An Affair Of Sorcerers

Chapter 5

A heavy rain was falling, chilling the sooty New York City dawn. I parked on the street outside Garth's West Side apartment house and walked a half block to an all-night diner at the corner. I bought coffee and hard rolls, then called my brother from a booth in the back. He finally answered on the sixth ring. "Yeah?"

"Good morning, Lieutenant. This is a close relative calling."

"What the hell do you want, Mongo?" he asked groggily. "You have any idea what time it is?"

"Frankly, no. It's early for you, late for me. I need to talk to you."

"I've got company."

"What am I, a priest? I don't want to talk to her; I want to talk to you. C'mon, brother. Would I be out here on the street calling you at this hour of the morning if it weren't serious?"

"Damn right you would." He paused, chuckled evilly. "How are the tympani lessons going?"

"Garth, let me come up."

Something in my voice must have struck a chord. There was a pause; then: "Okay, Mongo. But if this is a joke, I'm going to kick your ass. Fair warning."

"It's no joke."

"Bring coffee."

"I've got coffee."

Garth, dressed in a robe, met me at the door to his apartment. Unshaven, his thinning, wheat-colored hair uncombed, he looked as our father had looked early mornings on our Nebraska farm where we'd grown up. Garth and I had come a long way from the Midwest, by very different routes, and had both ended up in New York within a few months of each other. We liked that, liked each other. I owed the man; he'd helped me survive a dwarf's cruel childhood and adolescence.

Without a word, Garth reached down into the bag I was carrying and took out a container of coffee. He opened it and swallowed a large mouthful of the lukewarm liquid. Finally he looked at me, yawned. "You look like hell, Mongo. Come in and sit down."

I followed him into the living room and went straight to the bar, where I poured a stiff shot of Irish whiskey into my coffee. I drained off half of it, poured in another shot. That made me feel a bit better. I took the gown out of the bag and showed it to him.

"Does this mean anything to you?" I asked.

"Occult symbols," he said, examining the garment and nodding. "It could be a witch's robe if it were a little bigger. Where did you get it?"

"The little girl who was wearing it is in the hospital right now, in a deep coma. When you check the sheets this morning, you'll find that a man by the name of Frank Marlowe burned to death in his apartment about three o'clock this morning. The girl's his daughter. I was there, and it had to be a chemical fire; it was very hot, smelled like hell and formed an almost perfect circle around the bed."

Garth, wide awake now, held up his hand to stop me. "Whoa, brother. You're saying you think somebody killed this Marlowe?"

"Right. And whoever it was did something to the girl and dressed her in that gown. I-"

"Hold it," Garth said tersely. He rose and went into the kitchen. I heard him talking on the telephone, and a few minutes later he came back into the living room. He lighted a cigarette, then tilted his head toward me in what might almost have been a nod of approval. "Stop down at the station house later, okay? We'll want a formal statement from you."

"When I get time. I was about to say that the girl's doctors don't know what's causing her coma. There doesn't seem to be anything physically wrong with her-at least nothing they've been able to detect."

"There are drugs that can put a person into a coma."

"I know. If she is drugged, the problem is identifying the drug before she dies. Obviously, whoever drugged her didn't intend for her to die right away; she was dressed in that gown, then left outside the circle of fire where someone could find her before the blaze spread."

"Strange," Garth said quietly, pulling at his lower lip.

"Yeah. I have to find out what's going on-in a hurry."

Garth got up, pulled open the draperies and stared out into the wet morning. The vanguard of the working people was beginning to fill the city, and the hissing sound of tires on wet pavement drifted up from the streets below. "What kind of son-of-a-bitch would do that to a kid?" he growled.

"You're the one who's been working that side of the street; I was hoping you'd be able to tell me."

He turned back to me, ground out his cigarette and lighted another. He took a deep drag, then blew the smoke out with a sigh of exasperation. "I deal mostly with a lot of wackos," he said. "I get groups sitting around a stinking, decaying body for a week while they try to raise it from the dead. I get small-time bunko artists, and the idiots who get taken by their mumbo jumbo. Every once in a while I tie into something big like the Son of Sam case, where some poor bastard thinks he's possessed by demons and starts killing people. But most of the stuff I see is small potatoes-cases with losers who got tired of being screwed by the natural and hoped to do better with the supernatural. There's always someone around to oblige them. This business that you describe, if you're right about it being a setup, sounds pretty sophisticated; you've got chemicals, drugs and a locked door."

"I thought all the real weirdos were in Southern California."

"The organized weirdos are in Southern California. Not counting victims, New York really has two layers of people involved in the occult. There are a lot of cocktail-party fortune-tellers, of course, but there are also some very sophisticated people who are very much into what they're doing."

"What do the symbols on the gown mean-if they mean anything?"

"I don't know," Garth said, shaking his head. "But I can think of a couple of people who might. The guy I'd really like you to talk to is Michael McEnroe. He's a clairvoyant, psychic and teacher who lives down in the Village; supposed to be a real saint. The problem is that he's in India." He paused, rubbed his forehead. "You might talk to John Krowl. He works out of a brownstone in Brooklyn, just across the Manhattan Bridge. I'll give him a call for you."

"What does Krowl do?"

"He reads hands and tarot cards. He used to be one of McEnroe's students until they had a falling-out of some kind. He's a very heavy fellow."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning. . he's heavy," Garth repeated, raising his eyebrows. "Krowl seems to be able to do exactly what he claims he can do: read your past, know your present-and maybe predict your future."

"Christ, Garth, you sound as though you're starting to take this shit seriously."

He didn't smile-didn't say anything. My words seemed to have triggered a whole train of thought in him, and for the moment he was lost in it. I was about to say something else when a tall, pretty redhead with green eyes stepped into the living room. She was dressed in one of Garth's shirts. My brother introduced her as Regina Farber.

"So you're Mongo," the woman said in a throaty whisper. "I've heard so much about you!"

"At your service," I said with a bow.

"Garth talks about you all the time."

"Quiet, Regina," Garth said with a good-natured growl. "The man's conceited enough as it is."

"I've got to get along, Garth," I said, tapping the face of my watch. "How about giving this Krowl a call now? I'd like to see him as soon as possible."

"Hey, come on. It's six o'clock in the morning. You're not going anywhere until you get some food in your belly and some sleep."

"I'm in a hurry."

"Sure you are. You haven't slept all night, and you haven't eaten. You go out of here now and you're going to fall right on your dwarf ass. That's not going to do you-or the little girl-any good. You know I don't give a damn what happens to you, but for the sake of the girl I'd like your brain to be functioning in full gear. So you're going to have something to eat, take a bath and sleep before you go back into the arena. In the meantime, I'll see what I can find out. Okay?"

Garth was playing Mother. I decided to let him get away with it, because he was right.

"I'll make us something to eat," Regina said, gliding on her long, slender legs toward the kitchen.

Garth turned serious again. "You talk about witchcraft and Satanism," he said, lowering his voice as though he didn't want the woman in the kitchen to hear. "Ever think about Charles Manson?"

"Have I ever thought about Charles Manson? Yeah, I've thought about Charles Manson; it's my business to think about nice folks like that."

"I'm not sure you have," Garth said evenly. "Not really. Here's an out-and-out punk, a failed songwriter, failed you-name-it, and he-"

"He was a successful butcher."

"Yeah, but he had power, Mongo; enormous personal power-enough to fuck up the minds of a whole flock of kids that he got to do his killing for him."

"Weirdos. It's all psychological."

"Of course it's psychological." He looked at me hard, sighed. "You're missing my point."

"I'm afraid so. Even Manson didn't claim that the Devil made him do it."

"Look," he said after a pause, "let me tell you about a case I just wrapped up. Last week, a woman wandered into the station house with this outrageous story. Witchcraft was involved, so it was referred to me. Well, her story turned out to be true. For the last eight months the woman had been enslaved by a 'spiritualist' she'd gone to for advice on how to cure her epileptic daughter. The spiritualist and her boyfriend had persuaded the woman to move in with them, along with her two kids. To make a long story short, the couple had been beating up on the woman for eight months; they'd been torturing her with lighted cigarettes, beating her with paddles and wire cables."

"How'd she get away?" I asked, not really caring. I was distracted by the thought of Kathy in the hospital, but sensed that Garth was trying to tell me something he thought was important.

He shrugged. "She was never actually locked up. She didn't have to be confined, because she was controlled. The couple had convinced her that they'd cast a spell and that she'd die if she tried to escape. Anyway, she was sent out to buy some groceries and a friend saw her. The friend asked her where she and the kids had been for eight months, and she blurted out the story. The neighbor convinced her that she should go to the police."

He paused, blew a smoke ring, then impatiently swept it away with his hand. "The place was quite a sight," he continued. "All red: red carpets, red walls, red altars, red candles-red everything. Satanism. Somehow, that couple had even managed to turn the woman's kids around; the children would help beat their own mother. Up to Friday-which was the last time I checked it out-the little bastards still preferred the spiritualist and her boyfriend over their mother. Would you call that a spell?"

I swallowed hard; my mouth felt dry, sore with fatigue and anxiety as I thought of mothers squirtgunning cyanide into their babies' mouths in Guyana. "I'd call it a horror story. And I'm still missing your point."

"Have it your way, brother. I'm trying to give you some advice: if you're going to jump into this particular pond, swim with a straight face. Believe what you want to, but never let on that you don't take these people seriously-not if you expect to find out anything. Especially remember that when you talk to Krowl; he'll pick up on it in a second if you try to bullshit him. Keep your usual smart-ass remarks to yourself."

"You take Krowl seriously, don't you?"

Garth looked uncomfortable, and he took a few moments to think about his answer. Finally, he said, "You and I come out of our background with a certain set of preconceptions that we call 'reality.' It's damn hard giving up those notions, but someone like Krowl can start you thinking. I've seen and heard some things that are hard to explain."

"Did you go to Krowl for a reading?"

"Yeah," Garth said, lighting his third cigarette. "I'd heard about him and I was curious. What can I tell you? He wiped me out. Between a palm print and a few layouts of those tarot cards, he seemed to know my whole goddamn life. I'm talking about Elizabeth and the babies' deaths, what section of the country I come from, the fact that I was a county sheriff before coming to New York, and even the year I came here. He even knew about. . Neptune."

We stared at each other in silence, the atmosphere in the room suddenly heavy with tension. A year before, Garth had been in love with an Iranian woman by the name of Neptune Tabrizi. An investigation I'd been conducting had resulted in her death. The discovery that Neptune's love for Garth had been a lie and a betrayal had not altered the fact that he'd loved her deeply. I knew all was forgiven, but Neptune was still a subject we avoided.

"I don't have the slightest idea how he does it," Garth continued. "All I'm saying is that something is going on. His list of clients reads like a Who's Who of celebrities: rock and movie stars, politicians and their wives, writers and artists. And those are just the people who don't mind publicity. I have a feeling we'd both be surprised at the names of some of the shyer ones who regularly use him as an adviser."

"Interesting, but tarot cards and palm reading don't sound like the kind of thing we have with that gown."

"You're right; the symbols on the gown definitely look like witchcraft, which isn't Krowl's number. But Krowl is an expert on the occult in general."

"How soon can I get to see him?"

"I don't know. I'll call him later, then get back to you. If you're out, I'll leave a message with your service."

Regina appeared with two steaming mugs of coffee. Garth took his, then excused himself and went into the bathroom to wash up. Regina wanted to talk, and I managed to carry on a fairly decent conversation, despite the fact that I was only half-listening to what the woman had to say. I sipped at the hot coffee, resisting the impulse to splash in another slug of Irish whiskey. My lack of sleep was beginning to take its toll; my eyes smarted, and I felt disoriented-although not sleepy. I kept thinking of Kathy, dwelling on the fact that her sleep could turn out to be permanent.

Garth reappeared, shaven and with his hair combed. He glanced at Regina.

"Excuse me again," Regina said, patting me affectionately on the forearm. "I think our steaks are just about done."

"I'm impressed," I told Garth when Regina had gone. "I thought this was the age of Women's Lib."

"Regina's liberated," he said. "The fact is that she likes me, she likes cooking, and she likes to leave when I'm talking business. You should find yourself such a liberated girlfriend."

I drained off the rest of my coffee. "You said there were two people who might be able to help me. Who do you have in mind besides Krowl?"

Garth looked uncomfortable. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask. I may have spoken out of turn; it's a rather confidential and very special source. Why don't you talk to Krowl first and see what he can tell you?"

"C'mon, brother. There's a child's life at stake here, and I haven't exactly had time to make up a schedule of where I'm going to be, or when. I don't know how I'm going to handle this yet, so why don't you just give me the name now? I'm not going to give it to the Daily News."

He thought about it, finally nodded. "You know her; she's a colleague of yours. Dr. Jones."

"Madeline Jones? Mad Jones is an astronomer. What the hell does she know about the occult?"

Garth laughed. "I've got news for you. That astronomer is also an astrologer-and a good one, if you can believe there is such a thing."

"Madeline Jones?" I knew I was repeating myself, but I couldn't help it. The woman he was referring to just happened to be a world-renowned astronomer, a cosmologist who was a leading expert on black holes and quasars. She spent half her time teaching, the other half flying around the world to deliver papers at various conferences.

Garth nodded. "Don't ask me the details, because I don't know them. Somehow, Dr. Jones got mixed up with the occult underground here-the heavies, not the weekend dabblers. She takes a pretty wry attitude toward the whole thing when I talk to her, but I can tell you that she's respected by the people who count."

"And how does your horoscope look for today?" I said with a grin, then quickly held up my hand. "Sorry; I'll remember to keep a straight face."

"I'm not into astrology, brother," Garth said, annoyance creeping into his voice. "I'm just telling you that Dr. Jones has a big rep. As an astrologer, the woman's damn near a legend. Naturally, she's a little nervous about word of her extracurricular activities getting back to your circles."

"My circles?" I laughed; the whiskey was starting to affect me. "I've got enough circles to make a sphere. How'd you meet Mad?"

"Breakfast's ready!" Regina called from the kitchen.

"Apparently, she gets pretty close to her students," Garth said quietly. "Last year, one of them got mixed up with a coven that turned out to be a homosexual procuring ring. They were really doing a number on the kid. Dr. Jones heard about it through her sources, and she came to me for help. She had to expose her own occult activities to me, but she was willing to risk her academic career to save the kid. Anyway, her friends in the occult protect her-and I protect her. She's been useful as hell to me. You'd be amazed at some of the kinky things otherwise sensible kids get themselves involved in. Dr. Jones is the best snitch I've got when it comes to these spook rip-off artists. I think she takes a kind of pride in keeping the field. . pure." Garth must have seen something in my face, because he suddenly laughed self-consciously. "Weird, I know."

"I don't know how to get in touch with her," I said. "With her schedule, Mad could be anywhere in the world."

"She's at the university for the summer. I talked to her last week about another case."

"Garth!" Regina called. "Mongo! Get in here right now or it goes in the garbage!"

We went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. Regina had prepared steak, eggs, hashed-brown potatoes and toast. I hadn't realized how ravenously hungry I was until I started eating, and I wolfed down the food along with two more cups of Regina's strong, black coffee. Then my weariness hit me and I wanted nothing more than to lay my head down on the table and close my eyes. But there was still more business to be taken care of.

"What's the story on the psychic healer you've got locked up across town?" I asked.

Garth glanced up from his coffee, surprised. "Esteban Morales?"

"That's the one. How does it look to the cops?"

"Why?"

His question put me in a bind. Garth had broken a confidence by telling me about Madeline Jones, and he wasn't going to like it if I turned coy on him. Still, I didn't want to say too much while Regina was there.

"Garth," I said, looking down into my empty coffee cup, "someone who thinks Morales is innocent has asked me to look into the case."

I glanced up in time to see Garth narrow his eyes. "That's very nice of someone," he said softly.

"My client has. . personal reasons."

"Christ, you're a busy man."

"You don't know the third of it," I said, thinking of Smathers. "The interested party is a very heavy politician who can't afford to have his name linked with a psychic healer."

"I can understand that-particularly when the healer is accused of murder. Why is Morales so important to him?"

"It is very personal, Garth. Let's just say that he's as impressed by Morales as you are by John Krowl."

"Do you want me to leave?" Regina asked, reacting to my tone and starting to rise.

"It's all right," Garth said, gripping her elbow and gently pulling her back down into her chair. "I don't really have that much to say, Mongo. I think you'll be wasting your time on that one. You know the background of the case?"

"Some of it. I know Morales was involved in a research project, and his work with the two doctors was part of it. He was working with their patients."

Garth nodded. "Samuels-the M.D. he killed-had filed a complaint on him, something about practicing medicine without a license. Samuels claimed Morales had administered drugs to a patient-something he'd been specifically prohibited from doing. It was channeled to me because Morales is billed as a psychic healer."

"Why is everyone so damn sure that Morales is the killer?"

"He was found standing over the body. Samuels and Jordon met every Thursday night at their offices to go over their business affairs. Morales got there early one night and slit Samuels' throat. Dr. Jordon came in a few minutes later and found Morales with the body. Morales had dropped the knife he'd used into a vial of acid."

"Then it was Jordon who reported the murder?"

"Right."

"That I didn't know. Sounds suspicious."

Garth smiled condescendingly. "Why? Jordon wasn't anywhere he wasn't supposed to be."

"What does Morales say happened?"

"He claims he received a call from Samuels asking him to meet Samuels a few minutes before Samuels' meeting with Jordon. When he got there, he saw the body and went over to it; that's when Dr. Jordon walked in. Hell, what would you expect him to say?"

"Does he have a lawyer?"

"Legal Aid."

"People who know the man say he's not a killer."

Garth shrugged. "Hey, he's a real nice old fellow; but then, even nice old fellows have been known to kill."

"How much investigating are you doing?"

"We're looking into it, but there just isn't anyone else with a motive to kill Samuels."

"No one that you know of, and you're not likely to find anyone else without a little digging. A complaint isn't that strong a motive, Garth."

"Hey, what can I tell you? He was found standing next to the body."

"Can I get in to see him?"

He thought about it, said: "Let me know when you're ready. If Morales and his lawyer don't have any objections, I'll see what I can do." He paused, drummed his fingers on the table. "Personally, I like the old man; I hope you do find out something. But I don't think you will."

"Thanks, brother. I'm not sure when I'll get to that, but I would appreciate it if you'd check with Morales. Tell him I'd like to help, if I can."

"Fair enough."

I knew I needed sleep, but wasn't sure I could. I shaved with Garth's razor, then took a hot shower. I dressed again, then lay down on the couch. I'd intended simply to rest until a more reasonable hour when I could try to reach Madeline Jones-but I was asleep by the time I put my feet up.