The little boy stood up. Man's castle... no, no, the boy and his castle of 'boy.' Lu said cocaine was 'girl'... hit you like an orgasm. My newly found store of.... stupid knowledge.
White, white tower in the sun. Crazy road for a poppy to travel. Gorgeous poppy with your innocent coloring... and belly full of evil opium. Oh God, is beauty really the other face of evil? My God...? My God... am I about to see You? So much to forgive... Forgive?
Closing my eyes I listened to the relaxing music of the waves. Kept opening my eyes every few seconds—to be sure I could. Lu, face down in the sand beside me. Dead face down. Poor Lu.... Good Lu.... in our weird way, did we find love? Love—I'm a maudlin slob... dying next to a dead whore. What more fitting headstone for me?
The sand in her dark hair seemed like maggots. I glanced down at the deep white of the tower. The White Tower hamburger joints in New York... her torn breast like hamburger. Ugly tower!
Crazy last thoughts... crazy... crazy world I'm leaving. Bon Voyage, bastard world.
No more voyages for me. Still, this... the castle... the sun... the blue of the sky... the sea. Cemetery with a view.
CHAPTER 8
Riding the subway again gave me a slight sense of security. It wasn't only the protection of the crowd—being on the go always was my tonic. There wasn't any Robert Parks in the phone books, but I found a listing for his lawyer, Maxwell Wyckoff. On the off-chance he hadn't been hospitalized yet, I wanted to see Robert: I needed money—eating and room rent dough. I'd given up on the idea of moving to Europe: soon as the police learned I was Stanley Collins, all ships and planes would be checked. Hell, now I couldn't ever return to my hotel room, cash in my open boat ticket.
Later for Europe—and poor Syd.
There was another reason for seeing Parks: only one way I could contact the syndicate—or even Mr. Ping, if he'd stand still long enough to listen to a proposition before silently blasting away—was via a junkie. A user could put me in touch with his pusher, who could do the take-me-to-your-leader routine until I reached somebody big enough to buy what I had in my duffel bag. Robert was the sole hophead I knew and there was a strong possibility he'd been snowing me over in Villefranche, had been on the junk here. Certainly —if he wasn't in a hospital—Parks would have made some sort of dope contact by now: his habit would have forced him to.
Sitting in the reception room of his Wall Street office, I glanced at a fascinating copy of the Law Journal. Wyckoff didn't even ask me into his office —he came out to the reception foyer. “Yes, Mr. Biner?” he asked, a look of distaste on his round face. He shaved too often—the area under his double chin was blotchy.
“I've misplaced Robert's address and he isn't fisted in any phone book or...”
“Young Parks entered a private hospital yesterday. He can't be visited for several weeks.”
“What hospital? Lexington?”
“I'm not at liberty to divulge that. What is it you want, Biner?”
“Can you give me his mother's address?”
“I'll have to know exactly what you wish to see her about, first.”
“Well... when Robert asked me to be his nurse on the trip home, he agreed to pay me. In the excitement of my sudden leaving, I didn't bother to ask for my... pay, and then, at Idlewild, you took him away abruptly. It happens that the sale of one of my pictures, which I was counting on, hasn't come through and I can use the...”
Wyckoff walked over, pressed the elevator button. “Mr. Biner, unless you leave immediately, I shall be forced to call the police. Blackmail is an ugly...
“Blackmail?” I cut in, boiling. “I want the money he promised me! Returning to the States so suddenly has upset my plans.”
“Biner, you're either crazy or stupidly brave to have come here. There's one aspect of Robert's mess which has never been satisfactorily explained to me, nor to his mother. Robert went abroad a clean, sensitive youngster—within a matter of weeks he returns a dope addict, his life wrecked. While I am aware you allegedly rescued him from the clutches of hoodlums, I also am aware Robert would never have mixed with such lice if he hadn't met the wrong type of people abroad. I feel certain some... uh... Beatnik, like yourself, put him on the narcotic path. Now, you come around asking for money, which smacks of blackmail.” The elevator door slid open behind him. He jerked a fat thumb at it.
Furious, I yelled, “Is this the thanks I get for risking my life to rescue him from a mess—in which he involved me! I never saw Robert in my life until he arranged to have my passport stolen! Have me arrested—I'll sue the hell out of you!”
“I accept that risk. Now, either you leave this second, never attempt to contact Mrs. Parks or myself again, or I shall phone the police. The choice is yours.”
Really feeling like a whipped cur, I stepped into the damn elevator, punched the main floor button.
Walking uptown, still sweating with anger, I didn't know what to do. I needed a room, a place in which to lay low for a while, to think... and I had less than thirty bucks in my pocket. Passing a cheap bar north of Canal Street, I felt sick with hunger. Buying a late paper I went into the bar, took a roast beef sandwich from the food counter over to the bar, ordered a beer. The bartender was an antique with the map of Ireland on his pale, veined puss.
Eating the sandwich, I glanced through the paper—nothing new on the killing, no mention of my name. When I ordered a second brew, the barkeep said, “Sure a scorcher today. I see you've been to the beach. Many people in swimming?”
“Yeah.” It was nearly six p.m. and the bar was empty except for a wino at the other end, staring up at the old movie on the ceiling TV, as he munched pretzels and nursed a drink.
The bartender thought making small talk was part of his job. Placing a beer in front of me he said, “Mister, I notice by your tan you're no stranger to the beach. Don't see many folks taking care of their health these days. I say folks have lost faith in each other, in God. What do you say, mister?”
“What? I say you're a 100% right,” I mumbled, my mind a whirling blank. I dropped a dollar on the bar. “Give me a straight bourbon chaser.”
Two women came in, sat at a table near the door. The bartender made no move to serve them. Both wore cheap, long-sleeved print dresses, looked in their late twenties. The younger had a swarthy face, chunky figure. The other dog was scrawny all over. Quickly casing the bar, the women talked to each other in a gossipy whisper.
Drinking the whiskey slowly, hoping it would relax my brains enough to let me think, I felt depressed as could be. “See you know how to drink, mister,” my gabby bartender said. “I swear, nobody even knows how to get an honest toot on any more. Great saints, all they do now is throw the stuff down their throat, become vomiting drunk. Main trouble with our world, no longer any honest values.”