when you're pregnant."
Janosz emitted a braying, nasal laugh. "Of course. Perhaps I could take you to lunch to celebrate your return to the Philharmonic?"
"Actually I'm not eating lunch today," Dana said, putting down her cleaning tools. "I have an appointment."
She gazed at her wristwatch. "In fact, I'd better go."
Dana replaced her tools. Janosz was clearly disturbed. "Every day I ask you to lunch, and every day you've got something else to do. Do I have bad breath or something?"
Dana smiled at him. "Something. Perhaps some other time."
Janosz brightened. "Okay. I'll take a rain check on that."