“And what if the judge decides I’m crazy? I spend the rest of my life in an asylum?”
He didn’t answer for a few minutes. “I told you not to say anything to them, Alfred.”
“And if he decides I’m not crazy, there’s a trial and I go to prison for twenty years.”
“Only if the jury finds you guilty.”
I thought about it. “So what’s the strategy?”
“Strategy?”
“You do have a strategy for getting me out of this, right?”
“Well, the very first thing I’m going to do is find you a good attorney.”
I stared at him. “I thought you were my attorney.”
“Technically, I’m the attorney for your father’s estate. And you wouldn’t want me for an attorney, Alfred.”
“Why? Do you suck?”
“Oh, no, I don’t suck. I’m quite good at what I do, but unfortunately, I don’t do criminal law.”
He patted my knee.
“Don’t pat my knee,” I said.
He stopped patting my knee. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Like crap. My nose is broke. I’ve got fifty-nine million stitches in my arm and four thousand bruises all over my body and they think my butt might be cracked.”
He frowned. “Aren’t all butts?”
“I’m not kidding. I need you to call Abigail Smith for me. I used up my phone call on you.”
“Who is Abigail Smith?”
“The director of OIPEP.” I handed him her card.
“OIPEP,” he murmured, staring at the card.
“You remember.”
“Unfortunately, I do.”
“Tell her I want a meeting. Today. Even if that means she meets me in the psycho ward.”
“Do you think her agency had something to do with this?”
“Oh, you bet they’re near the top of my list.”
I pushed the ring into his pudgy hand.
“And I want you to keep this.”
“This? Alfred, isn’t this ... ?”
“The Seal of Solomon. Put it somewhere safe and don’t tell anyone where you’ve put it. Nobody, understand?”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
He nodded. His fingers were shaking as he slipped the ring into his pocket.
“He tried to warn me,” I said.
“Who?”
“Samuel. He said they could be ruthless.”
“Apparently so.”
“Unless it wasn’t them. But if it wasn’t them, who was it?”
“Alfred, if I may offer some advice. Perhaps, given what happened today, you should give Ms. Smith and her associates what they want.”
“They had their chance,” I said. “But I’ll think about it.”
“It might be the price you have to pay.”
“The price for what?”
“For staying alive.”
13:12:08:40
A cruiser took me to St. Mary’s Hospital on Broadway, where I was escorted to the psych floor and put in a room with a door that locked from the outside. There wasn’t even a handle on the inside part of the door.
There was no phone in the room, no TV, and everything was padded—the bed, the small dresser, even the corners of the windowsills. No sharp corners anywhere.
I sat in a chair and played with this little metal ring that hung from the side of the bed. Another ring was at the foot, and two more on the opposite side. I realized the rings were for the straps they used to tie you down.
A nurse’s aide came in with a tray and hung by the door while I ate. I told her I’d rather eat alone—it kind of creeped me out, her standing there—but she said that was against the rules. She avoided making eye contact with me.
“When are they coming?” I asked.
“Who?”
“The experts who decide if I’m nuts or not.”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I just bring the food.”
“Where’s ICU?”
She didn’t say anything for a second. “Second floor.”
She knocked on the door. It was opened by a huge orderly with a smushed-in face, like a bulldog. They left me alone. I crawled into bed. I was very tired. She had brought me a pain pill with the food and, though I really thought I shouldn’t, I took the pill.
I closed my eyes. I tried to sleep and couldn’t. How was I getting out of a room with a door that had no handle, locked from the outside, and a huge orderly with a face like a bulldog posted in the hall?
I don’t know how much time passed—they took my watch and there wasn’t a clock in the room—when I heard the door lock snap open.
A man stepped into the room. He wasn’t wearing a doctor’s white lab coat. He was wearing a tailored suit. The suit was blue. The tie was red. The hair was long and dark and the eyes even darker. He was carrying a black cane with a gold handle, though he didn’t walk with any limp that I could see.
I sat up and pulled the covers to my chin. You don’t really appreciate the meaning of the world “vulnerable” until you’re trapped in a room with a stranger and all you’re wearing is a flimsy hospital gown.
He pulled the chair closer to the bed, a small, ironic smile playing on his full lips. They looked almost too fat for his thin face. He placed the cane’s tip between his immaculately shined black shoes and rested both hands on the gold head.
Then he smiled. He had a great smile. The only person I knew who had a better one was Abigail Smith.
“Alfred Kropp, at last we meet.”
He wasn’t American. I’m no good with accents, but it sounded Spanish.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“I am your attending physician, Dr. R. U. Nutts. That is a joke, of course, but I note you are not laughing. You may call me Nueve.”
“Noy-vey?”
“Sí. Nueve.”
I said, “What do you want, Mr. Nueve?” I glanced toward the closed door. I might be able to get to it before he could stop me, bang on it, howl my lungs out, and hope the big orderly bulldog man opened it—but this Nueve got past him somehow, so there were no guarantees he would rush in to save me.
“Please, I shall call you Alfred and you shall call me Nueve. Just Nueve, por favor.”
“Just Nueve,” I echoed. He was resting his chin on his hands, sort of balancing his finely shaped head on the top of the black cane. “I got a D in Spanish last year, but I’m pretty sure nueve means nine.”