Flash and Filigree (16 page)

At that moment someone entered the bar and Jean-baby raised her eyes to see Frost glide past the booth like a zombie.

“
Here
Marty!” she said brightly, reaching out for him with one arm while with the other giving Fred Eichner a sharp nudge. “Come on, Doc, join the party!”

Frost turned and, after staring at them sat down opposite. For a moment he seemed strangely detached.

“Fred Eichner, is it?” he asked, frowning over the great inert head. “Well, we’ve got to get cracking. Something’s up. Bring him around.”

“Let him snort some schmeck!” said Jean-baby, wide-eyed, reaching for her purse.

“No, no,” said Frost irritably. “Get pepper.” He looked toward the bar for a waiter.

“Pepper?” asked Jean. “What’s the kick? What kind of pepper?”

“Ordinary pepper, of course,” said Frost. “Black pepper.”

“What’s it have in it, black pepper?” but Frost didn’t seem to be listening. Looking toward the bar, his face had contorted into a grimace of extraordinary annoyance.

“Pepper here!” he said loudly. “Black pepper here!”

“Cool it, Marty,” said Jean-baby. “I’ll make the run.” She appeared dramatically apprehensive as she rose and went toward the rear of the bar, but she was back very soon, all smiles.

“Marty, the score’s set—and here’s the stash!”

She put a small can of black pepper down on the table in front of him.

“Open her up,” said Frost, gazing down on the can with heavy purpose.

Jean carefully seated herself, then opened and punched down the pouring section of the can.

“Looks like the end groove count,” she said, dumping about half the contents into her cupped hand.

“Give it to me,” said Frost, “and cut that hipster gab. It’s making me sick.”

Jean thoughtfully transferred the pile of black pepper to Frost’s hand, even lightly tapping the back of her own to free the clinging fragments.

“How do you make it?” she demanded, watching Frost intently.

“Like this,” said Frost, and with an abrupt little movement he flung the handful of pepper on the table under the Doctor’s face.

It had the effect of some sort of unusual personnel bomb in that the Doctor went abruptly upright in an explosion of sneezes and coughs.

“Steady on,” said Frost, putting out a hand to detain the Doctor when he started to rise.

“Wow!” marveled Jean-baby, “what a flash!” She was watching them both very closely now, really impressed.

“Something’s up, Doc,” said Frost. “We’ve got to get cracking.”

Eichner looked terrible. Eyes all red and streaming, his face seemed caught up in a kind of permanent twist of wrath and anxiety. He tried to speak but only made a gurgling sound.

Jean-baby sat gazing at the box in her hand, in complete wonder over the simple phenomenon.

“Wow,” she mused, “it must be the end groove kick!” And suddenly she put her own head down on the table the way Fred Eichner’s had been, closing her eyes and pushing the can toward Frost. “Go!” she said. “Make it!”

“Will you shut up,” said Frost, that impatient with her now. “Something’s up, Fred,” he went on in even tones to the Doctor. “Do you follow me?”

Dr. Eichner continued to stare at him, horror-stricken and seemingly with no comprehension at all, but he nodded his head rather oddly to show understanding, and Frost continued, leaning forward in confidence. “A trap,” he said softly. “A trap for Treevly.”

Dr. Eichner nodded again, this time making a funny little effort to wax sage as well.

“Here’s the set-up,” said Frost, taking out a very small address book and gesturing with it to make points of emphasis. “After the broadcast, I got talking to Treevly—and his friend, and I invited them to a
party.
At your place! Tonight. They’ll be there in an hour. We’ve got to get cracking.”

“I’ll get the chicks—you get the lush!” cried Jean shrilly. Marty’s got-a-party and

a trap for
Treev-ly
!”

“All right, cool it!” said Frost to the girl. “Get a couple of interesting chicks, and let’s make it.”

“What about a hashish and peyote buffet?” asked Jean. “I’ll make the run.”

Frost frowned heavily at first, then seemed to consider it, tapping the address book against his open hand. “Hmm. Make it look like a real party, eh? Hmm, I wonder.” He took a side-look at Fred Eichner, who was holding on gamely. “This Dr. Eichner has a well-stocked liquor cabinet. I’ve no doubts on that count. Still some mah-joong and a bit of the green might go nicely toward—
ambiance.
All right, but make it fast, we’ve got to get cracking. Now, here’s the address.” He ripped a page out of the address book. “Be there in half-an-hour, and no slip-ups!”

“Right Marty!” said Jean, smart in her attempt at efficiency, but getting to her feet rather jerkily.

The minute she was gone, Frost ordered up.

“We’ll slap down a couple of hard ones, then we’ll be getting this show on the road, Fred.”

Dr. Eichner, passing a hand slowly across his eyes, didn’t speak but appeared to be following Frost’s words more easily now.

B
Y THE TIME
Frost and Fred Eichner reached the Doctor’s home in Lord’s Canyon, it was evident, even as they ascended the drive, that a party of sorts was already under way. Strains of soft music wafted across the wide lawn from the house, and girl-sounds as well, all tinkles and laughter.

“Good,” said Frost as he assisted Dr. Eichner on the steps, “Jean’s set it up nicely.”

The Doctor’s house was a large and pleasant one—white colonial with great French windows fronting the wide-terraced grounds.

Stretched the long full face of the house was one wide unbroken room, a sweep of grayed-pearl elegance; a spatial room, delicately poised, yet hushed and restful, with ebony, cream, or satin-wood appointments and a blackening-red portrait or two on the farther walls. Opening from one corner of this room where the guests moved about as in an underwater ballet, was the half-closed door of a darkened study, seen rich and cozy by the soft blazing grate that played rose-blue firelight in tints of gold across paneled walls and the malt, blood, and moss colored tomes of vellum and suede.

Upon entering, the Doctor seemed to recover himself momentarily and, with the manner of a man suddenly aware of his position as host, began moving about the room wanting to see to all things at once. The guests, however, appeared already comfortably engaged. Jean had brought along three other young girls, and two of them caressed in slowly viscous dance, in the center of the room, while the third swayed alone nearby in closed-eyed languor, to a dripping saxophone’s “Indian Love Call.”

Jean-baby herself was active at the sideboard, preparing more canapés from the hashish-candy, mah-joong, and peyote-paste—the latter which she made by chopping up the edible part of the cactus-bulbs and dumping them into a Waring Blender.

“Here, now,” said Fred Eichner, disturbed, when he reached her, “my man will see to the buffet, you’ve only to—”

“That creep,” said Jean-baby, scooping the wet paste from the machine with a big spoon and spreading it over the hashish wafers, “I told him to hop it.” She turned to Frost and threw him a look of warning. “No cornballs on the scene, Marty, they might hip the fuzz. I told the cat just to cut-on-
out.
”

“The girl may be right, Fred,” said Marty. “Anyway, better safe than sorry, eh?”

Dr. Eichner seemed confounded and Martin Frost took his arm.

“You get comfortable, Fred, I’ll see to the arrangements here,” and so saying he led the Doctor to a big deep cloth chair near where the girls were dancing and set him in it, and there the Doctor seemed to lapse at once into a sort of expectant coma, watching the graceful movements of the girls in dance and nodding his head and tilting it about, a pleasant smile on his face. The two girls moved throughout the large room, weaving a dreamy arabesque across the scene: and sometimes circling the Doctor’s chair.

“Make it,” said Jean-baby to Frost when he went back to the sideboard, “it’s the proverbial end groove kick.”

“Hmm,” said Frost skeptically, frowning over the arrangements there, but he took one of the canapés, then grimaced painfully at the taste of it.

On the sideboard as well, bottle-dark in their yellow lacquered chilling-buckets, were several magna of champagne, one of which was open, and Jean handed him a brimming glass.

“Wash it down with juice, daddy, it’s a gas.”

Frost swigged it down.

“Cut that argot,” he said to her quietly, “or I’ll break your head open.”

Jean arched her brows prettily and, with a toss of her head, left the sideboard carrying a tray of the prepared canapés, which she proffered about among the guests.

Dr. Eichner seemed doubly pleased at the sight of the canapés and at his idea of the way things were going generally.

“I don’t entertain often,” he said to Jean as he accepted one, “I will say an occasional affair such as this is pleasant.” He tried to move his arm in a gesture that would take in the scene, but only the hand flopped about momentarily.

“It’s a real down gas,” said Jean, “I’m hot to make that pepper kick.”

Behind them, Frost, having eaten several more of the wafers, had begun to examine things, walking slowly around the room, looking into drawers and under cushions.

“Who’s that girl by the door?” he demanded of Jean and the Doctor when his investigations reached them. Dr. Eichner didn’t seem to hear him properly and kept beaming, nodding his head.

“Are you kidding?” asked Jean in a high voice, looking to where the girl swayed exotically. “
You
must be zonked out completely. That just happens to be a chick you set turning tricks for crissake!” She stared at him in amazement. “What do you think you’re doing, anyway, poking around the room like that?”

Frost looked impatient.

“This is a routine check,” he said, and moved on toward the study.

“Well, he’s
flipping,
” said Jean looking after him, “flipping right out of his skull. Now I suppose I’ll have to see to things myself.”

Dr. Eichner nodded happily, munching one of the paste wafers. He no longer moved his head to follow the dancers and seemed aware of them only when they were directly in front of him, at which time he would beam and sway his head.

There was an intentness in the way the girls danced, with no change of expression in their faces, and apparently without the least self-consciousness.

Frost came out of the study abruptly, carrying a shallow wooden box, which he brought to the Doctor.

“Look at this,” he said, almost angrily, and knelt to place the box on the floor next to the chair. It was a wide felt-lined box and contained the Doctor’s collection of miniature sports cars. Tiny, Swiss-made replicas, they were precision machined and finely detailed, all scaled to perfection, 1:1000, so that each was about the size of a small, oblong wrist-watch. Nestled together in the box, all silver-spoked and gleaming, richly enameled and chromed, they resembled something from a jeweler’s case.

Dr. Eichner stared at them for a moment without reacting.

“Good,” he said then, “
very good
!”

He eased himself out of the chair and onto the floor.

“Very good,” he continued, “very good.”

Rubbing his hands together, he began to take the cars out of the box and to range them about on the rug.

Frost stood up and watched him briefly.

“Good,” he said, and stalked away to where Jean was sitting in a corner, eyes closed, throwing palmfuls of pepper into her face, breathing it in hard, and occasionally gagging. She opened her eyes when Frost came up.

“Man nothing’s happenin’ with this jive, what you think that cat was puttin’ down?”

“Cut the jargon,” said Frost, “I’m sick of it.”

“You cut the jargon, daddy-o,” said Jean gaily, “and I’ll cut the horse,” and she threw a handful of pepper in the air and tried to catch it with her upturned face.

Frost gripped her shoulder. “Head’s up,” he said dramatically, looking darkly toward the door, “it’s the punk.” For at that moment, Treevly and his friend walked in. They were chatting amiably, like two earls strolling the Tuilleries.

Frost went forward to meet them.

“Good of you to come,” he said with a weird grimace, “good of you to come.”

“Delighted,” said Treevly, “delighted. A delightful place. Isn’t it, Syl?”

“Yes, it’s delightful,” said the other young man, who was somehow similar to Treevly, and while he did not quite have his style, he was well on the way.

Frost led them to the sideboard and indicated they should help themselves to the refreshments there.

“This
is
fun,” said Sylvester. “Isn’t it, Fee?”

“Fabulous,” said Treevly.

Frost himself ate several of the canapés quite hurriedly.

“I’ll just see to things,” he said, opening a drawer of the buffet and peering into it.

“Yes, of course,” said Treevly and the other young man nearly in unison, smiling broadly.

“I’ll just check on things,” Frost continued, backing away. “Just routine, of course.”

Someone had put a stack of long-playing records on the machine and music was continuous and varied, Stravinsky’s “L’Histoire du Soldat” was playing now and, at the tango part, Treevly and the other young man began to dance. They danced eccentrically, marking the measure with a haughty and mincing step. Very soon they were actually prancing, like things possessed, faces frozen in serious mien.

It was so outlandish that it caught the attention of the three girls, who stopped and watched them in silence, nodding and applauding politely at the end, before playing the record over again.

Frost, however, went his own way, rummaging about the room, as did Jean-baby who was lying on her back now, one arm full length, dropping the pepper bit by bit, most of which was going in her hair. Frost then, after a moment’s pause and a sudden look of complete wildness, plunged out of the room and into the depths of the house.

Under the effects of the mah-joong and peyote, Dr. Eichner’s concentration on the little cars was so whole that he had failed to notice Treevly’s entrance and, even so, a few moments later had slipped forward and was now sprawled on his knees and face in a heap amidst the cars in a state of near coma.