“I can see that.”
“He isn’t doing anything with it,” Misty said.
“Doing anything with what?"
“His nakedness. It’s going to waste. “We’re doing more with clothes on than he is naked.”
“You’re doing more,” I corrected her. “And I wish you’d cut it out. We’re not alone.”
“Come on, Stevie. Don't be coy.” She ran her fingers through my hair. “Hey, you’ ve got a bald spot,” she noticed.
“Not really. It’s just-” I started to explain, and then decided against it. How could I explain that the little circle of skin on top of my head was really a hiding place for coded messages created by a faggot Commie wig-maker? “Yeah. I guess it is a bald spot,” I granted.
“Stevie’s got a bald spot. Stevie’s got a bald spot,” Misty chanted.
April came skipping over and picked up the chant. “Stevie’s got a bald spot.”
In the dim recesses of my mind, I wondered what effect, if any, this revelation might have on future events. That bald spot might be very meaningful to Ex-Lax, or to Castor Oil. If either of them was out to get me—as I was them—then this would surely pinpoint my identity for them. And for all I knew, one of them might be the fiery girl perched on my lap, or the innocent-seeming sex-kitten skipping in front of me, or -
Or Happy Daze! He came over now to add his talents to the kidding about my bald spot. “Aha!” he said, peering down at it. “A veritable billiard ball emerging from its cocoon.”
“That's silly," Misty told him. “Billiard balls don't come out of cocoons. Anyway, it looks more like an egg sprouting out of his head.”
“Then he's an egghead," Happy decided. “And I am a mother hen; That's it. So I shall hatch him.” With which statement he started climbing on top of my head.
“Cut it out!” I scrambled out from under him.
“Why does a chicken cross the street?” Happy leveled a dramatic finger at me.
“Why?” It was Misty who answered him.
“To hold its pants up!” Happy chortled.
“You’re reverting,” I told him.
“That’ s what happens when I take a trip,” he admitted. “I go backward. Back to the basic values, know what I mean? Like—Ask me who was that lady I saw you with last night?"
“Who was that lady I saw you with last night?” Misty obliged.
“That was no lady. That was my brother in drag."
Happy was actually slapping his knee with glee. “Do you know what the world’s best can opener is?” he asked.
“I give up. What’ s the world’s best can opener?” Misty was still playing straight man.
“Ex-Lax.”
The punch-line fell into a general conversational void. It seemed to me that everybody looked up at it. Was it meant as a signal to me? I wondered. Or was it just accidental? If so, then I should be able to tell something from the reactions of the others. But outside of the sudden interest each of them seemed to show, I deduced nothing.
The lull was broken by Winthrop Van Ardsdale. He sprang up suddenly and flapped his arms vigorously. “I must get back to my crypt before I’m missed,” he announced. And he bounded across the room to the sliding French doors and flung them wide. He was out on the terrace before anybody realized what he intended.
“Grab him!” Happy yelled. “He thinks he can fly!”
There was a scramble after Winthrop. I found myself braking to a halt with the others as he leaped to the terrace ledge and poised eighteen stories above the ground. “You know,” he announced calmly, “scientifically speaking it’s an impossibility for a bat to fly. But we fly anyway.”
“Now just a minute, Winthrop.” I found myself edging towards him. “You don’t want to take off before you're sure the wind is right.”
“You don’t believe I can fly." There was pity for my skepticism in the way he shook his head.
“I didn’t say that. It’s just—"
“All scientific reasoning stems from a hypothesis," he pointed out. "Obviously the hypothesis relating to the ability of bats to fly is faulty. You'll grant that, won’t you? I mean, after all, bats do fly."
“Well, yes,” I admitted. “But then you're not really a bat, Winthrop.”
“I am so!” He was indignant. “I am a vampire bat. And I can prove it.”
“You can? How?” I challenged him. I figured I had to keep him talking to stop him from launching into flight.
“Pink toothbrush,” he said triumphantly. “My toothbrush is always pink. That proves I’m a vampire.”
“Not necessarily. Perhaps it’s only that your gums—”
“There is nothing wrong with my gums are as good as your gums any day! I was simply pointing out the evidence of my nightly vampire activities."
“But that doesn’t necessarily mean you can fly,” I said desperately.
“It doesn’t mean I can't. Now does it? I mean, you can't fly. But I can prove I can fly."
“How?”
“By flying, of course.”
For one brief, acid-soaked moment, the thought stuck in my mind that maybe he really could fly. If LSD could release mental powers, then why not physical ones? Maybe Winthrop had discovered the power of flight on his “trip.” It would be one hell of a put-down for me if he really did go winging off into the night.
I pushed the possibility out of my mind. My sense of plausibility may have been undermined, but I hadn’t given it up altogether. I returned to my original objective, which was to keep Winthrop from taking wing and diving off the eighteenth-story ledge. And I had a sudden idea of how I might talk him down from his perch.
“If you take off now,” I threatened, “do you know what I'm going to do, Winthrop?”
“What?” He looked interested.
“I'm going to search out your grave and drive a wooden stake through your heart.”
“You wouldn’t!”
“I would!”
“Your friend!”
“You're mixing up our roles,” I told him.
“It's your fault. You're deliberately trying to shake my sense of identity!"
“I mean it, Winthrop. Now come on down from there!"
He wavered for a moment, and there was an audible gasp from the others. “You’ll never find my gravel” he howled. His leg muscles tensed, and I realized he actually was about to jump. I dived for him and got an arm around his legs just as he dived off the ledge.
It was almost fatal for both of us. His momentum almost carried me over after him. Only quick action by the naked Louis Ching saved us. The Chinese slammed into me from the side, and I was able to wrench Winthrop back to the terrace. The three of us fell to the floor of the terrace together in a flailing mixup of arms and legs. As I started to sit up, something light and hairy went sailing past my nose.
“Rugski!” Winthrop was yelling. “Rugski, come backl”
“What’s he blathering about?” I grunted as I pulled myself up to my feet.
“Catch Rugski! Quickly, before he's lost! Grab Rugski!"
The others were scrambling around the terrace now. They were in confused pursuit of something I couldn't see. Finally Misty came up with it. “I’ve got Rugski!" she crowed. “Don’t worry, Winthrop. Here's Rugski!” She waved it around over her head, and I was able for the first time to identify the object of the case. Rugski was a hairpiece. And the skin in front of the receded hairline on Winthrop’s head testified to Rugski's nesting place. Now he grabbed it from Misty's hands and replaced it with a sigh of relief.
“I forgot about Rugski,” he confided. “I never would have tried to fly if I remembered. Too dangerous. Even on the ground I sometimes have trouble holding onto Rugski in a high wind. I’d never risk going batty if it meant flipping my wig!”
I gave up trying to make sense out of his last remark and concentrated on the implications of Winthrop’s wearing a hairpiece. Was it just coincidence? Or was it the tip-off to his involvement with the Russians? Was Rugski just a hairpiece, or was it, like my own bald spot, proof of participation in the Commie espionage setup?