My brother had changed greatly in the past few years, I thought as I watched him sit down on a weight bench and begin to oil a glove. And not without reason. We had both been hammered good, both physically and psychologically, in the course of investigating a string of related cases that had turned nasty and bizarre on us. But Garth had been hammered more, and a poisoning he suffered had bent both his body and his mind. He'd emerged from that searing experience a mellower man in many ways; but he was considerably harder in other ways, and quite different from the much-honored NYPD detective he'd been for almost two decades. I considered him an almost perfect empath, with an uncanny ability to understand and feel the suffering of other people, and then to reach out and soothe them.
Loonies loved my brother, as did people who were down and out, or on their way there. With life's losers and hurting, he was the gentlest of men. If, on the other hand, you happened to be a person who caused others to suffer, Garth was a good person to avoid. He brooked no nonsense, did not suffer fools at all gladly, and no longer bothered reading bad guys their rights; when really worked up, he took no prisoners.
He now wore his thinning, wheat-colored hair long, sometimes in a ponytail held in place by a thin leather thong. In addition, he had a full beard liberally streaked with silver and gray. The effect of all this hair was to frame his limpid hazel eyes, which could be startling in their gleaming expressiveness-of love, sorrow, or rage; when Garth was upset, you knew it. Fortunately, the occasions on which he really grew angry were rare, for his reactions could be astonishingly quick and brutal. He now seemed to me to be a kind of emotionally polarized human being who lit up brightly at both ends of the emotional spectrum, but could seem dull emotionally to many people when he was in the middle. He could seem virtually Christ-like when dealing with people in need; indeed, with his long hair and limpid eyes I thought he even resembled some pop artist's conception of Jesus-assuming the artist's Jesus was over six feet and upwards of a hundred and ninety pounds of finely toned muscle.
"Yo, brother," Garth said, looking up as I limped across the room toward him. "You look a bit stiff."
"How observant you are today. I look a bit stiff because I am a bit stiff."
"What happened?"
"Nothing earth-shattering; I'm just getting old. But I'm not going to be able to play tomorrow. Can you get Ratso or Willy to sub for me?"
He nodded. "So, did you get to ask your questions?"
"Yep."
"And?"
"I've got good news, and I've got bad news."
Garth set the glove and the jar of oil aside, looked at me, and frowned. "Are you all right, brother?"
"Yeah. Just stiff."
"In that case, give me the good news first."
"I met Mary Tree. Damned if the love of your life isn't a long-term member of the Community of Conciliation who lives in that mansion of theirs in Cairn. As a matter of fact, I spent the better part of an hour talking to her. I told her what a fan you are, and she sent something for you."
Garth stared at me for some time, his mouth hanging slightly open. He finally managed to say, "Huh? Are you serious?"
"Here," I said, handing him the plastic bag. "These are for you."
My brother took the bag, held it open by its plastic straps, and peered inside. "You really met Mary Tree?" His voice was almost childlike.
"Yes, Garth," I replied, smiling, "I really met Mary Tree. Why don't you ask me what you're looking at?"
"What am I looking at?"
"Demo tapes; all new songs by Mary Tree, Harry Peal, and Dylan, performed by the light and love of your life. She mentioned that she's preparing a new album, but I'd guess that there's enough music in there for three albums. She thought you might enjoy a sneak preview. Oh, and by the way, she's invited us both up for a day of picnicking and sailing. If you can refrain from trying to jump her bones the moment you lay eyes on her, I'll bet she can even be persuaded to take out her guitar for a little sing-along."
Garth looked up at me, his hazel eyes gleaming-a small boy on Christmas morning when he first sees the gifts under the tree. "Holy shit," he whispered.
"Close your mouth, Garth; it makes you look stupid. Also, try to remember to breathe; I don't think you're breathing."
He dismissed my helpful suggestions with a wave of his hand, then reached down into the bag and took out one of the cardboard-jacketed reels, lovingly turned it over in his fingers. "Mongo, she signed it. Mary Tree."
"Sure enough," I said, and broke into laughter. Unaffected joy radiated from my brother like fever heat, and it was impossible not to be affected by and share in it. "What, did you think I was bullshitting you?"
"Holy shit."
I watched him reverently place the one tape down on a folded towel on the bench, then reach into the bag and take out another one. "Are you ready for the bad news?"
"Huh?" he said in a distinctly absent tone of voice. "Yeah, sure."
"The bad news is that your fly is open, your dong is hanging out, and the tip is covered with a thick, green fungus. It looks like New York City jungle rot to me, incurable. I'd say the whole thing is going to fall off in three or four days."
Garth glanced up from the tape, blinked slowly, shook his head slightly. "I'm sorry, brother. What did you say?"
I threw a heavy sigh at him and rolled my eyes toward the ceiling. "That was just a test to see if you were paying attention. You're not. How the hell am I supposed to give you bad news when you're not paying attention?"
Garth grinned, then picked up the tape off the towel and carefully placed it back into the plastic bag. He rose, put one hand on the back of my neck, kissed me wetly and loudly on the forehead. "Fuck the bad news," he said as he stepped around me and headed for the door. "As long as you're not seriously hurting, you can handle the bad news. I've got some serious music listening to attend to."
Okay.
I spent the rest of the afternoon attending to my paperwork, analyzing and condensing crude private intelligence reports on some Arab potentates that a client of ours, an oil company, was thinking of trying to cut a deal with. Through all the hours, the music of Mary Tree wafted up from Garth's apartment on the floor below; the floorboards tended to wipe out the treble and boost the bass, but the music still sounded excellent, and by the third run-through of the tapes I found myself singing along with half the songs.
At seven I took a break, went out, and walked a few blocks in an effort to try to loosen up my stiff knee. I stopped at a deli for a roast beef sandwich and some salad, then returned to my desk.
Mary Tree called at 10:45. She apologized for the lateness of the hour, but said she thought that I would want to know right away that Harry Peal would be happy to meet with me the next day and had suggested that I come up around 11:30 for brunch. She gave me directions. I thanked her, told her that Garth was ecstatic over her gift, said I'd be in touch, and hung up.
I wanted to fill Garth in on what was happening, but the silence from the apartment below told me that he was surely sleeping, and I didn't think it was important enough to wake him. I set my alarm for eight, took two aspirin, and went to bed.
I stopped in Garth's apartment on my way out, found that he had already left for the softball games. I left a note explaining that I was going back upstate to take care of some unfinished business, and asking him to check with his NYPD buddies for impressions of and information on one Daniel Mosely, former NYPD cop, and now Cairn's chief of police. Then I rolled Beloved Too out of the garage and headed for the West Side Highway.