"You're quite safe here."
Gibson looked a little uncomfortable. "I don't want to insult your hospitality or anything, but that's what they told me back on Greene Street. When it came down to it, the psych attack ran all over them."
Windemere slowly nodded.
"I think you'll find that you'll be a good deal safer here from dream invasion. They do rather tend to live in the material world, what with their Mafia rent-a-goons and Muslims straight out of Attica. We tend to be a little more organic over here. Why do you think I've been feeding you hundred-year-old cognac and good opium for the last couple of hours?"
"I thought you were showing me a good time."
Windemere grinned. "Well, that, too, but I was also hardening up your dreams. An opium dream is practically inviolate on its own, but surrounded by a layer of good booze, it's rock steady. They can psych away all they want, but you'll be in blissful oblivion. I don't really approve of amphetamine as a way of life. Without sleep, you just grow less and less sane. Just to be on the safe side, I have some heavy-duty blockers built into this humble abode that are, although a little more funky than the stuff they have in the Nine's little Disneyland on the Hudson, a great deal more effective."
Gibson was still a little doubtful. He wanted to think that Windemere was okay, but it was taking a hell of a risk. The rats and the Nazis were still horribly vivid in his memory.
"I have to take your word for all this?"
Windemere nodded. It was almost casual. "That's right. You do."
"I need to talk to Smith, Klein, and French about this."
This time Windemere shook his head. "I'm afraid that here in my own small magic kingdom I call the shots, and the first one is that you have to make your own decision. As far as my protecting you, it'll be done my way or not at all. Don Carlos knows this and the streamheat know it. It's really a case of take it or leave it, Joe."
Gibson thought hand about this. He really was exhausted and would like nothing better than to stretch out and go to sleep. "If there is an attack, will you have people on hand, ready to pull me out?"
"Of course,"
Gibson took a deep breath. "Okay, then. I'll try and get some sleep."
Windemere looked at Christobelle. "Would you mind showing Joe to his room? I have some thinking to do. I fear the multidimensional universe is going to a war footing sooner than I expected."
Christobelle stood up and smiled at Gibson. "Would you like to come with me? "
At the door, Gibson turned back and grinned at Windemere. "Thanks for the hospitality."
Gideon Windemere waved a hand in airy dismissal. "You're more than welcome."
As Christobelle closed the door, she winked solemnly at Gibson. "You should take Gideon's bullshit with a pinch of salt."
Gibson was surprised. It seemed like a decided lack of loyalty. "You mean all that he was telling, he was just making it up?"
Christobelle quickly shook her head. "Oh, no. I don't know what he was telling you, but Gideon always tells the truth as he sees it. The bullshit's in the presentation. Do you want a Valium?"
Gibson thought about both the statement and the question. "No, I don't think so. The opium will more than do it for me."
Windemere's study was in the ground floor of the house, and they were out in the main hallway that led in one direction to the front door and in the other to an imposing staircase. Christobelle started toward the staircase. As she began to climb, she glanced back at Gibson.
"Did you really kill your roadie?"
Gibson wearily halted. How many times did he have to go over that old, old story? "You know, that whole thing has been blown out of all proportion. We were all drunk and the gun went off. Damn, he was out of the hospital and back on his feet inside of a week."
"But you did shoot him?"
Gibson sighed. "That's right. I did shoot him. I pointed the gun and shot the son of a bitch. "
Christobelle seemed to realize that she'd gone too far. "I'm sorry. I wasn't making any kind of judgment."
' "You just wanted to hear from the horse' s mouth if the stories were true."
"Something like that. I suppose a lot of people ask you the same thing."
Gibson nodded. "One or two."
"I really am sorry."
"That's okay. Don't worry about it."
The sound of footsteps was coming down from the second floor, and he and Christobelle were confronted by Smith, Klein, and French and Windemere's two minions on the first-floor landing, Windemere's minions were a choice pair. Gibson had no difficulty figuring out which was Cadiz and which was O'Neal without any formal introductions. Cadiz looked fresh out of a Cuban maximum-security prison. He was a small swarthy man with a flat nose and broad cheekbones. His black hair was slicked straight back, and three tattooed tears ran down his cheek from the outer corner of his right eye. The mythology was that each tear represented a homicide. If Cadiz was from the joint, O'Neal looked as though he'd learned his business in some extreme faction of the Irish Republican Army. His hair was shoulder-length and his features were hard and florid, and both men faced down the world with expressions that were totally devoid of the normal signs of either humor or pity. Gibson wondered how a seemingly cultured individual like Windemere stood living with this duo of cold killers hanging around.
Smith stopped on the landing and looked questioningly at Gibson. "Are you okay?"
Gibson nodded. "Yes, I'm fine."
"What are you doing?"
Gibson scowled. Smith continued to behave as though she were his goddamn governess or something.
"Windemere suggested that I should get some sleep."
"Is that a good idea after what happened in New York?"
"I'm prepared to take the chance."
"We're responsible for your safety."
"I thought Windemere had taken over that role?"
Smith glanced back at Cadiz and O'Neal.
"I don't think this is the time or place for this discussion."
Gibson stood his ground.
"And I don't think that it's a good idea to be shooting me up with any more speed. I'm going to wind up crazier than I am already. So, despite your misgivings, I'm going to avail myself of Mr. Windemere's hospitality and go to bed." He stepped past Smith and looked at Christobelle. "Would you like to show me to the guest room? "
Christobelle eyed Smith, Klein, and French coldly.
"Of course, whatever you want."
The two of them started up the next flight of stairs. Nothing more was said, but Gibson had the distinct feeling that somewhere along the line Smith would make him pay for his demonstration of independence.
The guest room was on the top floor. In the days when the house had originally been built as the home for a well-to-do Victorian family, the room had probably been part of the servants' quarters. On one side, the ceiling angled down, following the line of the roof. Most of the floor space was taken up by a king-size brass bed and a small bedside table. On the table there were two twelve-ounce Cokes cooled in a bucket of ice, and a copy of Stephen Hawking's A Brief History of Time appeared to be set out as suggested bedside reading. How the hell did Windemere know that Coca-Cola was Gibson's favorite hangover cure? There was a framed print of Andy Warhol's Electric Chair hanging above the mantel. The room wasn't exactly cheerful, but the bed looked comfortable, and right at that moment it was all Gibson cared about. As they entered the room, a very large black Persian cat with the amber eyes of a demon jumped up from where it had been sleeping and streaked past them and out of the door. Gibson started but quickly recovered himself.
"What was that? Windemere's familiar?"
"That's Errol. He shares his home with us and we feed him. He's a bit neurotic and doesn't altogether trust strangers."
Christobelle closed the door behind the animal. "You think you'll be okay here?"