hands corpselike on his chest. "Um, Dr. Winfield?" I murmured.
He opened a bloodshot eye. "Yeah?"
"Just making sure you're still alive." Damned if I was going to beg for his reaction.
"Still alive," he muttered. He opened both eyes and gestured at the sheets. "Interesting, huh?"
"I thought so."
"Have a hard time getting the information?"
"Not especially," I had to admit.
"No one tried to kill you?"
"Not that I noticed."
"Still, it's real. He's over there. Doing something amazing."
It wasn't clear to me that we had any proof he was doing something amazing, but then, it was becoming apparent that Winfield didn't need any proof. Like me, he had a dream—a dream of his clone, his creator—and the dream was all that mattered.
"So what do we do now?" I asked.
"Find him, of course."
"The evidence is sufficient? You want to go to England?"
Winfield reached over and poured himself a drink. "Who cares about the evidence?" he said. "I was gonna go anyway. Don't wanna go back to Florida. Work day and night—for what? Keep people alive so they can feel more pain, and then they die anyway. They all die. Shit." He gulped down the whiskey.
He didn't care about the evidence. Swell. "Are you taking me?" I asked.
"You want to come?"
"Yes."
"Then sure. Come on along. I could use the company."
"Okay."
Winfield poured himself another drink. Now what? Everything was going as I had dreamed it would, so why didn't it seem real?
"When do we leave?" I asked.
Winfield gestured dismissively. "Anytime."
"Do you have the money for our tickets?"
He looked at me as if I were an annoying fly, and he was trying to decide whether to answer me or swat me. Finally he stumbled to his feet and went over to the closet. He rooted around inside it for a few moments, and then came out holding a large peanut butter jar filled with white powder. He set it down next to the whiskey bottle on the night table and flopped back onto the bed. "Our tickets," he said.
"What is it?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
"It's the best hospital-approved morphine a doctor can steal. Know anyone in the market?"
I stared at it. Then I stared at Winfield. This wasn't in my dream. But private eyes don't get to choose their clients; and people who want to go to England had better not be very choosy about the source of their funds. So what should I do?
I closed my eyes. There was no choice. Patients in Florida were screaming in pain, but I had had my share of pain too. "Yeah," I said. "I guess I know someone who's in the market. Can I use your phone?"
Bobby was sure to be impressed.
* * *
Bobby was impressed enough to send Mickey in the van for us right away. Winfield was not inclined to go, but I suppose he realized he couldn't stay in that hotel room forever—and he wasn't going to let me take off by myself with his peanut butter jar. He cradled it in his lap as we made our way through the snow to South Boston.
The two of us confused Brutus as we climbed the stairs to Bobby's office: he wanted to wag his tail at Winfield, he wanted to maul me. The best he could do was to growl indecisively as we went by. That was all right with me.
Bobby greeted Winfield effusively. "So nice of you to come, sir. I'm sure we'll have no trouble with our little transaction. Tell me, what do you think of our fair city?"
Winfield made a face. "The weather sucks."
"Oh, well, it's not like it used to be, but it's still quite, er, invigorating, wouldn't you say, Mr. Sands?"
"Um—"
"That's right. Incidentally, Mr. Sands here is quite possibly the best private investigator in the city."
"Prob'ly the only one," Winfield muttered.
"Well, you know, I hadn't thought of that. Now let's take a look at this white stuff here, shall we?"
There wasn't much haggling. Winfield seemed bored by the whole business, and Bobby, friend that he was, obviously didn't want to ruin the deal and keep me from going to England. The only problem was that he didn't have enough cash available to
He opened a bloodshot eye. "Yeah?"
"Just making sure you're still alive." Damned if I was going to beg for his reaction.
"Still alive," he muttered. He opened both eyes and gestured at the sheets. "Interesting, huh?"
"I thought so."
"Have a hard time getting the information?"
"Not especially," I had to admit.
"No one tried to kill you?"
"Not that I noticed."
"Still, it's real. He's over there. Doing something amazing."
It wasn't clear to me that we had any proof he was doing something amazing, but then, it was becoming apparent that Winfield didn't need any proof. Like me, he had a dream—a dream of his clone, his creator—and the dream was all that mattered.
"So what do we do now?" I asked.
"Find him, of course."
"The evidence is sufficient? You want to go to England?"
Winfield reached over and poured himself a drink. "Who cares about the evidence?" he said. "I was gonna go anyway. Don't wanna go back to Florida. Work day and night—for what? Keep people alive so they can feel more pain, and then they die anyway. They all die. Shit." He gulped down the whiskey.
He didn't care about the evidence. Swell. "Are you taking me?" I asked.
"You want to come?"
"Yes."
"Then sure. Come on along. I could use the company."
"Okay."
Winfield poured himself another drink. Now what? Everything was going as I had dreamed it would, so why didn't it seem real?
"When do we leave?" I asked.
Winfield gestured dismissively. "Anytime."
"Do you have the money for our tickets?"
He looked at me as if I were an annoying fly, and he was trying to decide whether to answer me or swat me. Finally he stumbled to his feet and went over to the closet. He rooted around inside it for a few moments, and then came out holding a large peanut butter jar filled with white powder. He set it down next to the whiskey bottle on the night table and flopped back onto the bed. "Our tickets," he said.
"What is it?" I asked, not sure I wanted to know.
"It's the best hospital-approved morphine a doctor can steal. Know anyone in the market?"
I stared at it. Then I stared at Winfield. This wasn't in my dream. But private eyes don't get to choose their clients; and people who want to go to England had better not be very choosy about the source of their funds. So what should I do?
I closed my eyes. There was no choice. Patients in Florida were screaming in pain, but I had had my share of pain too. "Yeah," I said. "I guess I know someone who's in the market. Can I use your phone?"
Bobby was sure to be impressed.
* * *
Bobby was impressed enough to send Mickey in the van for us right away. Winfield was not inclined to go, but I suppose he realized he couldn't stay in that hotel room forever—and he wasn't going to let me take off by myself with his peanut butter jar. He cradled it in his lap as we made our way through the snow to South Boston.
The two of us confused Brutus as we climbed the stairs to Bobby's office: he wanted to wag his tail at Winfield, he wanted to maul me. The best he could do was to growl indecisively as we went by. That was all right with me.
Bobby greeted Winfield effusively. "So nice of you to come, sir. I'm sure we'll have no trouble with our little transaction. Tell me, what do you think of our fair city?"
Winfield made a face. "The weather sucks."
"Oh, well, it's not like it used to be, but it's still quite, er, invigorating, wouldn't you say, Mr. Sands?"
"Um—"
"That's right. Incidentally, Mr. Sands here is quite possibly the best private investigator in the city."
"Prob'ly the only one," Winfield muttered.
"Well, you know, I hadn't thought of that. Now let's take a look at this white stuff here, shall we?"
There wasn't much haggling. Winfield seemed bored by the whole business, and Bobby, friend that he was, obviously didn't want to ruin the deal and keep me from going to England. The only problem was that he didn't have enough cash available to
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