Freddi Linklatter—once a computer-repair colleague of Brady’s before the world discovered Brady Hartsfield was a monster—sits at her kitchen table, spinning a silver flask with one finger as she waits for the man with the fancy briefcase.
Dr. Z is what he calls himself, but Freddi is no fool. She knows the name that goes with the briefcase initials: Felix Babineau, head of neurology at Kiner Memorial.
Does he know that she knows? She’s guessing he does, and doesn’t care. But it’s weird. Very. He’s in his sixties, an authentic golden oldie, but he reminds her of somebody much younger. Someone who is, in fact, this Dr. Babineau’s most famous (infamous, really) patient.
Around and around goes the flask. Etched on the side is GH & FL, 4Ever. Well, 4Ever lasted just about two years, and Gloria Hollis has been gone for quite awhile now. Babineau—or Dr. Z, as he styles himself, like the villain in a comic book—was part of the reason why.
“He’s creepy,” Gloria said. “The older guy is, too. And the money’s creepy. It’s too much. I don’t know what they got you into, Fred, but sooner or later it’s going to blow up in your face, and I don’t want to be part of the collateral damage.”
Of course Gloria had also met someone else—someone quite a bit better-looking than Freddi, with her angular body and lantern jaw and pitted cheeks—but she didn’t want to talk about that part of it, oh no.
Around and around goes the flask.
It all seemed so simple at first, and how could she refuse the money? She never saved much when she worked on the Discount Electronix Cyber Patrol, and the work she’d been able to find as an independent IT when the store closed had barely been enough to keep her off the street. It might have been different if she’d had what Anthony Frobisher, her old boss, liked to call “people skills,” but those had never been her forte. When the old geezer who called himself Z-Boy made his offer (and dear God, that was really a comic book handle), it had been like a gift from God. She had been living in a shitty apartment on the South Side, in the part of town commonly referred to as Hillbilly Heaven, and a month behind on the rent in spite of the cash the guy had already given her. What was she supposed to do? Refuse five thousand dollars? Get real.
Around and around goes the flask.
The guy is late, maybe he’s not coming at all, and that might be for the best.
She remembers the geezer casting his eyes around the two-room apartment, most of her possessions in paper bags with handles (all too easy to see those bags gathered around her as she tried to sleep beneath a Crosstown Expressway underpass). “You’ll need a bigger place,” he said.
“Yeah, and the farmers in California need rain.” She remembers peering into the envelope he handed her. Remembers riffling the fifties, and what a comfy sound they made. “This is nice, but by the time I get square with all the people I owe, there won’t be much left.” She could stiff most of those people, but the geezer didn’t need to know that.
“There’ll be more, and my boss will take care of getting you an apartment where you may be asked to accept certain shipments.”
That started alarm bells ringing. “If you’re thinking about drugs, let’s just forget the whole thing.” She held out the cash-stuffed envelope to him, much as it hurt to do that.
He pushed it back with a little grimace of contempt. “No drugs. You’ll not be asked to sign for anything even slightly illegal.”
So here she is, in a condo close to the lakeshore. Not that there’s much of a lake view from only six stories up, and not that the place is a palace. Far from it, especially in the winter. You can only catch a wink of the water between the newer, nicer highrises, but the wind finds its way through just fine, thanks, and in January, that wind is cold. She has the joke thermostat cranked to eighty, and is still wearing three shirts and longjohns under her carpenter jeans. Hillbilly Heaven is in the rearview mirror, though, that’s something, but the question remains: is it enough?
Around and around goes the silver flask. GH & FL, 4Ever. Only nothing is 4Ever.
The lobby buzzer goes, making her jump. She picks up the flask—her one souvenir of the glorious Gloria days—and heads to the intercom. She quashes an urge to do her Russian spy accent again. Whether he calls himself Dr. Babineau or Dr. Z, the guy is a little scary. Not Hillbilly-Heaven, crystal-meth-dope-dealer scary, but in a different way. Better to play this straight, get it over with, and hope to Christ she doesn’t find herself in too much trouble if the deal blows up in her face.
“Is this the famous Dr. Z?”
“Of course it is.”
“You’re late.”
“Am I keeping you from something important, Freddi?”
No, nothing important. Nothing she does is particularly important these days.