Mission (27 page)

‘Amazing …' I sat back and braced myself for the inevitable crunch. It had to come, otherwise he would not have been telling me all this. But, as far as Fowler was concerned, there was, up to now, nothing in the story to link me with Mrs Perez, or the girl, and her mysterious friend Mr Sheppard.

Fowler took a frugal sip of his JD. ‘I know how you feel. But I'll tell you what
is
amazing. By the time she got back to the store, the arthritis in her hands had totally disappeard. She showed them to me. There is no swelling. The joints are perfectly supple. Mind you, I didn't see them before the alleged treatment at the Central Park clinic but her husband – who, I might add, is not too overjoyed at any of this – and Father Rosado both assured me that her hands had been quite badly deformed.'

‘Jeff,' I said. ‘It may make the medical profession a little twitchy but we both know cures like this happen every day of the week. At this time of the year, they're lining up at Lourdes by the busload to throw away their crutches. This is how the Vatican pays the rent.'

‘Sure,' said Fowler. ‘Listen, don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I
believe
all this. I'm only telling you what
I
saw, and what these good people told me. Whether Mrs Perez did or did not sit on a park bench with Jesus is not really something I want to get into – '

You should, Jeff,
I thought.
You should…

‘ – but the robe that triggered this whole thing off
exists.
And so does the girl who called for it and took it to the Mayflower Hotel.'

‘Yeah, I'll accept that,' I said. ‘There may be a casual connection between Mrs Perez's vision of Christ and the robe she was pressing at the time, but what does that prove? I mean, really, how could it belong to Jesus? The person she claims she saw coming out the hotel and who spoke to her in Central Park could have been another
hallucination. When women get religion, this is their big thing. Remember all those hysterical nuns in Ken Russell's film
The Devils?
'

Fowler nodded. ‘Yes, I accept that. But it still leaves us with the statue. And that
is
bleeding, and
I'm
not hallucinating.'

‘Yeah, that is weird,' I replied. ‘But like you said, it's not the first time it's happened. Even so, it's a great story. I just can't figure out what it has to do with me.'

‘It's the blood,' said Fowler. He left me hanging there while he lit another cheroot. ‘When I analysed the blood from the statue, I realised that it was identical to the sample Miriam had given me.'

That was a real stopper. I stared at him. He must have thought I didn't understand.

‘The sample of your client's blood,' explained Fowler. ‘The one that died after receiving fraudulent treatment in the Philippines.'

‘Yes, okay,' I said hurriedly. ‘I know the one you mean.'

He dispersed a cloud of smoke. ‘Don't you think that is amazing?'

I shrugged. ‘I think it's an amazing coincidence. But nothing more. I mean – how many blood groups are there?'

Fowler didn't let up on me. ‘You're missing the point. It wasn't just the same blood group. The same abnormality was present in both samples. I won't bore you with the technical details but the only way to describe it is – superhuman.'

He was right. But I couldn't tell him that.

‘And the chances of it happening twice in just over a week are, well – ' He spread his hands. ‘ – it's very odd. You know what I mean?'

‘I can see that it bothers you,' I said. ‘I just don't see how I can help you, Jeff. My client's dead. He's been cremated.'

‘Who was he?' asked Fowler.

I grabbed at the first name I could think of. ‘Uh – a man called Abraham Lucksteen. He died at his daughter's home in Los Angeles. What I mean to say is that
she
is my client. Since the death of her father, that is. Anything more at this stage would be a breach of confidentiality.' Terrible. I really got my tongue in a twist.

Fowler took off his glasses and peered closely at the lenses. I was struck by the way that his owl-like eyes now resembled those of a mole. ‘Leo … uh, I really don't know you too well, so I hope you'll excuse me asking you this but – ' he put his glasses back on,' – are you being totally frank with me?'

‘Jeff,' I began, with all the sincerity a smart kid like me can muster. ‘I appreciate that this blood analysis thing is a special concern of yours but just ask yourself – what could I possibly have to hide? I mean, there is just no way my late client could have any connection with a bleeding statue above a dry cleaners on 49th Street. That kind of thing only happens in movies. Believe me.' I lit another cigarette and sat back as if I didn't have a care in the world. ‘By the way, is the Perez family planning to give this story to the media?'

‘No idea,' said Fowler. ‘But I have.'

The news sent a chill shock-wave up my spine but I managed to stay in my seat. ‘You've spoken to the Press?'

‘Not exactly,' he said. ‘The girl who shares Carol's apartment is on the news staff of Channel Eight. Her name's Gale McDonald. D'you know her?'

‘Never met the lady,' I replied. ‘How long has she been sharing with Carol?'

‘Since the rent went up. Gale's from out of town. She landed the job with Channel Eight about four weeks ago.'

Terrific. That was all I needed. A TV newshound looking for the first big break. I tried to make my interest sound casual. ‘So, uh – what's happening? Is she planning to follow up on this story?'

‘She's already on it,' said Fowler. ‘I spoke to her before I came over here. She was on her way to the hotel.'

‘Ahhh,' I nodded. ‘Has that started to bleed too?'

‘No,' grinned Fowler. ‘She's trying to get a lead on this guy Sheppard. When she phoned, the desk told her he'd checked out of his room on Wednesday morning.'

‘Well, that proves one thing,' I said. ‘He wasn't the guy who disappeared from the park bench. If he could vanish into thin air, why would he reappear to pick up his bill?'

Fowler aimed his cheroot at me. ‘You've got a point there.'

I stood up. ‘Jeff, uh, listen – I don't want to rush you but I'm due in court again tomorrow and I have a stack of stuff to plough through …'

‘Sure.' He checked his watch, then got up and drained his glass. ‘As a matter of fact, I've got to be somewhere too. I'll let you know if Gale manages to get any of this on the air.'

‘Do that,' I said. ‘I'd hate to miss it.' I steered him to the front door of my apartment. ‘It's amazing how much of this stuff goes on. Yet most of us never hear about it.'

‘Yes,' he said. ‘Like the real truth about all those flying saucer sightings, the ones that can't be explained away.'

‘That's right.' I shook his hand and gave his shoulder a friendly pat as he stepped out into the corridor.

Fowler smiled. ‘You may think I'm a little paranoid but when I analysed your client's blood sample, I did seriously consider that it could be, well – extra-terrestrial.'

I smiled back. ‘Really?'

Fowler nodded. ‘For about thirty seconds. But then, anyone who reads UFO Update in
Omni
knows that there is nothing out there.'

‘They'd better be right,' I said. ‘Because if they land, I'm going to cancel my subscription.' I stepped back inside my apartment and began to close the door.

Fowler took a step towards the elevator then stopped. ‘Leo, just tell me one thing. How did you know that the dry cleaning store was on 49th Street?'

I forced a good-natured laugh out of my throat. ‘What is this –
Gangbusters?
Come on. Git outta here …'

The first thing I did after I'd closed the door was to pour myself another drink. The second thing I did was to call Miriam. I found myself talking to her answering service. I left my name and number and a plaintive one-word message – ‘Help'.

‘Is that with or without an exclamation mark?' asked the amiable young lady who was manning the phone.

‘Without,' I replied. ‘I don't want to start a panic.' It was ironic. If I had paid more attention to Carol as a person instead of just regarding her as a hot piece of Japanese take-out, I would have known who she was rooming with before getting mixed up with friend Fowler. There was a lesson in there somewhere.

A spark of ‘Braxian anger flared within me and I mentally barbecued Linda. If only she hadn't taken The Man's robe to the cleaners … But then I
had
asked her to look after him. I erased all thoughts of savage reprisals and tried to work out my next best move. I didn't know how bright or pushy this news-lady might be but she didn't need to be Dick Tracy to find the connection between the miracle-working Mr Sheppard and Leo N. Resnick. I'd left a trail that a blind boy-scout could follow. One thing was certain. I had to get Ms McDonald off the case. The problem was how to do it without spilling the entire can of beans.

I brewed myself a strong cup of coffee and sat down despairingly at
my work-table where my loaded Samsonite lay with the lid open. I shut it to remove the stack of unread papers from my sight and buried my head in my hands. When I remembered my coffee, it was lukewarm. I didn't have a number or address for Fowler so I rang Carol on the off-chance he might have gone there.

He had. ‘Hang on,' said Carol. ‘I'll go and get him.' She sounded rather breathless. But then she had let the phone ring fifteen times before answering it. ‘Oh, by the way,' she said, lowering her voice. ‘I've been meaning to thank you for introducing me to this guy.'

‘My pleasure,' I said. ‘Is he, er, okay?'

‘Are you kidding?' She giggled. ‘A jack-rabbit. Just unbelievable.'

‘Lucky you,' I replied. ‘Let me speak to Jeff.'

Fowler came on the line. He sounded out of breath too.

‘You certainly don't waste any time,' I said. ‘What were you doing – screwing on the doormat?'

He gave a prim cough. ‘No. I ran up the stairs.'

I adopted a bantering tone. ‘Come off it, Jeff. It's common knowledge that all you medical people are sex maniacs. I'm going steady with a lady doctor, remember?'

‘Yes, so I gather,' he replied. ‘Even so, it's unwise to make sweeping generalisations based on a sample of one.'

I let it go. The last thing I wanted to do was get his back up. ‘Jeff, uh, I'll keep this short and sweet. I'm involved in a matter of some delicacy and I need your help.'

His voice thickened. ‘Okay, tell me about it.' God knows what Carol was doing to him. Probably eating him alive. I'm not kidding. Once you press her button, she's like a boa-constrictor with St Vitus's dance.

‘Well, Jeff,' I began, ‘the fact is that when you were round at my place, I was not as forthcoming as I might have been.'

‘So-oh-ohh … what does that mean?' he replied.

Have you ever had the experience of talking to someone while they're getting their rocks off on the other end of the line? It can be very disconcerting. Especially when you can visualise the people and the apartment and know that the phone is in the hall.

‘Jeff,' I said, ‘what I'm trying to tell you is pretty important but something gives me the impression that I don't quite have your undivided attention.'

He answered with what was either a gasp of pleasure or impatience. ‘Leo, for crissakes, say what you want to say or get off the fucking
line, okay?'

‘Okay, okay,' I said hurriedly. ‘It's just that this Mr Sheppard, you know, the one who owns the pale-brown robe?'

‘Ye-ess …?' he grunted.

‘Well, uh – ' I gritted my teeth. ‘He happens to be a client of mine.'

The reply came in the form of a Stockhausen-type symphony of splintering bamboo and tinkling glass as the imported Red Chinese hallstand collapsed under the vectored thrust of their coupled bodies.

I plodded through my paperwork and called again an hour later. The phone was off the hook. I slammed the receiver down and turned my attention back on to the sheaf of notes I was trying to transform into a coherent legal argument. But my mind kept wandering back to the problem The Man had left me with. From what Fowler had said, it seemed unlikely that Mrs Perez would be able to produce any witnesses who could provide corroborating evidence of her miraculous encounter in the Park. But if the story was aired by Channel Eight, some of the passers-by might come forward. Even so, there was no direct evidential link between the person she claimed she saw and my client – Mr Sheppard. If she chose to fixate on him, that was her problem, not mine. I started to feel a little better.

The real news story was the plaster cross hanging on Mrs Perez's wall, with its bleeding figure of Christ. If this reporter could be persuaded to zero in on that, then we were off and running. But if the worst happened; if I was unable to steer McDonald away from The Man and The Mayflower Hotel, my involvement with him could be made to appear perfectly reasonable. All I needed was some plausible evidence to show that Mr Sheppard was a duly registered member of our society with a job and a home to go to. I also had to work out how best to square my evasions with Jeff Fowler. His relationship, via Carol, with Ms McDonald made things very tricky. One whiff of a cover-up and the news-lady's nostrils would start to quiver.

I worked on my notes with muddled slowness until midnight then went to bed plotting moves in the dark. Like a chess master playing several opponents simultaneously. Only in my case, the games were all being played out on the same board. I decided to make one last try to keep the lid on the whole affair and then, if that didn't work, I was prepared to let the whole thing blow and book myself into a clinic.