After things fell apart, p.10
After Things Fell Apart, page 10
Doc Stoner finished the Trooz laced beer, wiped her mouth on her wrist fringe. “Buddy Plastino may be a little too gay for your tastes and he may appear in fag Westerns too often in the role of Esperanza the Spanish Flamenco Beauty, but he is always a gentleman.” Her voice had a burred growl in it. “He is always ready and willing to help a lady onto her horse and offer a drink when the situation seems to call for it.” She took up Pinemont’s beer next and quaffed it all.
“Horse cock,” said the bearded author.
“Doctor Stoner,” said Haley, taking the woman’s arm. “Let us stand you to the next drink.” He nodded at La Penna and the PI agent crossed to the saloon’s bar and ducked behind it. Haley guided the doctor and placed her in a leaning position at the polished wood bar. “Two beers here.”
“I’m a little woozy.” Doc Stoner tugged at the brim of her sombrero and yanked it off. She fell sideways and banged against the bar. “This is interesting.” “You didn’t unfasten your hat. It’s still tied under your chin.” Haley helped her to right herself, get the black hat off her short cropped hair.
“I am developing the classic symptoms of vertigo,” said Doc Stoner. “I have the sensation I am whirling around and that the environment is also turning. The sense of balance, to be perfectly frank with you, comes partly from the sense of touch, partly from the sense of sight and partly from the mechanisms of the semicircular canals of the ear.”
“What you’re experiencing,” Haley told her quietly, “is the side effects of the truth drug put in your beer.”
“Of course,” replied the doctor. “I should have realized. Actually, to be quite honest, I’m not actually a real doctor. I am actually a registered nurse and nothing more. My medical diploma is forged. It was forged by a little twit named Bernard Gruber of 1984 Laurel Street in Frisco. If the truth were known.”
“What I’d like you to tell me now is the whereabouts of Penny Deacon,” said Haley.
“I shouldn’t tell,” said Doc Stoner. “What did you put in that beer?”
Trooz.
“I’m going to have to reorder that stuff. It really works. Although I may not remember any of this conversation. That’s the way with a lot of these truth things, frankly.”
“Penny Deacon,” repeated Haley.
“If you must know, she’s down in the Carmel Valley. At least, that’s what Buddy says.”
“Where exactly?”
“That funny farm place. That phony straight place that Dr. Hocktigon runs.” *
Haley recognized the name. “You mean the Vienna West Therapy Center?”
“That’s the place. Old Hocktigon is in with the movement. The Deacon bitch is being held there for questioning. She tried to sell out the movement. Maybe to you. I don’t know.”
“Who’s behind the movement? Who’s Lady Day?”
“A mean bitch.”
‘Who is she? And where?”
“Get that old bull dyke off the set,” called someone. “Out, out. All of you. We’re rolling the saloon sequence of The Rio Rita Kid right now this minute.” A slim brunette young man in a buckskin suit had entered. “You’ll all be pleased to hear Buddy Plastino has risen off of what was practically his death bed to do a cameo bit as Esperanza the Spanish Flamenco Beauty.”
“He’s supposed to be quiet for twenty-four hours,” said Doc Stoner. “Stomping his heels is not good for him.”
“You feel like a saloon brawl?” Haley asked La Penna.
“Not much. Why?”
“Because Plastino just walked in with five wranglers and he’s pointing at me. Let’s leave Doc Stoner and find the back way out.”
“Shouldn’t we haul the old broad along for more questioning?”
“I want to find Penny, fast.”
“Okay,” said La Penna. “I know this ship a little. Come on this way.”
Haley bolted over the bar as Buddy Plastino, lace shawl flowing and flapping, brought the band of heavies stalking toward the bar. Haley and La Penna stayed ducked until they were in back of the saloon set.
“Fire door,” said La Penna, pointing.
Gun shots sounded in the saloon.
“Blanks,” said La Penna.
Haley followed him through the metal doorway.
XVII
When the white stallion heard the waltz music it snorted, reared up and did a little dance in the dusty roadway. Its plume fluttered and its white tail flickered and the uniformed rider slid out of the gilded saddle, tumbled leftward and thumped onto the ground. Haley swung his rented land car hard to left and missed hitting both the dancing horse and the fallen rider. When the thin man in the black and gold uniform sat up, Haley asked, “This is the way to Vienna West, isn’t it?”
“Why the heck else would I be out here on this dumb Lipizzaner stallion?” The man dusted his puttees with buff gloved hands.
“Therapy?”
“No, I’m not goofy. I’m the gate keeper.”
The road wound gently down through grassy fields and twisted cypresses. Haley nodded at the brightness all around. “I didn’t notice the gate.” “Of course you don’t. Because this smart alec horse was running away with me.” He jabbed a gloved thumb in the direction Haley was aimed. “The gate is one mile up that way. Right across the Blue Danube.”
The white stallion snorted again and danced over to the man on its hind legs. The loudspeaker hanging in a nearby oak was not playing now.
“I meant Blue Danube River, dumbo, not Blue Danube Waltz,” the gate keep said to his horse. “He loves to dance. They taught him at school. It’s a liberal arts horse training school Dr. Hocktigon maintains here.” He made a sudden swing at the animal with his riding crop. “Sit this one out, Rudy.” To Haley the man said, “His name is Rudolf. Running away with me and dancing, those are his two main joys. That and those little crab apples that grow up in the hills. When he’s really happy, he pisses. It’s worse than the dancing. You a customer?”
Haley drew out a letter that La Penna had forged for him before going back to his own assignment. “My physician, Dr. Roger H. L. Winslow, suggested a few quiet days here. Here’s a letter of introduction to Dr. Hocktigon.”
The gate man waved the letter aside. “Save it. Just pay me the ten buck admission. Take your letter up to the T-Center. That’s the pink building near the volksgarten.”
Rudolf stopped dancing and began watching Haley. When he took a ten dollar bill from his wallet, the stallion licked his hand.
“He thinks you might also have little crab apples in there. Back off, Rudy.”
Rudolf snorted and sniffed at the wallet, then clattered back. The loudspeaker began playing a new Strauss waltz. The stallion flicked his tail and galloped off into the nearest field.
“Will I be able to arrange an interview with Dr. Hocktigon himself?”
The black uniformed man was making a puckered face at the runaway horse. “He thinks that’s cute now, playing games. Even after a liberal arts education horses remain basically dumb. Hey, stupid. No oats tonight if you don’t come back in five minutes.” He peeled back the lip of his glove and tapped at the square face of his wrist watch. “Beg pardon? You asked something?”
“My physician thought I ought to see Dr. Hocktigon himself. He went so far as to say it might do me a world of good.”
“Hocktigon believes the total experience of Vienna West helps you when you’re goofy. The gestalt of it, as he puts it.” He turned, hands on hips. “Look at that dope out there. He thinks that’s droll, doing the tango. Stop that dancing, Rudy. You’ve got three minutes left. Though if you want to pay $100 the doctor might grant you a ten minute interlude. You can check at the T-Center, the pink building facing Freud-Platz.”
“Thanks. Want a lift back to the gate?”
“I can’t return without Rudy. You go ahead. Have a good time.”
Haley returned to his car and drove on through the valley.
Vienna West was compact and compressed, covering about a square mile and backed by an artificial forest. A small bridge of intricate wrought iron arched over the narrow artificial river. All vehicles were left on the Danube edge in a weedy parking platz.
Haley parked, then crossed the bridge. He grinned at the uniformed young man who was coming out of a candy striped guard house. “I ran into the gate keeper and Rudy out on the road and paid my ten dollars,” Haley said.
“Oh, okay.”
“Which way to the T-Center?”
“Beg pardon?” The young man had gray freckles and wore a visored cap three sizes too large.
“The Therapy Center, which direction?”
“Oh, yes, sure. Wait a sec and I’ll look in the guide book for you. Or do you want to buy a guide book as a souvenir? No.” He jumped back into the little guard house, came out with a red and white covered pamphlet. “I only started working here yesterday. What was that building?”
“Therapy Center.”
“Oh, yes, sure. Let’s see now.” From directly over his head a loudspeaker on a pole was broadcasting string quartet music. “Let’s see. Musikverein, Konzerhaus, Bohmische Hofkanzlei, Freud-Platz. Here. This must be it. With the big T drawn on it.”
“Yes,” agreed Haley.
“Okay, sure. Then you want to go right up this way. Across this platz and then take—see how my finger is going?—take Kolschitzky-Gasse, the street with all the coffee houses, and turn right at the first beer garden. Got that?”
“Thanks, yes.”
“You don’t look very screwy,” said the young man. “Are you? I only began working here yesterday. I can’t tell a screwball from a regular person. Which are you, if I may ask?”
“I’m goofy.”
The boy sighed sympathetically. “That sounds serious.”
“It’s latent so far.”
“Well, Dr. Hocktigon will fix you up. I hear all kinds of people come into VW screwy and go out pretty much normal. Of course, it’s expensive.”
“When you’re goofy you don’t care about costs. It’s the cure that counts.”
“Sure, you’re perfectly right. That’s really a healthy attitude to have. You sound better already and you’re barely across the bridge.” He frowned up at the loudspeaker. “What’s going to drive me nuts is that old world music all the time. Me, I’m a mechanical jazz enthusiast. I suppose you, being along in years, comparatively speaking, go more for swing music.”
“It depends on my mental state.” Haley walked on.
Kolschitzky-Gasse was a crooked lane rich with weathered cafes and coffee houses, grillework, sea green tiles, polished wood doors, hanging metal lanterns, statuary, a coin operated fountain. Across the street from him, walking faster than any of the dozen visitors, Haley noticed a tall chunky girl. She had orange hair and a white nurse’s uniform. Haley recognized her. She was one of the four Lady Day girls who’d grabbed Penny and the mayor. The girl entered a coffee house named Frau Goedewaagen’s. Haley followed.
A rattletrap old android was playing the zither up on a carved wood platform near the entranceway. The room was low and round ceilinged. Its walls were carved wood panels spotted with tinted mirrors and glass ball lamps. Ten tables filled the small place, all but three unoccupied. The orange haired girl was not there.
“Ach zo,” said the zither playing robot. “How vas you? Dot’s good. Sid down. Haff zum coffee. Yah?”
At the nearest table sat a curly haired blond man and a pale skinned girl with blue-black hair. The man called to Haley, “He’s on the blink a little. Pay no attention. His accent is dreadful, isn’t it?”
“Shud up or giffs murder.” The android was small and dented. His old blue suit was mended at all its bends. His metal arms and hands had been soldered and welded many times. A rusty bolt was loose in his plucking hand. “Vot a dodrotted platz dis is. Yah? Such a bunch uff vise guys. All screwy in der head.”
“All part of the therapy,’’'explained the blond man. “Don’t allow him to rile you or make you writhe with anger. Don’t let his nastiness unseat your reason and send sharp daggers of harsh pain through your vitals.” He clenched his fists, bit his Up, then chuckled. “Join us, won’t you?”
“King,” said the pale girl, “maybe he doesn't want to relate to anyone. Perhaps he wants to sit in a dark corner and brood. Leave the poor man be.” Haley went to their table and took the. remaining chair. “I will join you for a moment.”
“See, Mary Alice. Be friendly and it produces friendship. Hi, my name is King Solomon McCurdy.” “Haley,” said Haley.
“Haley, good. This is Mary Alice Cullen-Murphy. Our names sound a little alike, Mary Alice’s and mine, but we aren’t married. We aren’t officially married. Simply living together.”
“I’m his trial wife,” said the pale Mary Alice. “His eighty-seventh trial wife.”
“My problem, that’s my problem,” said McCurdy. Haley nodded, then asked, “Did you folks notice a red haired girl?”
“Nurse Newberry,” said Mary Alice. “She picks up three coffees to go every morning here. Back in the kitchen. She’s employed up at the chateau.” “Chateau?”
“It’s up in the Vienna Woods. Dr. Hocktigon lives there.”
“My mother,” put in McCurdy, “named me King Solomon because to her way of thinking the name connoted wisdom. To my regret, as I matured . . .” “Grew up,” said Mary Alice. “You haven’t matured yet.”
“Right. You’re right to catch that, Mary Alice dear. As I grew up I suffered the wretched experiences of any child born late into a loveless, though fundamentally stable, marriage. I found King Solomon was also famed for the number of wives he had. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, Haley, but . . .” “Of course he’s noticed,” said Mary Alice. “Everybody does.”
“Right. Right you are, Mary Alice dear. Certainly, Haley you’ve noticed that one’s name affects one’s destiny.”
“I have indeed,” replied Haley. “Where exactly is the chateau, Miss Cullen-Murphy?”
“You can’t miss it. The place is right near the Wilderness Encounter Camp Site. The chateau is quite large, mildly Gothic and richly encrusted with gargoyles and phallic symbols.”
McCurdy went on, “My unfortunate first names explain why I’ve never ...”
“Not never, King. You were three times.”
“Right. Right you are, Mary Alice dear. My unfortunate first names explain why I’ve never been able to marry often. So now I soak up all the therapy I can get and hope for the best. Vienna West is swell.” Mary Alice said, “We really don’t believe psychiatry has any validity in the modern world, but the atmosphere here, the ...”
“Ambiance,” said McCurdy. “The ambiance is swell, so pleasant. And the weather is almost always fair except for low morning overcast and fog along the coast.”
“We enjoy the music, too,” said the pale woman. McCurdy cupped a hand to his ear. “Listen now, for instance.”
From a distance of about a block away drifted the sound of boys singing. “King is fond of pseudo/
religiosity,” said Mary Alice. “Another problem of having a biblical name.”
“It’s actually a historical name.”
The nurse with orange hair stepped from the kitchen with a plyosack of pastries in one chunky hand, a stack of three china coffee cups in the other. “Excuse me,” Haley said to his host. “I’ll skip the coffee and see a little more of the town. Thank you for your hospitality.”
The boy’s voices were marching nearer. “It’s the Vienna Boys’ Choir again,” observed pale Mary Alice. “An android version.”
“You have to look at these occurrences as challenges,” cautioned McCurdy. “Tests. How one reacts is vitally important. That’s a good part of what total environmental therapy is about. If you have the impulse to rend the little mechanical bastards asunder and scatter their wretched cogs and wheels and infernal mechanisms to the four winds, you mustn’t.” He chuckled. “A valuable lesson to learn.” “Your real problem isn’t wanting to dismantle the robot Vienna Boys’ Choir, King.”
Nurse Newberry popped out of the door as Haley stood. He took three long strides and the wooden door snapped open again. In marched sweetly singing choir boys. All bright and fresh in old-fashioned bibbed sailor suits and straw hats. They sang, “Oh, tannenbaum, oh, tannenbaum,” as they filled the little coffee house. Eventually two dozen of them were marching around in the low room.
“It’s not Christmas, you dumb little gadgets,” shouted McCurdy. He snarled and grabbed the closest choir boy, swooping the lad’s straw hat from his head and sailing it in the direction of the zither player. “I think it’ll be very good for me to smash a few of these urchins. Yes, very good.”
“Let go, schmuck,” said the choir boy.
McCurdy stooped, shook the boy. “A ringer? You’re no android.”
“I’m Dr. Hocktigon’s prize nephew, schlep, and you better not frick around.”
McCurdy gave the boy one more shake, reflectively. “Nephew, is it?”
“These andies keep breaking down. Today they were one short so I’m filling in. I have a very good voice, and a good ear.”
“Oh, tannenbaum, oh, tannenbaum,” sang the other twenty-three choir boys.
“They think it’s the Christmas season,” said the nephew. “They’re always going blooey. They came in here for a hot toddy and a yule log.”
Haley worked his way through the sailor suited boys. The orange haired girl was long gone now.
He saw no sign of her in the street. He stroked the knuckles of one bony hand, grinned a thin grin. He headed for the Vienna Woods.
XVIII
Crossing the simulated vineyard which bordered the forest Haley met a man wearing aggressive outdoor clothes.
“What time is it anyway?” asked the man. He was tall and taut, dressed in khaki. Spiked boots, a jungle hat. An antique .45 revolver was holstered on his right hip, a silver plated blaster on his right. A stun rod and a hunting rifle were slung at his back. Bandoliers and cartridge belts festooned him.
