four-mile swim through a night sea had saved Jonathan's life. Of course, Jonathan should have been worldly enough to realize that any man who trusts a Cyprian Greek deserves a Trojan fate, but this did not prevent him from biding his time until he ran across him in Ankara. The Greek was not aware that Jonathan knew who had sold him out—perhaps, being Greek, he had even forgotten the incident—so he accepted the gift of his favorite arrack without hesitation. The bottle had been doctored with Datura. The old Turk who did the job used the ancient method of burning the Datura seeds and catching the smoke in an earthen jar into which the arrack was then poured.
The Greek is now, and will always be, in an asylum, where he sits huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, humming a single note endlessly.
The score with The Greek settled, only Miles Mellough's debt was still outstanding. Jonathan was sure that one day he would happen upon Miles.
The jangle of the telephone jarred him from his morbid stream of free association.
“Hemlock? Reports are in from Montreal. Good job, pal.” Clement Pope's brassy, insurance salesman voice was enough to make Jonathan testy.
“My money wasn't in the mailbox this morning, Pope.”
“Well, how about that?”
Jonathan took a deep breath to control himself. “Let me talk to Dragon.”
“Talk to me. I can handle it.”
“I'm not going to waste time with a flunkey. Get Dragon to the phone.”
“Maybe if I came out there and we had a good chat...?” Pope was taunting. He knew that Jonathan could not afford to be seen in his company. With Dragon's necessary seclusion, Pope had become the public face of SS Division. Being seen with him was tantamount to having a “Support CII” sticker on your automobile.
“If you want the money, pal, you'd better cooperate. Dragon won't talk to you over the phone, but he will see you.”
“When?”
“Right now. He wants you to take a train in as soon as possible.”
“All right. But remind him that I am depending on that money.”
“I'm just sure he knows that, buddy-o.” Pope hung up.
Someday, Jonathan promised himself, I'll be alone in a room with that bastard for just ten minutes...
Upon reconsideration, he settled for five.
NEW YORK: June 11
You're looking especially attractive this afternoon, Mrs. Cerberus."
She did not bother to look up. “Scrub your hands in the sink over there. Use the green soap.”
“This is new.” Jonathan crossed to the hospital sink with its surgeon's elbow lever instead of the conventional twist tap.
“That elevator is filthy,” she said, her voice as scaly as her complexion. “And Mr. Dragon is in a weakened condition. He's near the end of a phase.” This meant that he would soon receive his semiannual total replacement transfusion.
“Do you intend to donate?” Jonathan asked, rubbing his hands dry under a jet of hot air.
“We are not the same blood type.”
“Do I detect a note of regret?”
“Mr. Dragon's blood type is very rare,” she said with evident pride.
“In humans at any rate. May I go in now?”
She fixed a diagnostic glare on him. “Any colds? Flu? Digestive disorder?”
“Only a mild pain in the ass, and that's a recent development.”
Mrs. Cerberus pressed the buzzer on her desk, and she waved him into the interlock without further comment.
The usual dim red light was not on, but the rising heat was as stifling as ever. The door to Dragon's office clicked open. “Come in, Hemlock.” Dragon's metallic voice had a weak flutter in it. “Please forgive the absence of the red light. I am more than usually fragile, and even that dim light is painful to me.”
Jonathan groped forward for the back of the leather chair. “Where is my money?”
“That's my Hemlock. Directly to the point. No time wasted with the conversational amenities. The slums have left their mark.”
“I need the money.”
“True. Without it you will be unable to meet your house
The Greek is now, and will always be, in an asylum, where he sits huddled in a corner, rocking back and forth, humming a single note endlessly.
The score with The Greek settled, only Miles Mellough's debt was still outstanding. Jonathan was sure that one day he would happen upon Miles.
The jangle of the telephone jarred him from his morbid stream of free association.
“Hemlock? Reports are in from Montreal. Good job, pal.” Clement Pope's brassy, insurance salesman voice was enough to make Jonathan testy.
“My money wasn't in the mailbox this morning, Pope.”
“Well, how about that?”
Jonathan took a deep breath to control himself. “Let me talk to Dragon.”
“Talk to me. I can handle it.”
“I'm not going to waste time with a flunkey. Get Dragon to the phone.”
“Maybe if I came out there and we had a good chat...?” Pope was taunting. He knew that Jonathan could not afford to be seen in his company. With Dragon's necessary seclusion, Pope had become the public face of SS Division. Being seen with him was tantamount to having a “Support CII” sticker on your automobile.
“If you want the money, pal, you'd better cooperate. Dragon won't talk to you over the phone, but he will see you.”
“When?”
“Right now. He wants you to take a train in as soon as possible.”
“All right. But remind him that I am depending on that money.”
“I'm just sure he knows that, buddy-o.” Pope hung up.
Someday, Jonathan promised himself, I'll be alone in a room with that bastard for just ten minutes...
Upon reconsideration, he settled for five.
NEW YORK: June 11
You're looking especially attractive this afternoon, Mrs. Cerberus."
She did not bother to look up. “Scrub your hands in the sink over there. Use the green soap.”
“This is new.” Jonathan crossed to the hospital sink with its surgeon's elbow lever instead of the conventional twist tap.
“That elevator is filthy,” she said, her voice as scaly as her complexion. “And Mr. Dragon is in a weakened condition. He's near the end of a phase.” This meant that he would soon receive his semiannual total replacement transfusion.
“Do you intend to donate?” Jonathan asked, rubbing his hands dry under a jet of hot air.
“We are not the same blood type.”
“Do I detect a note of regret?”
“Mr. Dragon's blood type is very rare,” she said with evident pride.
“In humans at any rate. May I go in now?”
She fixed a diagnostic glare on him. “Any colds? Flu? Digestive disorder?”
“Only a mild pain in the ass, and that's a recent development.”
Mrs. Cerberus pressed the buzzer on her desk, and she waved him into the interlock without further comment.
The usual dim red light was not on, but the rising heat was as stifling as ever. The door to Dragon's office clicked open. “Come in, Hemlock.” Dragon's metallic voice had a weak flutter in it. “Please forgive the absence of the red light. I am more than usually fragile, and even that dim light is painful to me.”
Jonathan groped forward for the back of the leather chair. “Where is my money?”
“That's my Hemlock. Directly to the point. No time wasted with the conversational amenities. The slums have left their mark.”
“I need the money.”
“True. Without it you will be unable to meet your house
Similar Books
