Plague

Dr. Petrie passed his glass. He watched Ivor Glantz unstopper the crystal decanter, and pour the drink out.

'Listen, Professor Glantz,' he said gently. 'I don't mean to be personal, but… '

'But what, Dr. Petrie?'

Dr. Petrie shook his head. 'I'm sorry,' he said. 'It's none of my business.'

Glantz handed over his Scotch. 'Of course it's your business. You're a guest here.'

'I didn't mean to pry. It just seemed that, well — '

'I know what it seemed like. Well, it's the truth. I've decided to withdraw my action against Sergei Forward. The reason I've decided to do so is because my stepdaughter is being blackmailed. It appears she was rather indiscreet. That's if you want to put it mildly.'

Dr. Petrie sat back. 'Is that the price? Is that what the blackmailers are asking for? Your withdrawal from the case?'

Ivor Glantz nodded. 'Of course. That's why my stepdaughter was set up in the first place. It was a deliberate ploy by Forward to hit me below the belt. I can tell you something, Dr. Petrie — if ever I lay my hands on that Finnish bastard, so help me I'll tear his lungs out and use them for water wings.'

'Surely it wasn't Esmeralda's fault?' said Adelaide. 'If she was set up, how can you blame her?'

Glantz swigged whiskey. 'I blame her because she got herself drunk and she let them do what they wanted. Not once did she think about me, and what could happen if she got involved in something like that. She lives under my roof, I pay for everything she wears, eats, and wipes her ass with. I bought her an art gallery and two hundred paintings to stock it with. I'm a step-father in a million, and all she can do is get herself squiffy on two glasses of champagne. Do you know, Dr. Petrie, how much that bacteriological process means to me?'

'What do you mean? Financially?'

'Of course, financially! What do you think this is — the Alexander Fleming Home for needy bacteriologists? Dr. Petrie — over twenty years, that process could have brought me, in royalties and dues and industrial licences, something in the region of thirty million dollars.'

Adelaide's eyes widened. 'I see what you're talking about. I think I'd be sore, too.'

Ivor Glantz shook his head. 'I'm not sore, my dear. I'm out of my goddamned mind with rage.'

Shark McManus started moaning again. He was lying curled-up on the cold plastic tiles of a travel agency's second-floor office on Third Avenue, shivering and sweating in the darkness. From where he lay, He could see the legs of a desk, and a waste-paper basket, and a half-open door. He still clutched his.38, but his sight kept blurring, and he was hurting so bad that he didn't even know if he could pull the trigger or not. Pains like red-hot rakes stabbed into his groin and his stomach, and every now and then a scalding squirt of diarrhoea soaked into his jeans.

'Paston,' he whispered. 'You still there?'

Edgar Paston stood by the window, pale-faced and perspiring. In the street below he could see gangs of black youths running and shouting and smashing windows.

'I'm here,' he said quietly. He came across the office and bent over McManus with a serious face. 'How do you feel?'

McManus winced. 'Oh, terrific.'

Edgar said, 'Shark, I have to find you a doctor.'

McManus moaned again, and shook his head. 'Where do you think you're going to find a doctor — out there? I know you, Paston — you're going to go — straight to the cops — and tell them it was me.'

'Shark, you'll die!'

'What the fuck — do you care? I used you — you used me — and your family got wasted.'

Edgar stood straight again.

'I still think I ought to try and find you a doctor. There have to be doctors who wouldn't ask questions.'

McManus almost laughed. But his laughter turned to coughing, and his coughing became gasps of pain.

'Paston — you're such a stupid shit!'

'Don't say that, Shark.'

'Aah… why should you care?' whispered McManus.

Edgar clenched and unclenched his fists. He seemed to be trying to say something that wouldn't quite form itself into coherent words. He wiped his perspiring forehead with his shirt-sleeve, and then he said, 'Shark — '

McManus was moaning. Edgar knelt down beside him, as close as he could, and took his hand.

'Shark, I do care.'

Shark's breath smelled bad, and his face, in the gloomy darkness of the office, looked like a white wax death-mask.

'Shark, I don't want you to die.'

Shark slowly moved his head from side to side.

'Thass… bullshit.'

Edgar Paston leaned over the dying boy and held his face in his hands. Shark's eyes were almost closed, and he was breathing thickly and slowly through his parted lips.

'Shark, listen, I have to tell you this. Please, listen, will you? I have to tell you.'

McManus opened his eyes a little wider and stared at Edgar as if he had never seen him before in his whole life.

'I don't suppose you'll understand,' said Edgar. 'But I have to tell you anyway. I know Tammy and the kids were killed, but you have to believe that I don't blame you. You were trying to help us, Shark, I know that. It was the cops who killed them. You have to understand that I don't blame you.'

The office was so dark that it was impossible to tell if Shark McManus was listening or not. He quivered from time to time, and whimpered, but he didn't answer.

Edgar Paston was crying now. 'Shark,' he said, 'I got it all wrong. I didn't understand. Don't you see? I got it all wrong because I was dead and you were alive. I didn't recognize you for what you really were. Shark, you've got your youth. Look at me. How old do you think I am? Shark, I've never had a youth! It was school, and then it was college, and then it was Tammy and the kids and work. Christ, Shark, you've got freedom and love and confidence and everything, and all I've got is a useless dreary stupid supermarket!

Shark McManus, after a few moments, seemed to smile. He managed to raise one limp hand and touch Edgar's tears.

'Paston,' he croaked. 'You're such a stupid shit.'

'For Christ's sake, don't say that.'

'I have to say it, man. It's true.'

Edgar Paston sat up. His voice was unnaturally high, and in an odd way he was almost hysterical.

'God!' he shrieked. 'Can't you see how much I envy you?'

McManus was in less pain now. He gave a few breathy chuckles, and rolled his head to one side.

'Paston,' he whispered. 'I don't want to be envied by you. I think I'd prefer to die.'

Edgar got to his feet, and automatically brushed the dust from the knees of his pants.

'Well, that's too bad,' he said impatiently. 'That's just too bad because I'm going to go right out there and find you a doctor. You're going to get well again and then we'll see. Give me the gun.'

'Paston,' said Shark, 'you're out of your head. You can't go out there.'

'Give me the gun, Shark.'

Edgar bent over and caught hold of McManus' wrist. Shark was too weak to resist him, and he gave up the.38 without a struggle.

'Okay now,' said Edgar, forcefully. 'I'm going out there and I'm going to find you a doctor. Give me an hour. If I'm not back after that time — well… '

'Can I die then?' asked Shark McManus. 'Am I allowed to?'

Edgar leaned over and patted him on the cheek.

'You are not to die,' he said tenderly.

Shark nodded. 'Okay, then. I won't.'

Edgar took the gun and left the office. He walked along the landing to the concrete staircase that led down to the street. As he reached the top step, he heard an unexpected scuffling noise, and he paused. He peered into the darkness, and he could have sworn that he saw something moving. He wished he had a torch.

Feeling his way down step by step, with his hand against the rough concrete wall, he came to the next turn in the stairs. He heard the noise again. There was a high-pitched squeaking, and the patter of feet.