The Brain Eaters

Chapter 8

I like New York in June.

I’ll take Manhattan.

A helluva town.

Snatches of song lyrics danced through Corey Macklin’s head during the bus ride from JFK through Queens, across the Triborough Bridge to Manhattan and the West Side Terminal. Maybe Los Angeles had the sunshine, San Francisco the culture, New Orleans the food, Chicago the broad shoulders — but New York was the place to be; no doubt about it. The air was brisk and charged with excitement. Everybody seemed to be on his way to some vital appointment. Never mind the junkies and the whores and the muggers and the pimps. New York was It. The Big Apple. The place to be if you were anybody.

The red-eye flight in a cramped coach seat had left Corey with aching joints and a foul taste in his mouth, but the electric atmosphere of New York had quickly revived him. He belonged there. If things worked out, he would soon be there for good.

Corey’s mood took a nosedive when, after a wait of forty-five minutes, he was allowed into the cramped office of an assistant to the medical examiner named Fado. The man had a mouth with the corners permanently turned down. He looked at Corey as though he needed a bath.

“You say you’re from Minneapolis?” he said.

“Milwaukee,” Corey told him. “The Milwaukee Herald.”

“Good for you. And you wanted what?”

“I’d like to see the body of DuBois Williamson.”

“Have you got any idea the number of bodies we process through here?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Well, I’m up to my ass in dead bodies, and you expect me to dig through them and find some coked-up jigaboo who was brought in here when?”

“Last Friday.”

“Last Friday. Sure. Wonderful. Our busiest day.”

“Look, it shouldn’t be all that tough.”

“Not in Minneapolis, maybe, but you’re in the Apple now, pal.”

“Would you mind checking?”

Fado gave him a long-suffering sigh and walked to a bank of battered file cabinets along one wall. After a five-minute search he pulled out a folder, shuffled through the sheaf of onionskin forms inside, pulled out one, and scanned the information. He took care to prevent Corey from reading over his shoulder.

“Williamson, DuBois Harrington,” he read.

“That’ll be him,” Corey said.

“Gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“I mean Williamson, Dubois Harrington, has checked out. The body was signed for and removed yesterday.”

“Who removed it?”

“That’s confidential.”

“Come on, mister. I’m with the press.”

“In this town your Minneapolis Trombone, or whatever your sheet is, don’t carry a lot of weight, pal.”

“All right, what about the cause of death? Is that confidential, too?”

“Don’t you read the papers?”

“I’m from out of town. Humor me.”

Fado let a breath hiss out through his teeth. He read from the sheet in a rapid monotone. “Multiple fractures of the spine, pelvis, and ribs; massive damage to internal organs, including liver, spleen, kidneys, and heart. All injuries attributable to the deceased being run over by a panel truck loaded with heavy machine parts.” He looked up at Corey. “Okay?”

“Does it say anything about the condition of his face?”

“What difference does it make? The guy was squashed like a busted balloon.” Fado jammed the folder back into the file cabinet and slammed the drawer shut.

Corey ground his teeth but said nothing more. No use getting on the wrong side of the authorities, no matter how pigheaded they were.

He had a Danish and coffee in a hole-in-the-wall deli and was calmed down somewhat by the time he found a cab for the ride to Brooklyn. He rechecked his notes as the taxi crossed Newton Creek into Greenpoint, and some of his excitement returned. There were answers waiting for him in the house where DuBois Williamson had lived. He could feel it.

After several wrong turns and rereadings of a crumpled map, the Puerto Rican driver pulled up in front of one of a row of identical, narrow three-story houses. The street was freshly swept and had budding trees spaced along the curb in iron cages.

Corey paid the fare and under-tipped the driver, ignoring the long, hard look he got from the man. He crossed the sidewalk and climbed the stoop to the front door. The doorbell was the old-fashioned kind you turned with a key. He cranked it and waited. The possibility of failure chilled him for a moment. What if nobody was there and the place had been cleaned out like Stransky’s in Milwaukee? He would have to go back empty, and it would be a cold day before he talked Porter Uhlander out of another plane ticket. Then the door opened, and his doubts vanished.

A short, very dark woman with generous breasts and hips stood there looking up at him. Her modified natural hairstyle was shot through, not unattractively, with gray. She wore a nylon dress of dark blue with a flower figure in a lighter shade.

“Mrs. Williamson?” Corey said. Looking over the woman’s head, he could see two suitcases standing in the hallway.

“That’s right. You from the agency?”

“Uh, no. My name is Corey Macklin. I’m a reporter. Can I talk to you?”

Ruby Williamson looked doubtful. “I’m expecting somebody.”

“I won’t take much of your time.”

“Who is it, Momma?” a strong young voice called from inside the house.

“Reporter,” she said, turning from the doorway but keeping her eyes on Corey.

A young black man with cropped hair and a neat moustache appeared behind Ruby Williamson. He frowned at Corey.

“Reporter, you say?”

“That’s right.”

“What paper you with?”

Corey dug for his press card. “The Milwaukee Herald. I — ”

“Milwaukee?” The young man pronounced the name of the city as though it were in some distant galaxy. “What you doing out here?”

“This my son, Anthony,” said Mrs. Williamson.

“Glad to meet you,” Corey said. He stuck out a hand. The young man ignored it. Corey flashed his press card. “I’m working on a story in Milwaukee that may have some connection to what happened to Mr. Williamson. I’d really appreciate a few minutes of your time.”

“You want to talk to him, Momma?” Anthony said.

“Don’t make no difference to me,” said the woman. “Might as well.”

“Come on in, then,” Anthony said without warmth. “Can’t talk but a few minutes. We’re about to leave.”

“So I see,” Corey said, glancing at the suitcases. He waited for some explanation, but when none was forthcoming, he followed mother and son into the neat little living room.

The furniture seemed oddly delicate for the sturdy old house. An exception was a well-worn recliner that was positioned to face the television set. When Ruby and Anthony Williamson pointedly avoided sitting in it, Corey carefully did the same.

“First let me say I’m sorry about what happened to Mr. Williamson.”

“Are you?” said the young man. “Why?”

“Don’t be dispolite, Anthony,” Mrs. Williamson scolded. Then she said to Corey, “Anthony’s in the navy,” as though that fact would explain the lapse in manners.

“Home on leave?” Corey said, trying to make it friendly.

“Emergency leave.” Anthony’s deep maroon eyes held steady on Corey’s face. “Death in the family.”

Corey nodded, feeling a little foolish. He said, “I wonder, Mrs. Williamson, if you could just tell me about your husband. How he was before the … accident. Was there anything different about his behavior? Anything strange?”

Ruby Williamson put a hand to one plump cheek and let her eyes rove off to a corner of the ceiling. “Nothing so strange as to cause any notice. He was a little bit sick the first part of the week when we come back from our vacation, but he got over that.”

“Sick,” Corey repeated, making rapid notes. “Like a cold or the flu?”

“Kind of, except it only lasted about two days. We thought maybe he was allergic to the bee sting. Some people are.”

“Bee sting?” Corey looked up at her.

“Mm-hmm. We was drivin’ along the road there, and Dubois, he stop the car to go pick some strawberries. They grow right by the road out there. Well, a big ol’ bee stung him on the neck, and it swole up kinda ugly till we put some ice on it next day. We thought maybe that was the cause of him bein’ sick.”

“Where did this happen, Mrs. Williamson?”

“Now that’s a funny thing. It was out there where you live. We was just on our way into Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”

Corey tried to keep the excitement out of his voice as he went on. “Was there anything different about the way your husband acted on that last morning?”

“Different?”

“Did he do anything or say anything that seemed strange to you?”

“He didn’t finish his breakfast is one thing. DuBois was a man liked his bacon and eggs, sunny side up, each and every day of the year. Hardly ate a mouthful that morning. Said he had a headache.”

“Headache,” Corey repeated.

“He wasn’t no crazy man, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Anthony put in.

“Lord, no,” said his mother. “DuBois was the most even-tempered, easygoing man you’d ever want to meet. Wouldn’t step on a bug if he could walk around it.” For the first time there was a tremor in her voice. “That’s why it just don’t make no sense, what happened. No sense at all.”

“He didn’t do any dope, either, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Anthony added.

Corey ran over in his mind the best way to phrase his next request. “I wonder, Mrs. Williamson, have you made arrangements for the funeral?”

“That’s all been took care of.”

“What do you mean?” He spoke more sharply than he intended to.

“She means it ain’t any of your business,” Anthony said.

“I’m not trying to pry into your personal affairs,” Corey said, “but this could be important.”

“It’s been took care of,” Ruby Williamson said again. “The men said — ”

“Momma, it ain’t any of this man’s business,” Anthony said.

Before Corey could respond, they were startled by the doorbell. Anthony glanced at Corey and his mother, then walked out into the hallway. The front door opened. The sound of muffled voices came to the living room. Corey strained but could not make out what was being said.

After a moment Anthony returned, followed by two men in business suits. The men were in their middle thirties, both neat, clean-shaven, and expressionless. They might have been twins, had not one of them been blond, the other dark. Their eyes flicked over Corey, missing nothing.

“Ready to go, Mrs. Williamson?” one of them said.

“Yes, I–I suppose so.”

Corey stood up. “Excuse me,” he began, “I’m with the Milwaukee Herald — ”

“I’m sorry, sir. We’re on a very tight schedule,” said the blond man.

“You’re taking Mrs. Williamson somewhere?”

“Excuse me, sir.” The dark man moved past Corey and took the widow’s arm, assisting her gently to her feet.

“Do you mind telling me where you’re going?”

The blond man stepped in front of Corey, blocking him, while his partner led Ruby Williamson toward the hall.

“May I have your name, sir?”

“Macklin. Corey Macklin.”

“Please excuse us, Mr. Macklin. We really are in a hurry. Ready, Anthony?”

“Yeah, I guess.” Anthony Williamson looked for a moment as though he might say something more, then turned and walked out of the house.

Corey accompanied them as far as the sidewalk. The two men hustled Ruby and her son into a Cadillac. The side windows were tinted dark enough to obscure the inside of the car. As Corey stood watching, the two men got into the front seat, and the Cadillac drove off.

“Banker types,” Corey said to himself, remembering the description given by Hank Stransky’s neighbor. The peculiar similarities between the two stories were beginning to add up. There was another missing body. Another caddy whisking away the survivors. Something was going on. Corey hiked two blocks to a busier street. There he hailed a cab and asked to be taken to Bellevue Hospital.

He found Norman Hastings sitting up in bed apathetically watching a television soap opera. There were bandages covering his left shoulder, hip, and leg.

“Mr. Hastings?”

“It is unless they slipped somebody else into my bed during the night.”

Corey introduced himself. Hastings switched off the tinny speaker that lay next to his pillow and gestured Corey into a chair.

“I thought you guys were all through with me,” he said. “Couldn’t find word one in the paper today. Not even the Post. But hell, what’s a few more violent deaths in this shithole of a city, right? You got newer and bloodier stuff to write about, I’m sure.”

“I’m working on a different angle,” Corey told him.

“I hope you’re not one of those bleeding-heart liberals going to blame the whole thing on society, the cabdriver being black and all.”

“No, Mr. Hastings, I’m not one of those.”

“In that case, call me Norm. What can I do for you, Corey?”

“I’d like you to go over one more time exactly what happened on the street Friday.”

Hastings shrugged, wincing as he did so and lightly touching his bandaged shoulder. “Hell, why not. I’ve damn near got it memorized.

“I was out in the street waving down this cab. The guy had an Out of Service sign in the window, but that doesn’t mean anything in New York. Anyway, I finally get the cabbie’s attention, and he steers over in my direction. I’m getting set to get in when I see the look on that black face. I’ll never forget that look. His lips were pulled back like this, showing all his teeth. I’m talking ugly, Corey. His eyes were rolling around like marbles in two cups. And it got worse.”

Hastings paused for a moment and seemed to be watching the silent soap opera on the television screen as he gathered his thoughts.

“What do you mean ‘worse’?” Corey prompted.

“The skin on the guy’s face started to push out in little bumps and pimples. They swelled up and popped right while I was looking at him. Must have all happened in a matter of seconds. I was sort of frozen there in the street, and I tell myself, ‘Hey, that crazy black s.o.b. is trying to run over you.’ Well, I took a headfirst dive for the curb, but he caught me a glancing blow with one headlight. Sent me sliding along the concrete, leaving about a square yard of my hide behind, not to mention most of a three-hundred-dollar suit.” He gestured at the bandages that covered the left side of his body.

“At that, I guess I was lucky. Laying there in the street, I could hear thumpy-bump and the screams when he plowed into the people on the sidewalk. Killed four of them, hurt a dozen more. Then the son of a bitch jumped out of the cab and went after anybody he could reach with his hands. If he hadn’t slipped down and been run over by that panel truck, there’s no telling how many people he would have killed. Naturally, there wasn’t a cop in sight. Never is when you need ‘em.” Hastings shook his head. “I tell you, this town is the pits. The absolute pits.”

“Did you hear the driver say anything?” Corey asked.

“Say anything? Hell, no. He was completely flipped out. High on something, sure as you’re born. Most of them are, you know.”

Corey put away the folded sheet of copy paper with his notes on it. “Well, thanks, Norm. I’m glad you came out of it as well as you did.”

“You and me both, pardner. It’s a wonder I didn’t get some kind of disease laying in that grubby New York street all scraped raw the way I was. Got off with just a little infection. Couple of days of fever. Come Friday, I’m flying my ass back to Dallas, and no way, nohow, is Norman Hastings ever coming back to this rotten town.”

“I don’t blame you,” Corey said. “Good luck.”

I like New York in June.

I’ll take Manhattan.

A helluva town.

The songs were back in Corey’s head as he caught a taxi to the Westside Terminal and a bus from there to JFK. Yes, something was definitely going on, and he, Corey Macklin, was sitting right on top of it. He grinned broadly out the window of the bus, ignoring the suspicious stares he got back from people on the streets of New York.