"Okay," I said curtly. There was no percentage in arguing with the other man.
"One of the uniformed officers in the precinct saw the picture, and he recognized Garth. That's why I'm calling you."
"Okay. I appreciate it, Sergeant."
"Did you read the story about Garth and the other guy in the picture with him?"
"The story was long on horseshit and short on facts. It didn't tell me what I need to know. Where the hell is that place Garth is supposed to be living?"
"There was a cop on the scene when that incident happened; he didn't recognize Garth, and he didn't know there was an MP blip floating on him."
"I don't care about that crap, Mclntyre. Where is he?"
"It's a big, converted bathhouse down in the Bowery-five blocks south of St. Mark's. The city shut it down when the AIDS scare first started. You'll recognize it right away by all the people hanging around it." Mclntyre paused, and when he spoke again, his tone had become softer. "Like I said, there was a cop on the scene when that business happened-and the cop drew the photographer. A report was filed, and maybe I can let you see it if you're interested; you stop around, and I'll see what I can do for you. I can understand how you'd be pissed, and maybe we could have done a little more than we did. Don't quote me."
"Thanks for the offer, Sergeant, but I'm not really interested in that nonsense. See you."
"Frederickson?"
"Yeah."
"What the hell's the matter with Garth?"
"Your guess is as good as mine," I replied carefully.
"The way he's acting. . it's why the Missing Persons report was filed, right?"
"Right."
"Is he crazy?"
"Aren't we all?"
"He's sure got some funny stories to tell."
"Yeah."
"He told me he killed Orville Madison. Can you believe that?"
"You've talked to him in person?"
"He was-is-my friend. After I heard about the newspaper story, I drove down to check out the situation. I called you before, but you weren't in. I didn't want to just leave a message on your answering machine."
"Why didn't you bring him in, Sergeant?"
"On what charges? He was reported missing, and now he's not missing anymore. There's definitely something the matter with Garth's head, Frederickson; you wouldn't believe the collection of people he's got down there in that mission of his."
"Mission? I thought you said he was living in a bathhouse."
There was a pause, then: "You'd better go down and see for yourself, Frederickson."
That was precisely what I intended to do. I thanked Mclntyre again, hung up.
I took the subway down to the Bowery, went up to the street, and walked five blocks south, until I came to a large traffic circle. Darkness had fallen, and I stood across the street, huddled against the cold in my parka, watching the proceedings on the opposite side of the circle, in front of a building of freshly scrubbed stone which took up half the block. There appeared to be a lot of construction going on inside and on top of the building, where the roof seemed to have been torn away, but business was obviously going on as usual. It was eerie, seeing the huge symbol painted above the entrance-four interlocking rings, skewered by a great knife with a jewel-encrusted handle. Valhalla and Whisper. I wondered if the logo had been designed to Garth's specifications, somehow doubted it. Unless Garth had changed once again, my brother certainly wasn't into symbols of any kind.
A line of bedraggled people snaked down the street and disappeared around the corner. The men and women, some cloaked only in rags and pushing rickety shopping carts or carrying shopping bags filled with their personal belongings, patiently shuffled forward, waiting their turn to be ushered into the bathhouse. A number of well-dressed people-young and old, black, brown, white, and yellow-moved up and down the line, clasping hands, occasionally hugging the bag people, evidently offering hope and encouragement. All of the aides wore green jackets or headbands-sometimes both-emblazoned with the rings-and-knife logo.
Tommy Carling, still wearing an earring and his long, blond hair in a ponytail, was there, wearing a green jacket. He was standing near the entrance, talking with a woman who also wore a green jacket, along with a black nun's cowl that fell over her shoulders.
There was no sign of Garth, and I assumed he was inside the building.
As I stood in the night shadows and watched, a television news truck pulled up to the curb in front of the entrance. A well-known local news reporter, accompanied by sound and camera men, got out and went up to Carling and the nun. The reporter said something to Carling, who shrugged his shoulders and made a gesture with his hands that seemed to indicate the line of people. There was a conference between the three people, and then the nun turned and went into the building. Lights were set up, and the reporter and his team began walking down the line of people, interviewing those who were willing.
Five minutes later the nun returned with a short man with long, greasy black hair liberally streaked with gray, who walked with a slight stoop. Even from where I was standing, I could see the ugly red and white scars on the man's face, and he wore dark glasses-which he slowly and dramatically removed as the lights came on, the camera focused on him, and the reporter stepped up to him with a microphone.
That, I thought with a grim smile, would be Harry August, obviously a con man par excellence. Untold numbers of readers of The National Eye no doubt believed that my brother had cured Harry August of total blindness, and now the credulity of a broader television audience was to be tested; there was no doubt in my mind that a lot of them would believe it too. As my mother was fond of saying, some people will believe anything.
I waited across the street for more than an hour, but still saw no sign of Garth. People continued to file into the building, and very few came out; those who did were dressed in clean clothes, looked as if they had washed, and walked considerably straighter. Finally the line of people began to thin out and shorten, and Carling seemed ready to take a break. He stepped over to the curb, lit a cigarette.
Now I stepped out of the shadows and walked quickly across the traffic circle. Carling saw me coming, flicked away his cigarette, and held out his hand.
"Mongo!" Tommy Carling said brightly.
"Where's my brother, Carling?" I said coldly as I stepped up on the curb outside the entrance to the bathhouse, ignoring the other man's outstretched hand.
Carling shrugged, then made the same gesture I had seen him make earlier with the television reporter. "I don't know. He's not back yet."
"Back from where?"
"He's walking the streets with Marl and a few of the Guardian Angels; they're looking for more people to take in for the night."
"Marl? Braxton's here?"
The male nurse nodded.
"Braxton's dangerous, Carling. You told me that yourself; you said he was the most dangerous man in the clinic. You're supposed to be a Goddamn mental health professional. What the hell are you doing parading around with this freak show?"
"Freak show, Mongo?" Carling said softly.
"I'm not talking about these poor people, Carling, and you know it! I want to know why you let my brother go off walking the streets with a potential killer!"
"Marl isn't dangerous any longer, Mongo," he replied easily. "Except, perhaps, to anyone who tried to harm Garth. That hasn't happened yet, and I don't believe it ever will. Marl is Garth's protector, not his enemy."
"Carling, you son-of-a-bitch, why couldn't you at least have picked up a phone and told me that Garth was with you, and that he was all right?"