The Big Bang

Chapter Eleven

VELDA HAD BEAT ME to the office and was standing at her desk threading tape into our old Ampex reel-to-reel, the one that used to catch messages before we replaced it with a new cassette recorder.

It was raining again, so I'd shaken the moisture off my hat and coat out in the hall, and now hung them up in the closet. I had a paper sack of Danish, figuring Velda would probably have coffee ready.

Without looking at me, she said, "Vincent Rector dropped this off personally this morning. You just missed him. Coffee's made—get us a couple cups, would you?"

I did, and she was saying, "Rector said he was able to improve the signal-to-noise ratio—his company is working on a system for the recording industry, to improve dynamic range...."

"I'll pretend that means something to me," I said.

"What it means is, these are advanced techniques not in general use by government or law enforcement yet."

"That I can follow." I handed her a cup of coffee and sipped my own as she hit the switch.

The tape rolled through its predetermined path and she said, "Our former client claims this should greatly improve the chance that Pat can get a workable voiceprint analysis of the tipster."

The caller was male, and the exchanges between the emergency operator and the anonymous tipster were short and sweet.

"Tell the Narco Division," each call began, followed by the time and place of a shipment.

Though these calls came into the NYPD, not every location had been here in the city—several tips told of bundles set to come in over the Mexican border, while the local shipments that got tagged were not at point of entry, but drops where a supplier was turning over a sizable quantity of cocaine or heroin to some major dealer.

"Never allowed time for a trace," I said, after we'd gone through half a dozen of the calls.

Her head bobbed in agreement. "Shall I get this over to Pat? For voiceprint analysis?"

I was perched on the edge of her desk now, nibbling a Danish. I'd had time to get used to something I'd realized from the first few words of the first tipster call we listened to.

"Nope," I said.

"We're sitting on this? Why?"

"Dr. Harrin gets back from Paris this morning."

Her eyes tightened. Her head cocked. "How is that an answer to my question?"

I nodded to the tape recorder, where the spools were now motionless. "That's the doc's voice, kitten. I don't need voiceprint analysis to make it."

"Dr. Harrin is the anonymous tipster?"

"Yup. Junior Evello's Dr. Feelgood himself—the mob insider who spilled just enough dope on the dope racket to dry up New York. And who got half a dozen key lowlifes tossed in the Tombs and various federal pens."

Her eyes widened, her mouth dropped, and she didn't seem able to even form a question.

That was okay. I wasn't sure I had any answers.

I just knew I wanted to get to Dr. David Harrin before I let the NYPD and the Treasury Department in on it.

If Harrin was the new self-appointed kingpin moving in on both Evello and the Snowbird, I might have a more direct way of dealing with the problem than Captain Chambers or those T-men, Radley and Dawson.

"Call Dorchester Medical College," I said, sliding off her desk, "and leave word I want to see Dr. Harrin today. I'll be available this afternoon or this evening, at his convenience."

"Where are you off to now?" she asked, seeing me head for the closet.

"Suddenly remembered," I said.

"Remembered what?"

"Time for my arts and crafts class."

The rain had let up, but behind its glowering gray face, the sky was clearing its throat, threatening any second now to spit its derision at the humans below, pitiful creatures presumptuous enough to think they were in charge. The air was chilly and damp with that dark promise, and tourists were scarce in Greenwich Village, no one at all browsing in the Village Ceramics Shoppe.

Shirley Vought was out front this morning, beyond the aisles of plates and art pieces and behind the counter, with no sounds of activity coming from back of the curtained archway.

"Dead today," she said with a little smile. The lovely blonde could still do a lot for a simple powder-blue smock, and those brown eyes were searching my face like treasure was buried there. No psychedelic green streak on her cheek this time, though.

"Rain's coming," I said.

"It already rained."

"It's going to get worse. You alone here?"

"Yes. No classes this morning, either." She gave me a half-smile. "After the other night, I was hoping I might ... hear from you."

"Yeah, that was a blast. But it's dangerous being next to me right now, honey. You might catch something, and I don't mean a cold."

My arm was resting on the glass top of the counter. She touched my hand, gazed up at me with coyly half-lidded orbs. "I could hang a closed sign on the door.... That dressing room is still available...."

I patted her hand. "Rain check, doll. I'm working."

Her expression fell, and she drew the hand away, but she said, "I understand, Mike." She worked up a smile. "So—what brings you here on a beautiful morning like this? You're not looking for decorative ware, I'm guessing."

"I'm looking for what I'm always looking for—straight answers."

Those big eyes got smaller. She sensed a vague accusation in my words, and she was right.

I said, "You told me you'd only met Davy Harrin a couple of times, but seemed awfully knowledgeable about him."

"I told you," she said carefully, "he was well-known around this part of town. Star athlete."

"Right. What else was he known for?"

"He was an outstanding student—"

"I heard different. I heard they padded his grades to keep him eligible."

Shirley's eyes dropped from mine. She folded her hands on the glass top. "I didn't ... lie to you, Mike. Not really."

"I know. Sin of omission, though. Davy was into drugs, wasn't he?"

She swallowed and nodded. "Yes. Not everybody knew that, and I really didn't know him very well ... but we had mutual friends."

"Like Russell Frazer?"

She shrugged, nodded. "'Friends' is too strong a word. But I was aware Russ and Davy knew each other."

"They would have shared a mutual friend in Jay Wren."

She shook her head, blonde hair flouncing. "Him I don't know. I mean, I know who he is—he's involved with that new club, the Pigeon? But I've never met him."

"Davy and Wren were in high school together."

She smiled and shrugged again. "Sorry. I went to a private school."

I grinned. "I forgot. Poor little rich girl. Was it common knowledge around this part of town that Davy Harrin was a pusher? That he was his high school's Boy Most Likely to Get You High?"

She was avoiding my eyes again. "Actually ... I did know. Not firsthand knowledge, Mike ... but I heard the rumors. Most people knew, at least anybody under thirty in the Village did. I think he dealt in pills and pot, not the hard stuff."

"But you didn't tell me."

"No." She leaned her head to one side and the big brown eyes were moist and her expression was clenched with regret. "I just didn't want to sully the name of a dead boy. Can you understand that? His father is a very nice, a very respectable, important man, who was crushed by his son's death. I didn't want to hurt Dr. Harrin any more than he already had been."

"You don't think the doc knew about Davy?"

That seemed to confuse her. "Well ... I didn't think he did...."

"His boy died of an overdose. Davy may not have sold the hard stuff, but he had access to it."

"The papers said heart failure." She was shaking her head. "But if Davy had died that way, wouldn't Dr. Harrin have done something about it? Gone to the police or the newspapers or ... something?"

"Maybe he didn't want his son's memory sullied, either." I shifted weight, and subjects. "Shirley, I'd like to speak to your boss—Mr. Elmain. When would be good?"

She blinked a few times. "He should be here this afternoon, by one or so. Why?"

"I wanted to ask him about that robbery you had." Her eyes widened and the blinking halted. "Please, don't. I shouldn't have told you about that."

"Why not?"

Her words came out in a rush: "It's just nobody's business, he didn't report the robbery to the police, and he'd want to know what in God's name I thought I was doing, telling somebody about it. Could you blame him?"

I shrugged. "I guess not. Maybe I don't need to talk to him, then."

Her smile seemed forced. "There's no reason why you shouldn't, just ... not about that robbery, which was a big nothing, anyway. Please, Mike—don't make me look bad."

I gave her another grin. "Independently wealthy lass like you? What do you care? You could just buy the old boy out."

Her expression turned serious, almost comically so, a child playing grownup. "I like it here. Please don't spoil it for me."

"All right," I said with a shrug.

She licked her lips, the red lipstick shimmering. "So, Mike..."

"Yeah?"

"Was that just a one-night stand? Or will you ever really call me?"

"It was fun. We'll have to do it again."

That was just enough to satisfy her, and to give me a graceful exit.

The rain roared all afternoon, but by early evening had dissipated to a gentle drizzle, making hazy halos around streetlights. This halfhearted mist wasn't enough to stop Greenwich Village from coming alive, as windows glowed and neon signs pulsed while taxis disgorged curious tourists, suburban refugees, and the occasional celebrity to feed the waiting maws of coffeehouses, restaurants, nightclubs, and gin mills, to trade some dough for food, drink, and laughter.

By midnight it would get rough out here, when the whores and junkies and predators got more brazen. But this time of night, it was a playground for grownups, and about as dangerous as Disneyland.

Of course, some people actually lived in the Village. On a side street off MacDougal, I found the brownstone that matched the address Dr. Harrin gave to Velda over the phone. This weather-beaten structure was the kind of three-story walkup that might have been a wealthy family's home, turn of the century. Some unknown decades ago, it had been converted to studio apartments for writers and artists, and would-be writers and artists, and what one of the city's wealthiest doctors was doing in these unpretentious if decent digs was a mystery I hadn't yet solved.

But inside the foyer, down the list of names under the mailboxes, there he was: HARRIN.

I went up to the third floor and he answered on my first knock. The tall, slender, white-haired doctor with the narrow cadaverous face, dark eyebrows, and washed-out blue eyes behind wire-framed glasses wore a tan pullover sweater and darker tan chinos and brown leather sandals with white socks. He seemed more professor than physician, but of course he was both.

He extended a hand and smiled warmly, as if we were old friends reunited, when we'd really only ever spent a few hours together.

Either he was a hell of an actor, or I was really on the wrong track. The .45 under my left shoulder was loaded, safety off, in case I needed to kill him. But I wanted to talk to him first. He needed to hear my story, and I needed to hear his.

Anyway, I shook his hand, and he gestured for me to come in, saying, "Good to see you, Mr. Hammer. I gather you've been a busy man while I was away."

I went down a short narrow hall that opened into a living room that was as spare as a monk's bunk. There was a fireplace, and a bookcase that included a shelf for a turntable and speakers, with a stack of classical LPs, though nothing was playing. No picture was above the mantel, and no other framed prints or paintings or even family pictures were displayed on the dark-wood-trimmed pale plaster walls. The framed quotations that characterized his office at Dorchester Medical College were not in evidence, either.

The few furnishings, however, were not cheap—brown leather sofa, two brown leather armchairs, and a glass coffee table with several art books—Dali, Miró—on a small Oriental carpet on the hardwood floor.

"I'm guessing you didn't raise your family here," I said, prowling the spartan space. He had taken my trench coat and porkpie hat, and was hanging them in the entry-hall closet.

"No," the doc admitted, "we had a bigger place, and all to ourselves."

At the bookcase I noted medical tomes, some heavy-duty philosophy running to Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, and doorstop classic novels by Russian writers. The doc didn't exactly come home to Harold Robbins or Irving Wallace, and no TV set was in sight.

Harrin continued: "After my wife, and then my son, were gone, I just didn't want to kick around in that big old place. Figured a bachelor pad was more in order."

As bachelor pads went, this wasn't exactly the Russell Frazer variety. There was, however, a small wet bar in one corner, trimmed out in the same brown leather, and he was heading over there, asking if I'd like a drink.

"Rye and ginger," I said.

He got me that, and—not caring to be medicated in any other way—I watched him do it; then he built himself a tumbler of Scotch. His expression was friendly as he gestured toward the furnishings that faced the fireplace. He took one of the easy chairs and I settled on the couch.

"So how was Paris, Doc? Pick up any new tricks at the conference?"

"Meeting with one's peers is always ... instructive," he said. "A lot of new information on hand, fresh research."

I sipped the drink, then set it on the glass coffee table next to the Dali book with a melting clock on the cover. "I wonder, if I hired a guy I know in Paris, to look into it? How many of those conference sessions you actually attended."

He sipped the Scotch, savored it, and his eyes remained cold as he gave me what was supposed to be a warm smile. "I attended enough of them to make a convincing case of it. Should some ambitious civil servant, or paid gumshoe, decide to check up on me, I'd come out smelling of roses. Or maybe disinfectant."

"People I work with, Doc? They can dig deeper than that."

He hiked his eyebrows, which were as black as his head of hair was white. "What do you think I was up to over there, Mr. Hammer?"

I didn't answer directly. I looked around the room, at living quarters that were little more than a cozy cage. "You don't exactly throw your money around, do you, Doc? Not what I'd call a hedonistic lifestyle."

"I'm comfortable."

"There's what, a kitchen here? A bedroom and bath? And that's it?"

He nodded, swirled his drink in one hand, looking down into the liquid like a fortuneteller studying a crystal ball. "I'm not sure I see your point, Mr. Hammer." He looked up sharply. "And why the tone, the undercurrent anyway, of hostility? What have I done to deserve that? You asked to see me, and I invited you to my home...."

But this wasn't his home. This was his cell. And that was seriously screwing up what I'd been thinking.

I tried anyway: "You've been conserving your money, haven't you, Doc? Because you had a big purchase to make, a big score."

Only one black eyebrow hiked this time. "Really? And how did you arrive at that conclusion, Mr. Hammer?"

"I'm like a physician in my way, too, only my remedies run a little radical. I study certain diseases, unfortunately not so rare as the ones you study, and come up with diagnoses, based on not just fact, but psychology."

"Sounds very scientific."

"Not really. It's more an art."

He gestured toward the window and the street beyond, and smiled. "Then you should be at home here in the Village, Mr. Hammer. Everyone here is an artist."

"You have your artistic side, too, Doc. It starts with your son, doesn't it?"

His smile faded.

"Davy was a gifted kid. I'm guessing he started out a good student as well as a natural athlete, but the academics fell by the wayside, when sports kicked in. Sports and all the fun and popularity that come with it, that can swell a kid's head. He was a party animal, your son, and he was into booze and it took him to pills and a lot harder stuff, possibly courtesy of a rough crowd he got in with—Russell Frazer, Jay Wren, maybe the Brix kid and his cronies, too. That I'm not sure about."

"Mr. Hammer," he said, and his words cut like a scalpel. "My son was a victim of both his own weaknesses, and mine. I do not blame him, not wholly, for the sad trajectory of his short life." The faded blue eyes stared at the fireplace, as if flames were licking there, which they weren't. "My wife spoiled him terribly—he was a brat from the time he could talk, but he was beautiful and gifted and she spoiled him."

"You didn't?"

"I was ... complicit." The blue eyes went to half-mast, and they studied the swirling liquid again. "I have been, in my lifetime, a driven man. A man caught up in himself, and his own goals and grandiose aspirations."

"My understanding," I said, "is you've contributed to society. You've cured, or anyway helped cure, a good share of diseases."

The tiniest shrug of his head preceded words that sounded distant: "Yes. That is true. But I neglected my wife and my son, in so doing. I allowed Linda to lavish attention and praise and possessions upon our son. And he learned, early on, that nothing was to be denied him. No desire, no happiness. All was his for the asking—anything he wanted to have or to do. It became an expectation. A right."

I sat back on the couch. My jacket was open, the .45 easily accessible. "Were you aware of his drug problem?"

"No. The extent of my parental attention was to attend his sports events, when I was available ... which was perhaps a third of the time. After Linda's death, I tried to get more involved with Davy, but for the most part he wasn't interested."

"Didn't he help you with the pottery program in the children's ward at Saxony?"

He smiled again, with genuine if rueful amusement. "That's a loaded question, isn't it, Mr. Hammer? Suppose you tell me what you know, or think you know, about the ceramics program at the hospital."

I shrugged. "It's not so much the program as the source of the ceramics—the Village Ceramics Shoppe. Too many of the players in this melodrama converge on that supposedly innocent little place. Russell Frazer worked there as a glorified delivery boy, and yet he dressed like Rex Harrison and lived like Sammy Davis—must've been pulling down good bread for menial help, huh? Your son picked up packages for the hospital program there, and Brix and his pals were seen in or around the shop. Even Billy Blue was in and out, after your son died anyway, and he may have been jumped because somebody thought he knew too much."

His eyes were narrowed now. "And what does all of that add up to for you, Mr. Hammer?"

"I think it's a dope distribution center. Russell Frazer, delivery man, could be making real dough if it was junk he was delivering, not bisque dishes and statuettes. Hell, I think they bake the stuff right into their figurines, and through some chemical process, the junk comes out again ready for marketing. They don't sell to individuals—a respectable shop like that wouldn't want junkies hanging around. But boxes or even crates of supposed greenware could be shipped out of the back nationwide, and smaller orders could be dropped off locally. It's an ideal system, and an innocuous front."

His smile was wide now, and he was shaking his head in apparent admiration. His words confirmed that: "Very good, Mr. Hammer. Excellent. It was only after my son's death that I was able to determine that the unbaked ceramic forms in my son's room represented more than just a sudden, unexpected interest by Davy in the welfare of hospitalized children."

I frowned. "The program at the hospital, for those kids—that was Davy's idea?"

"Oh yes. He took advantage, after Linda was gone, of my need to get closer to him, and suggested the therapeutic value of such a program in the children's ward. It was the perfect cover for the pieces to be in his room at home, or in a box in his car. You see, he really did have brains, my Davy."

I grunted a laugh. "So do you, Doc. You had the inspired notion of getting both Junior Evello and the Snowbird himself, your son's old friend Jay Wren, into your personal care at Saxony."

"I arranged that, did I?"

"Oh yeah. I was able to dig out the fact that those two 'auto accidents' were staged by insurance scammers hired by someone, but not someone from Syndicate circles—a wealthy straight. You, Doc."

"And why would I do that, Mr. Hammer?"

"Because Junior and the Snowbird were at your mercy, even if they didn't realize it." I grinned. "What did you use, Doc? Sodium pentothal? Some drug that would loosen their tongues, without their knowing about it. You found out all sorts of good stuff from those two, key information that you passed along to the cops as an anonymous phone tipster."

This genuinely surprised him. His head rocked back and he smiled in amazement. "How could you know that? My voice was scrambled electronically beyond recognition."

"I have friends in high and low places, Doc. I also have the unscrambled tape, and can turn it over to the NYPD and feds any time I please."

He was frowning now. "Go on, Mr. Hammer...."

"I'm not sure when you found out about the big shipment—whether that came first, and you used the tips to dry up the streets. Or if after you made those calls, the streets dried up, and the big bang became a Syndicate necessity. Chicken or the egg, huh? Anyway, you saw your way clear to get even with the bastards who caused your son's death. You could take their business away from them, knowing that in their circles, screwing up like that doesn't get you a gold watch. More like cement shoes."

His face was crinkled with amusement now. "And then what, Mr. Hammer? Become the top drug lord myself? A gangster? A Syndicate man?"

"You already were a Syndicate man. You wormed your way in as their Dr. Feelgood—that gave you access to your patients, even after the automobile accidents you arranged had been recovered from. You could continue giving them the truth-serum treatments, and tipping off the cops and feds." I shook my head. "You know, I'm starting to think that hypocritical oath you took must've had some loopholes."

His expression had a dazed quality now. "You ... you know about all that, too? Mr. Hammer, I am impressed. I had no doubt that you were a remarkable man, but this ... this is truly impressive."

"Meanwhile, back at the ceramics shop, you're needing some details that the big fish, Evello and Wren, didn't keep in their craniums. The kind of stuff middle management files away—and I'm figuring this character Elmain is the conduit here. Product is coming into that innocent little tourist trap, and going out again, so there's information in his file cabinet, about people he does business with, that might not be as routine and innocuous as you'd think."

"Impressive indeed...."

"That's why you maintained the ceramics program at the hospital, after Davy's death—so you could maintain contact with the shop, legitimize hanging around the place, actually casing the joint ... because you pulled that robbery there. You got into the files, to fill in the rest of the names you needed for your trip to Europe."

"You're doing fine, Mr. Hammer. You're doing fine."

"You've purchased the big shipment. You've come up with some new way to ship the stuff in, doing an end run around Evello and Wren that your football-playing son would be proud of. You've set yourself up as the new kingpin." I shook my head. "But that's what I don't get, Doc—why would you want to take over a business that you despise? A traffic in death that cost your son his life, and that's taken the lives of so many others?"

His mouth twitched a smile. "Any ideas?"

"Just one. When we spoke about the drug problem, you said it was a 'vicious circle, impossible to break.' Perhaps you intended to punish Evello and Wren, denying them their business, and planned to use the money you made from this junk for good—maybe plow it into cancer research or something. How am I doing, Doc? Close?"

"Close, Mr. Hammer. Close." He sat forward. "May I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

He laughed, once. "Actually, that's my question—did you come here to shoot me? You're an avenger, Mr. Hammer, a well-known proponent of frontier justice. Is that your prescription for this illness? To kill me?"

I got out the .45, thumbed back the hammer—the click was sharp and loud in the enclosed space. "How would you put it, Doc? It's one possible avenue of treatment."

He seemed not at all fazed by the weapon. He said, "What if I asked you to trust me?"

"What?"

He sat forward, his manner, his tone, both conciliatory and confidential. "What if I told you that I have a... treatment in mind ... that may well break that vicious circle. That my intent here is not to become a criminal 'kingpin,' but to cripple their organization, perhaps even end it."

"How in hell?"

He shook his head. "That's why I must ask you to trust me. The burden of what I have conceived must be mine alone. It's a responsibility, even a guilt, that I alone must bear."

"I'm not following you...."

He frowned. "Well, try. Because it shouldn't be hard for you. How many times have you faced killers down, Mr. Hammer, with that very gun in your hand? How many times have you made some monster stare down its barrel and see death coming out to claim him, or her?"

"Who's counting?"

His smile was razor thin. "For you, such a choice comes naturally. No soul-searching needed. Perhaps few if any sleepless nights." One black eyebrow arched. "But let me ask you this—would you dream of asking anyone else to join you in shouldering the responsibility, the guilt, the burden? Would you ask any other person on earth to squeeze the trigger on that weapon? Or must it be you alone? You, the judge, the jury, the executioner?"

My mouth felt dry.

Not even Velda, I thought.

Finally I said, "I wouldn't ask anybody to take any of it on. Like somebody said once, vengeance is mine."

"Right." His voice took on a quiet urgency. "And I ask you, Mr. Hammer, to believe me when I say that I am on a course of action that I must be allowed to complete. It will avenge my son, oh yes, but it will do so much more. So very much more."

"What are you asking?"

"For one week."

"One week?"

"One week."

"And what then, Doc?"

His shrug spoke volumes. "Then I will answer any question you have for me. Pay whatever price. I will accompany you to the police or the federal people or whomever you like. Or I will stand before you and that gun of yours and allow you to play judge and jury and executioner yet again. Without expectation of pity. With no complaint. One week."

I didn't know what to say.

"Otherwise," he said, and he flicked a finger at the .45, then did a trigger-pulling gesture, "you can get it over with right here. Life has little meaning to me now, other than a desire to carry out my last, my most radical therapy."

I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Maybe he was nuts. Maybe I was nuts. But one thing was certain—I no longer thought the point of all this was for Dr. David Harrin to become top hoodlum in the narcotics racket.

"Shit," I said, and eased the hammer down. "I hate dealing with people smarter than me."

I put the gun away, safety on.

Then I stood and said, "You want a week, Doc? Well, I need a day to think about your week. How's that for a compromise?"

He rose and nodded. "Fair enough."

We shook on it.

"Here," he said, almost gently, as he got my things from the closet, "I'll walk you out."

I shrugged into the trench coat, shoved the hat on my head, and we exited the spartan apartment, which he did not lock behind him.

Soon we were on the front stoop of the building. The rain was over, even the mist gone, though water pooled and glimmered where time had made impressions in the stone steps. The residential street was quiet, the wildness and weirdness of MacDougal Street a block and a half up.

He put a hand on my shoulder, looming over me, a good three inches, anyway. His expression was serene.

"Please understand, Mr. Hammer. I cannot tell you precisely what my intentions are. It's not so much that you might disagree with my approach, and try to stop me—"

"If I did, Doc, I would."

"I know.... It's more that I do not want you to be implicated, because what I have in mind has far-reaching implications, legally and ethically."

"Legalities and ethics, Doc, don't always enter in with me."

His smile turned gentle, almost wistful. "You never know, Mr. Hammer. You never know. Perhaps one day ... you'll see the light." Half turning, he was about to go back in when he added, "Maybe you will see the light."

Which, as fate would have it, was exactly when light washed over his face, headlights, and the serene look was overtaken by wide-eyed alarm, and the doc stepped in front of me, pushing me down, and the night exploded with gunfire and three slugs stitched their way across his sweater, forming black periods that welled into red commas, and his expression was blank-eyed and slack-jawed as he thumped back against the door, and slid down, leaving three smeary trails on the wood.

I was in a crouch when I fired at the vehicle, which had slowed initially but now screamed into the night, and I took the seven steps to the street in two bounds and was out in the slick black pavement firing at the car, a late-model green Buick. The rear windshield shattered and the car swerved over to the left and just missed a parked car to go up over the curb and into the side of a brick building.

A horn blared in loud monotony and I ran almost a block, coat flapping, losing my hat along the way, until I got to the vehicle. The driver was a longhaired kid who had taken one of my .45 slugs in the back of the head, the windshield dripping with gray and red and white material that had exploded out his forehead.

The shorter-haired rider—in T-shirt and jeans, who'd done the shooting—had broken his forearm against the dashboard, on impact, and I could see jutting white bone glistening with decorative red against brown skin. He was a Puerto Rican kid, and was swearing or praying or something, and I'd have spared him if he hadn't gone one-handed scrambling for the nine millimeter that had fallen in his lap. The .45 slug entered his right temple, splattered blood and brains onto the dead driver, and shut off the rider's chatter like a switch.

People were yelling and screaming, but I ignored that and, not even stopping to retrieve my hat, ran back to the brownstone, where a hippie girl up on the stoop was holding Dr. Harrin in her arms like the Pietà, and wailing, "Somebody help him!"

But even if a doctor as good as Harrin had been around, it wouldn't have helped. Nobody had ever found a cure for his condition.