The Oni, page 10
Foster bent forward abruptly. His flat nose scraped the top layer of bandages. His voice was taut.
“The girl, Cross. Lynda Cooper. What was she to you?”
“Girl? Nothing.”
“She’s dead, Cross. You can’t hurt her.”
“Too bad. Like to. Not that way. Tease. Changed her mind. Too late then.”
“She wasn’t a customer? Didn’t work for you?”
The lips became fixed, with that unhealthy tongue protruding. The eye gained a hard, sardonic light. Then the lid shut, and stayed shut. Asprin pushed the tongue tip in, wiped his fingers on his white shirt. A frown deepened on his face as he examined the dressing.
Foster rose slowly, stretching, stifling a yawn. “When can I talk to him again, Doctor?”
Asprin shook his head, moving back from the bed. “Let’s step out into the hall, Lieutenant.”
A passing pair of candy-stripers stared indiscreetly at the gold badges as the detectives left Cross’s room. Once out of earshot, they whispered eagerly to each other. Evans smiled after them. Doctor Asprin seemed not to notice.
The doctor spoke uneasily. “Lieutenant, x-rays indicate that some bone slivers have penetrated the brain. I can’t tell the extend of the damage at present. Obviously Cross can talk and hear and think with a degree of clarity. We haven’t tested all of his motor responses. In fact, we dare not. Those slivers could shift any time. Just being where they are, they exert pressure that can build up fatally. He received some emergency surgery on arrival, but he needs a major operation.” Asprin cleared his throat. “An expensive operation.”
Foster rubbed first the bridge of his nose, then his right temple. A ten minute nap would do wonders, but he didn’t want to borrow a bed here. The one in his own apartment was far more inviting; it was already beaten into his shape.
“I get your drift, Doctor. Don’t worry. Gary Cross is a key witness in a murder case. I think I can get the city to pick up the tab.”
Asprin’s face grew ruddy. “It’s not for my benefit, although I’ll be the one to perform the operation, tomorrow or the next day. It’s that the hospital facilities are so expensive …”
“What isn’t?” growled Foster.
Asprin acknowledged the point with a nod and a shrug. “Another thing. In all honesty, I can’t promise a successful operation. Going in after the bone will do further damage. Cross could become comatose, a vegetable. Or he could die.”
“What can you promise, Doctor?”
“Only that, without an operation, Gary Cross will die.”
“Aw. I thought aspirin cured everything.”
The doctor’s face went blank. Foster sucked in his lower lip. “My apologies, Doctor. It was a poor time to make a joke, especially one you probably hear every day.”
“Joke?”
Foster’s eyes narrowed by a hair. “About your name.”
“Oh. I see. Asprin cures everything.” The doctor glanced past the lieutenant, fixing Evans in his gaze. “I see. No, I don’t recall any. Clever. Ah, Sergeant Evans said I could leave after you’d spoken to Cross. My wife’s waiting for me.”
“Sure, Doctor,” Evans said quickly. “We’ve got your home number if we need you.”
A startled Amos Foster watched the bald man hasten down the hall, shoulders quivering. Then he turned to his partner.
“That was a good line, Amos,” Evans said, smirking. “Maybe the doctor can use it on his business card.”
“Damn you, Joe. You set that up with him.”
“Of course I did.” The smirk faded. “Although it seemed funnier before that grim interrogation. You waited too long.”
“I was preoccupied.” Foster turned the corner and headed toward the elevator. “I need some air.”
It was Evan’s turn to keep pace. “One thing I don’t get, Amos. Of all the details we need to learn from Cross, why did you throw away that last question?”
“I was rushed. Couldn’t think of anything else.”
“This morning you told me her background was irrelevant.”
Foster shrugged. “To our case it is.”
“Ah.” Evans turned smug. “Of course, you saw the mother this morning. Well, even Fearless Foster is entitled to go soft once in a while.”
“That’s got nothing to do with it.”
“Bullshit. I know you, Amos. I’ll bet you gave Ma Cooper a hard time for pulling you away from the investigation, and now you’re feeling guilty.”
Foster stopped a few paces short of the elevator. He laid a thick hand on his partner’s shoulder. “She might call from Boston to ask how the case is going. She’s that kind of lady. At least we’ll have something to tell her.”
“Sure.”
Foster looked at his partner through narrowed eyelids, and sighed. “Maybe I should team up with someone who doesn’t know me so goddamn well. You can partner with that uniform you were with today.”
Evans gasped in less-than-mock horror. “Carver? Preserve me from trigger-happy rookies! And you didn’t hear that adjective from my lips.”
Foster grunted. Usually this sort of banter was an invaluable aid in facing their often grisly job. He couldn’t keep it up today. “You’ll have to break in a new partner someday, Joe. They’ll kick me out years before they get around to you.”
“Not if I retire first.”
The lieutenant snorted. “That’s Liz talking. You aren’t that sensible. You’ll stick it out.”
“I might surprise you.”
“Don’t. I hate surprises.”
Evans jabbed the button for a down elevator. His response was muted.
“I know.”
CHAPTER 19
His waking lacked transition. One moment, black and dreamless sleep; the next, senses alert, eyes wide and darting. Sunlight pierced the thinning cloud cover to touch the recess in which he’d taken refuge out of instinct—not fear. Its orange glow suffused the stone wall of the pedestrian underpass. Traffic rumbled on the highway above, thunder announcing a storm that never struck.
He hadn’t meant to sleep here. He’d only wanted a vantage point from which to observe his new subjects before he declared his regime. Were he mortal, such a lapse might seem a sign of weakness. He knew better. He remembered that in the last weeks before his treacherous imprisonment, his attention span had grown shorter. Naturally; fewer things of the world were worthy of his regard. He suspected, but could not know, that there had been similar gaps in concentration during the centuries of darkness.
No matter. For surveillance of this new world, sunrise was soon enough.
He gouged a handhold in the mortar behind him and peered past the cut stone’s edge.
The shrouded sun was low, half visible across the river. There, steep cliffs apparently were topped by a multitude of ostentatious shrines. He’d put an end to that nonsense soon enough.
His gaze lowered to take in the large but motley and ill-designed fishing fleet. At night, emerging from its midst, he’d been more impressed. Now he felt scorn for the clumsy vessels. Scorn—and puzzlement. Why were those boats still moored at dawn? Villagers must eat. For that matter, where were the fisherfolk? Was this a festival day?
Ah! One approached. The clothes were strange, but the bright colors and leisurely pace identified the man as one of the privileged class. This, despite the lack of even one sword, let alone two, and a proper entourage. Had swords been banned? Gods knew why! If they had, a large bodyguard could be dispensed with, but some token force should have been maintained, for prestige.
Scuffling echoed in the tunnel. He turned to the source. Two people in dark blue, single piece outfits ran side by side. No; more of a jerky walk. He drew back unseen as they passed, barely containing his contempt. What poor messengers this village had! If those were the swiftest runners available, he would have little trouble deposing the lax lord of this province!
And what was this? The runner passing nearest him was female! Pacing beside the male instead of respectfully behind!
This province was indeed decadent!
He itched then and there to show himself, and barely restrained the urge. Something more formal was preferable. He wished to announce himself the new lord to the greatest number of inhabitants, the entire population if possible, at one time. That would be far more effective.
Again, though, where were they? If the inhabitants of a fishing village did not congregate at the docks at dawn, when and where did they assemble?
He looked to the boats again. His lips writhed.
The sun was gone!
He remembered now. He had seen the pale gray light that slowly washed the black from the sky … a light that had come from his back! The setting, not the rising, sun had broken his slumber. He’d slept the entire day!
He recalled, too, the score of people who’d rushed on the dock minutes after he’d left it. They’d arrived in strange, low pannikans whose carriers were swift, strong, and invisible. They’d also brought flashing lights and whirring noise-makers to chase away evil spirits. He’d smiled at that. Some things did not change.
He scowled. He should have recalled all this immediately on waking. The thousand years and more spent at a single-minded task had obviously dulled his memory.
How much else had he forgotten of last night’s events?
He reconsidered his timetable for conquest. The people of this village bore watching a while longer. They seemed to possess a degree of sorcerous knowledge, and his ignorance of their ways might make him look a fool. That impression would vanish once he’d demonstrated his power, but it was better not to appear foolish at all.
He settled back in his niche to brood.
CHAPTER 20
The plate glass window fronting Eighty-Eight’s was thickly painted over with amber curlicues, blocking the glow of streetlamps and traffic on Broadway. In the shadows just inside the window stood the low upright for which the bar was named. It was unattended, the pianist not due for two hours. In dubious compensation, the room vibrated from the thrumming of a jukebox at one end of the bar and the bubbling electronic sound effects of the Donkey Kong game next to it.
Francine Cooper came to a full stop at the threshold, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, and her ears, as best they could, to the decibel level. This was not the sort of place where she’d have guessed Lynda would hang out, but the matchbook bearing the bar’s logo—packed away with a box of scented candles—was the only substantial clue among her belongings to the young woman’s New York social life. Lynda’s letters home each month had rarely touched on her leisure activities. Her mother never noticed that. Perhaps Lynda had known she wouldn’t.
Cooper’s gaze wandered over chessboard-sized tables that cluttered two-thirds of the room in rows barely a hand’s-breadth apart. A bearded man near the piano picked at a salad while he worked on a crossword puzzle—apparently by sonar. Two thin, dark women at a table near the kitchen door spooned sour cream into their chili with lackluster motions. One had an order pad dangling from her jeans’ back pocket. A third waitress, paler and on duty, moved from table to table lighting finger-thick candles whose glow barely extended past the colored glass holders. A pair of secretarial types sat at the end of the bar nearest the juke box, alternately sipping martinis while they ignored the skinny young man feeding an endless supply of quarters into the video game. Not a promising clientele.
Cooper zeroed in on a stool at the more peaceful end of the bar, where a busboy had left a tray of freshly-washed glasses. The bartender, a burly man with crew-cut hair and only half of his right ear, waited for her to sit. Then he put away the glass he’d been pretending to wipe while he’d eavesdropped on the secretaries with his eyes, and moved fluidly to her.
“What’s your pleasure?”
Cooper didn’t catch the words, but the intent was plain.
“Scotch! On the rocks!”
At the shout, a waitress glanced up from her chili, but returned quickly and wordlessly to her dinner. She would not get to eat again until after midnight.
The bartender smiled sympathetically at Cooper’s discomfort. He leaned toward her conspiratorially.
“No need to yell. I read lips. I have to. When I work here, I turn this thing off.” He tilted his head. His good ear was plugged with the plastic bulb of a hearing aid.
Cooper smiled back.
Watching the gold liquid spill over cracked ice, Cooper became aware of a knot in her stomach. Discounting two of Mrs. Barclay’s crumbling tea biscuits, she’d had no solid food for almost twenty-four hours. Whiskey on an empty stomach was a bad idea, particularly in these surroundings and more particularly after the day she’d had. Cooper inclined her head at the tables arrayed behind her.
“I see you serve food.”
The man shrugged. “Have to. Not an elaborate menu, by any means. Hamburgers, fried chicken, chili, salads, quiche, things like that. There’s a blackboard against that wall with daily specials, but you have to practically stand on top of it to read it.” He pointed to the Scotch glass. “I can have this brought to your table.”
Cooper shook her head. “Those tables inspire claustrophobia in me. Can I eat at the bar?”
He scratched his forehead, just below the hairline. His eyes darted left and right. He shrugged. “Why not? It’s slow now. Won’t pick up until Rusty comes in. Shouldn’t bother anyone.”
“Rusty?”
“The ivory-tickler.” He waggled his fingers on top of the bar. “Show tunes, mostly.”
“Oh. Well. I’d like a hamburger. Make it two.”
The bartender signaled to the candle-lighter and conveyed Cooper’s order. He also conveyed something else. On the way to the kitchen, the pale young woman detoured by the jukebox and cut its volume in half. The secretaries, being perceptive predators, turned as one to sneer at Cooper. Then they picked up their martinis and moved to a table in front of the jukebox speaker.
“Better?” the bartender asked Cooper.
“Much. Thank you. I thought my ears would start bleeding.”
The bartender rubbed at a dry spot with his rag. “You have a nice voice.”
Cooper toyed with the ice in her drink, clinking it against the glass with her swizzle stick. “How can you tell?”
His grin was sheepish. “Oh, I turn it up when there’s something worth listening to.”
“I see.” She sipped Scotch, collecting her thoughts. The alcohol made her cheeks flush.
“I’ve embarrassed you,” the bartender observed. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone, if you want. It’s just, well, you’re not Eighty-Eight’s usual customer. Some nice lookers come in, but they’re half my age, with brains the size of gherkins. Not only are you attractive, but your face has character. You’re smart too, or I’ve wasted twenty years behind bar counters learning to size people up.”
Cooper swallowed a deep gulp of air tinged with greasiness that seeped from the kitchen. Getting picked up in an Upper West Side singles bar was the furthest thing from her mind this night, but it was flattering, and she didn’t want to cut short a conversation with the one person on Eighty-Eight’s staff most likely to have noticed Lynda. The situation called for careful handling. She hoped her wits were up to it.
“That’s all right, ah …
“The name’s Jack.”
“Cooper. Francine Cooper. It’s sweet of you to say those things, Jack, but …
“I know it sounds like a line, Frannie, but I mean it.”
Her voice took on a hard edge before she realized it. “Fran, if you must shorten it. Not, for God’s sake, Frannie.”
Jack the bartender straightened, taking his elbows off the bar. “Sure, Fran. Okay. I’m not trying to rush you.”
Another sip of Scotch warmed her throat. Easy, lady, she told herself. How could he know?
“A matter of personal preference, Jack. No reflection on you.” She clinked the ice. “May I ask you something?”
Jack checked the room. No new customers. No old ones going dry. “Whatever you like, Fran.”
“Do you work here every night?”
Jack relaxed. Her interest was a favorable sign. “Mostly. Especially now, during the holidays. The married guys want to be home with their families. Since I live alone …”
He left it hanging, trying to take his next cue from her eyes.
Cooper placed her purse on top of the bar and took out her wallet. Jack felt a smile of qualified triumph flit across his face. He figured he was going to get her phone number, at the least.
Instead, Cooper opened the wallet at the photograph wings and turned to a snapshot of a pert, dark-haired young woman wearing a scarlet cap and gown.
“Did you ever see this woman in here?”
“Shit.” Jack threw his bar rag on the slatted wooden floor, in disgust. “You’re good, lady. I’d have never pegged you for a cop.”
“I’m not with the police.”
“Great. If you’re private, I don’t have to talk to you.” He picked up the rag and started to walk away.
Cooper shook her head, amazed at how poorly she’d handled that. She should have started by telling Jack the whole story. Sudden revelations were dramatic, but childish.
“Still wrong, Jack. The answer is important only to me, for personal reasons. I’m not working for anyone, and I’m not going to pass my information to anyone else without a damned good reason.”
Jack’s fingers hovered at the volume control of his hearing aid. He turned back and leaned over the bar until his forehead nearly touched Cooper’s.
“Let me tell you something, lady. I hear lots of stories in this job. Most are bullshit. That doesn’t matter. I treat them as confidences, and I don’t pry. Did I ask what someone of your age and class was doing in this kiddie park? You want to tell me, that’s your business. If not … people have a right to privacy.”
“One more picture,” Cooper urged, flipping over the graduation pose. “Two people. My daughter and myself.”
Jack looked in spite of himself. He pulled the wallet across the polished bartop with a faint squeak. The family resemblance was more striking with two flat images to compare. He closed the wallet and handed it back to Cooper. He still wasn’t entirely pleased.
