“And where is the lady?” said Heller.
“You are to go to the breakfast room when you are quite ready, sir. There is no hurry.” He was holding out a small bottle. “I trust your injuries are not paining you too much, sir. If they are, you are to take one of these aspirins.”
“I’m fine!” said Heller, waving the bottle aside. “I feel great.”
“That’s very brave of you, sir, after the extensive wounds madam described to us.” He was holding a white robe. “If you can manage holding out your arms, sir, I can get this on you.”
Heller took it away from him and put it on.
The steward was bowing him into the bathroom. A small seat was in the middle of the tiled floor and the steward got Heller to sit down. The steward was picking up a straight razor and can of lather. “I’ll do the best I can, sir, shaving around your injured face.”
Heller apparently resigned himself to it. There appeared to be extensive bandages.
“Frightful row on the beach last night, sir. In all the upset, I am afraid I did not see you come aboard.”
“It was pretty dark,” Heller said. And in the mirror I could see that a smile was twitching at the areas of his face the bandages left exposed.
The steward finished shaving him. “Now, if you will just get into the tub, sir, I can wash your back. You don’t have to get your hands wet. I promise to be very careful of the chest injuries.”
Heller endured the bath. When finished and dried, the steward bowed him back into the bedchamber, a towel wrapped around him.
There in the splendid room stood an older man, also in a white short jacket, but with gold epaulets and Chief Steward above the pocket.
“I’ve laid out your clothing, sir. I am afraid they are not tailored, but they were the best quality madam’s maid could find in the stores. I do hope they serve.”
There was quite an array of clothing and shoes laid out, all more or less seafaring except for a white silk dinner jacket.
“I took the liberty of laying out something casual,” the chief steward said, pointing to an outfit displayed upon the chair. It was a nautical jersey, white with horizontal red stripes, white pants, a red sash, deck shoes and a yachting cap. “Now, if it does not give you too much pain to sit down, we can help you into them. Unless, of course, you would rather go back to bed.”
Heller sighed. He got into the clothes.
They escorted him with no little ceremony down a broad stairway and into a cheerful breakfast salon with murals of sailing craft blending in color with nautical designs on the tiled floor. A resplendent table was set in the middle. It had snowy white linen, silver dishes and plates and a single huge red rose in a tall white vase made a centerpiece. There was an engraved menu on the plate.
The chief steward, the steward and a waiter seated Heller. He looked at the other side of the table. There was neither chair nor place set.
“Wait a minute!” said Heller with some alarm. “Where is the lady?”
The chief steward bowed and pointed. “I had very strict instructions to make certain you received this, sir.”
An envelope was propped against the white vase. On it was the single word Dear.
Heller opened it with some alarm. He read:
Dearest,
This was all my fault for not believing in you.
The only way I can earn your pardon is to clear this matter up.
If you went back, they would arrest you.
These are just women and women are best handled by a woman. It shouldn’t take long.
I will send you a radio when it is all settled.
Love, love, love!
K
PS: I told them your name was H. Hider Haggarty, as that is on your CIA passport.
PPS: I took all your money so you can’t bribe the crew.
“Where are we?” cried Heller, leaping up.
He rushed out to a foyer and burst out upon an open deck.
Apparently, the captain had already anticipated just this. He was standing right there. He was a grizzled man with a very craggy face. He was dressed in whites. He saluted.
“I am Captain Bitts, sir. Good morning to you. I have specific orders from the owner’s concubine to treat you extremely well but in no case to permit you to go ashore until further orders have been received from her personally.”
Heller stared at him, then looked about, saw another ladder and rushed up it. He came out on a flat deck topside, open all around.
He stared in a circle. It was a beautiful spring day with fleecy clouds and blue water. There was no land! Not even another ship in sight!
Captain Bitts had come up.
“WHERE ARE WE?” cried Heller.
“Sir, I would suggest you go back and finish your breakfast. I believe they have English kippers waiting for you. After that, as madam arranged, you can commence the physical therapy program the sports director planned so that you can begin to recover your strength after your extensive injuries.”
“You’ve got to put me ashore!” cried Heller.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Haggarty. It has been carefully explained to me by the owner’s concubine that elements in the United States, hostile to the national interests of Turkey, were on your trail.”
“Turkey?” said Heller.
“Why, yes. We’re under the Turkish flag now and the owner’s interests are our interests and the owner’s country our country, of course. Events of last night certainly proved that somebody was on your trail, that is for certain. So you’d best just batten down, all snug and shipshape aboard. We’ll do all we can to make your cruise a happy one. BUT I have specific orders to stay outside the continental limits of the United States and under no circumstances to go near land or other ships or let you ashore or obey any other orders from any other source until that radio comes.” He saluted and walked away.
Heller took hold of a funnel stay. He glanced at the letter he still held and then looked all around at the very empty sea.
“Well, I’ll be blasted!” he said. “I’m a prisoner!”
PART FIFTY-ONE
Chapter 2
It was totally and completely the fault of the mixture of drugs and champagne. I am ashamed to confess that the import of what I had just seen and heard did not register on me at all. I freely confess that it was the greatest omission of my entire career. That shows what drugs and alcohol can do to one: People should beware and little children should be warned. The fates of nations and empires were hanging in the balance that very moment and all I was thinking about was my AWFUL headache.
The doorbell rang and the second catastrophe of the day began, with all its sinister implications, and once more I did not grasp it.
Woodenly, thinking it was one of those (bleeped) paper boys who want you to subscribe to a paper you are already subscribing to, so they can get an all-expense-paid tour to reform school, I wrapped my bathrobe around me and, barefooted, went to the front door and opened it.
TEENIE!
I slammed the door hurriedly. I put on the burglar chains. I shot the heaviest bolts in place. I went into the front room and slammed the shutters shut and put the forged-iron fasteners on. That done, I leaned against a closed shutter, panting. I went back to the front door and checked it. It was locked tight.
My Gods, what was Teenie doing coming here during business hours, especially when I was alone in the house. Let me tell you, my headache had surged up to a point where I could hardly see.
I tottered to the fridge and got some ice. I held it against my brow. That was better but not much better.
Staggering a bit with the aftermath of shock, I groped my way to my back room.
I stopped dead.
I thought I was having hallucinations. They say marijuana can give you those.
Plain as day, I saw a wraith that looked just like Teenie come over the top of the garden fence, step down off a trellis, walk in through the back door, remove her coat and sit down in an easy chair.
I c
ould not believe my eyes. I was SEEING things!
She was sitting right there with her knees apart. She wore no underpants. Then my knowledge of psychology restored the reality of the world. I was dealing with a sexhibitionist. If she matured—which I doubted, from the way she enraged me—she would probably become a model for nonexistent women’s clothes. No. A female flasher! Yes, a sexhibitionist all right, unfortunately real and no hallucination. Bless psychology!
She looked at me with her oversized eyes. She wiped the back of her hand across her too-big lips.
“I’ve GOT to complete my education,” she said appealingly.
My Gods, didn’t she realize that we were alone in the house? That there was nobody around to defend me or protect me from her nails?
“NO!” I cried. “What are you doing here during work hours?”
“I’ve been fired. And all because I am not educated enough.”
“They can’t fire you because of that.”
“Oh, yes, he did. And Pinchy’s plans for me are blasted totally. And all because I am instruction deficient.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Oh, yes, it is. I ran out of stamps to lick and I walked into Rockecenter’s office. And there he was down on his knees in front of an elevator boy, going after it like mad. And I said, ‘No, no! That’s not the right way to do it!’ And I got on the desk and pulled up my skirt and reached for the elevator boy to show them what I’d learned here.”
She gave an audible sniff and brushed away a tear. “But I couldn’t have possibly had it correct because Rockecenter screamed at me that I was a stupid brat and had the security men throw me out of the building. See? My elbow is skinned and I lost my hat. They wouldn’t even give me back my underpants. So I came to you to ask . . . You’re not listening to me!”
“I HAVE A TERRIBLE HEADACHE AND I DON’T NEED ANOTHER ONE FROM YOU!”
“Oh, the marijuana. I wondered if you wouldn’t get one when I saw you drinking champagne with it. You have to be streetwise about these things. Is your throat raw?”
“I can hardly talk.”
“There. You see what lack of education can do? It does happen that I know about marijuana, like any other school kid. Sit right there.”
I wasn’t going anyplace. My head felt like it was about to burst whenever I even blinked my eyes. It was her fault. Both last night and appearing so suddenly today.
She was bustling around in the front room. Suddenly, she came back. “Music is what you have to have with marijuana. They go together. So I put a new Neo Punk Rock record on. You’ll feel better shortly.”
The massive stereo speakers in the front room clicked as a needle dropped. Drums began to boom. Every stroke of the stick was tearing my eyeballs out! Guitars screamed and a chorus brayed:
Subliminal, subliminal.
A toy car,
And a toy girl,
Ran up a tree!
SMASH!
A toy house,
And a toy boy,
Fell out of the tree!
SMASH!
The toy car
And the toy baby,
Dropped the tree!
SMASH!
Where was NASA?
Where was NASA?
Where was NASA?/
SMASH!
“Now, don’t you feel better?” said Teenie.
“Oh, Jesus, no!” I cried.
“Aha!” said Teenie. “You have to get it balanced. Too much music, not enough marijuana. Just sit right there.”
I could hear her rummaging around in the cupboards in the front room. Then another “Aha!” and she came back with something that looked like a museum sculpture. She was cramming green leaves and buds into the top of it. It had a tube. “This,” she said, learnedly, “is called a bong, or carburetor. Because the smoke goes through water first, it doesn’t irritate the throat.” She lighted it and got it going. “Adults can sometimes be pretty ignorant,” she said, “and they should not be ashamed to ask those who know. I AM educated in some things. My trouble is that I am NOT educated in vital matters. Now take this mouthpiece and take a long, slow pull on it. Hold the smoke in your lungs as long as you can and then exhale.”
I tried to avoid the mouthpiece, but it hurt too much to turn my head. I let her put it in my mouth. I could not get any worse so I did what she said.
“Now again,” she instructed.
I did it again.
“Now again,” she repeated.
I did. A soft haze began to gather around me. I felt like I was floating.
“Now is your headache better?”
Gingerly, I found I could move it a bit without agony.
“There,” she said. “You see the benefit of being educated about some things.” She took a couple puffs and then put the pipe aside. “We don’t want you stoned,” she said, “as I have to talk to you.”
“I don’t want to seem ungrateful,” I said, feeling oddly disconnected, “but you better leave.” I was sure the relief was temporary and the headache maybe even would come back aggravated.
“No. I do not know enough,” she said.
“It seems you know too (bleeped) much for your age,” I said.
“Well,” said Teenie, “I’m not like other teenagers you know. I’m different. I have a mental problem.”
“I’ll bet you do,” I said.
“You see,” she said, “I lost my parents when I was eight. They were sent to the electric chair for murdering my grandparents so they wouldn’t have to pay the rest home fees. I became a charge of the court and they appointed a wino as my guardian and he used to beat me and lock me in a closet when I couldn’t find enough in garbage cans for us to eat. But that wasn’t what my mental problem was.”
“For Gods’ sakes,” I said, “then what WAS your mental problem?”
“Hyperactivity. You see, I was very fond of sports and took them all up. I was on every school team I could get on and I even won a championship skateboarding. The school psychiatrist noticed it one day and he was very alarmed. He diagnosed it very quickly and in the nick of time. Hyperactivity. And he said I needed lots of sex to keep me calm. He told them I couldn’t continue in school unless I got competent professional care. He even gave me the first treatment himself. He showed me how to go down on him and I did.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “That’s interfering with a minor. That’s punishable by law.”
“Oh, no. You don’t understand. My guardian—he drank himself to death three years ago and they never appointed another, due to the usual legal delays—told the judge the treatment was making me so tired I couldn’t look in garbage cans. I was there. The judge explained that psychiatrists and psychologists are professionals and they are not bound by ordinary law: they can even murder people and nothing is done about it because they actually work with the government and courts and, like them, are above the law. They can do anything they want with anyone placed in their care. Even murder them. I was surprised when my guardian questioned it because we were always taught in school that psychiatrists and psychologists are kind of sacred. But that’s just a bunch of horse (bleep). I know that now.”
“Hey, whoa,” I said. “You’re too young to know what you’re talking about!”
“I am not! It’s just like Pinchy says. They’re a bunch of chauvinistic pigs. They lie!”
“About what?” I said with a superior air. The idea of this teenager talking about my most sacred subjects made my blood seethe, marijuana or no marijuana. “They are the very epitome of truth! You don’t understand: they deal with SCIENCE! They never lie.”
“The hell they don’t!” said Teenie. “Listen to this: That psychiatrist turned me over to the school psychologist to carry on the treatment and the psychiatrist repeated the same thing–he’d told me every time since the first, I was not to swallow it or I would get pregnant. But I couldn’t help it sometimes. And then the school psychologist, when he treated me, would say the same thing but I couldn’t h
elp swallowing. And I didn’t get pregnant.”
“Now listen,” I said sternly, oblivious of the fact it was probably the marijuana talking, “such men usually are sterile. They’ve been operated on so as not to embarrass husbands whose wives they treat. So you’ve just proved nothing!”
“Oh, yeah?” she said, in her turn very superior. “So try this on for size, buster. The school psychologist had a lot of very mentally sick boys in the school. They were classified as oversexed. And he used to line them up in his office and go down on them to cool them off. And every day or two he’d get an overload of cases and he’d send and get me excused from class so I could come in and help. He’d stand and watch. There were so many of those boys sometimes that I could hardly get my breath from one before another had to be done. It was a fast clinical line, let me tell you. And some of those boys were fifteen and sixteen and pretty foamy. You just couldn’t help swallowing! And I never got pregnant once, so there!”