Where the Summer Ends - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,136

phone was ringing again. Expressionlessly Mandarin caught up the receiver. The first score or so times he’d still hoped he’d hear Curtiss’s voice—probably growling something like: “The rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated.” Eventually he’d quit hoping.

“Yes. Dr Mandarin speaking.”

(Curtiss had always ribbed him. “Hell, don’t tell them who you are until they tell you who’s calling.”)

“No. They haven’t found him yet.”

(“Hot as it is, he’ll bob up before long,” one of the workers had commented. Saunders had had to keep Russ off the bastard.)

“Yeah. It’s a damn dirty shame. I know how you feel, Mrs Hollister.”

(You always called him a hack behind his back, you bloated bitch.)

“No I can’t say what funeral arrangements will be made.”

(Got to have a body for a funeral, you stupid bitch.)

“I’m sure someone will decide something.”

(Don’t want to be left out of the social event of the season, do you?)

“Well, we all have to bear up somehow, I’m sure.”

(Try cutting your wrists.)

“Uh-huh. Goodbye, Mrs Hollister.”

Jesus! Mandarin pushed the phone aside and downed his drink with a shudder. No more of this!

He groped his way out of his office. That morning he’d cancelled all his appointments; his section of the makeshift clinic was deserted. Faces from the downstairs rooms glanced at him uneasily as he swept down the stairs. Yes, he must look pretty bad.

Summer twilight was cooling the grey pavement furnace of the University section. Russ tugged off his wrinkled necktie, stuffed it into his hip pocket. With the determined stride of someone in a hurry to get someplace, he plodded down the cracked sidewalk. Sweat quickly sheened his blue-black stubbled jaw, beaded his forehead and eyebrows. Damp hair clung to his neck and ears. Dimly he regretted that the crewcut of his college days was no longer fashionable.

Despite his unswerving stride, he had no destination in mind. The ramshackle front of the Yardarm suddenly loomed before him, made him aware of his surroundings. Mandarin paused a moment by the doorway. Subconsciously he’d been thinking how good a cold beer would taste, and his feet had carried him over the familiar route. With a grimace, he turned away. Too many memories haunted the Yardarm.

He walked on. He was on the strip now. Student bars, bookshops, drugstores, clothing shops and other student-oriented businesses. Garish head shops and boutiques poured out echoes of incense and rock music. Gayle Corrington owned a boutique along here, he recalled—he dully wondered which one.

Summer students and others of the University crowd passed along the sidewalks, lounged in doorways. Occasionally someone recognized him and called a greeting. Russ returned a dumb nod, not wavering in his mechanical stride. He didn’t see their faces.

Then someone had hold of his arm.

“Russ! Russ, for God’s sake! Hold up!”

Scowling, he spun around. The smooth-skinned hand anchored to his elbow belonged to Royce Blaine. Mandarin made his face polite as he recognized him. Dr Blaine had been on the medicine house staff during Mandarin’s psychiatric residency Their acquaintance had not died out completely since those days.

“Hello, Royce.”

The internist’s solemn eyes searched his face. “Sorry to bother you at a time like now, Russ,” he apologized. “Just wanted to tell you we were sad to hear about your friend Stryker, Know how good a friend of yours he was.”

Mandarin mumbled something appropriate.

“Funeral arrangements made yet, or are they still looking?”

“Haven’t found him yet.”

His face must have slipped its polite mask. Blame winced. “Yeah? Well, just wanted to let you know we were all sorry. He was working on a new one, wasn’t he?”

“Right. Another book on the occult.”

“Always thought it was tragic when an author left his last book unfinished. Was it as good as his others?”

“I hadn’t seen any of it. I believe all he had were notes and a few chapter roughs.”

“Really a damn shame. Say, Russ—Tina says for me to ask you how about dropping out our way for dinner some night. We don’t see much of you these days—not since you and Alicia used to come out for fish fries.”

“I’ll take you up on that some night,” Russ temporized.

“This week maybe?” Blaine persisted. “How about Friday?”

“Sure. That’d be fine.”

“Friday, then. 6:30, say. Time for a happy hour.”

Mandarin nodded and smiled thinly. Blaine squeezed his shoulder, gave him a sympathetic face, and scurried off down the sidewalk. Mandarin resumed his walk.

The hot afternoon sun was in decline, throwing long shadows past the mismatched storefronts and deteriorating houses. Russ was dimly aware that his feet were carrying him along the familiar path to