Richard’s part? He’d had to fend off advocates for the homeless, who’d claimed Friendreth’s dogs lived better than some of Manhattan’s humans. The truth that it was the widow’s money to spend wasn’t sufficient to blunt negative hype, so Richard had played his usual conciliatory role, diverting some Friendreth tax write-offs to a few key charities while preserving the Canine Apartments’ charming halo. Another truth, that Manhattan had more advocates than it had homeless, wasn’t politic to say. Richard had barely spotted one in months, apart from the oddball working Perkus Tooth’s back window. Speaking of which, Hawkman or no, it was time to blow this popcorn stand.

Such was Richard Abneg’s state of mind in the hour before he glimpsed his first chaldron.

CHAPTER

Nine

I was surprised, to say the least, when a moment after buzzing Richard Abneg into Perkus’s building I opened the door to find Georgina Hawkmanaji there, a vision in heels and floor-length fur, head topped with a towering sable hat, cupping her lips and nose with her black dinner gloves, puffing steamily into her fingers. Richard stood a little behind, easily a head shorter than his companion, stamping to defrost his feet, the collar of his inadequate coat turned up around his ears-this was the same frigid day, remember, as my jaunt uptown with Oona-and when I met his eyes they bugged. He mimed a comic groan to say he couldn’t help arriving with company. I wasn’t sure I objected. The ostrich-woman presented a certain awesome spectacle to see wading into Perkus’s squalor, a scent of treasure and foreign shores that seemed to warp the rooms around her and might be a tonic for Perkus to contemplate. If old books and songs and cheeseburgers couldn’t turn his head from this obsession, maybe she would. At the very least she bulked our numbers, gave my intervention ballast.

I’d been the one to buzz them up from the street because Perkus was already glued to his computer’s screen, tracking a couple of auctions culminating later that night. I’d arrived less than half an hour before and hadn’t yet been able to budge him. For the new visitors, though, he sprang up and rushed into the kitchen and began fussing at his version of hospitality. Richard had already chucked their mountain of coats and gloves and scarves onto Perkus’s sofa, making a soft sculpture of black and fur, and uncovering Georgina’s black-clad, pear-bottomed curves as well as his own ill-fitting tuxedo, gut straining like a sausage in its casing of cummerbund. Perkus didn’t blink, as if their costumes were natural, fitting the unnamed occasion. (After all, he wore a suit himself.) He only introduced himself to Georgina, then clicked a new CD into the player, some kind of guitar drone again, and began rolling a joint at his kitchen table, gesturing for us all to sit with him. The brand of dope was always Ice now, the only product Perkus wanted to smoke since his revelation. I’d opened his freezer for cubes to chill a Dr Pepper a few days earlier and found a backup supply instead, the dealer Watt’s Lucite boxes all labeled with the same name. When I’d joked to Perkus about finding Ice in his freezer he didn’t seem to get it, as though verbal puns were among things left behind in the brave new state of ellipsis in which he now permanently resided.

“Chase says you’re getting into trouble,” said Richard Abneg.

Only his mutinous eyeball revealed annoyance with Richard’s question, or with me for the obvious betrayal. The rest of Perkus couldn’t be bothered. “Never been better. I’m glad you’re here, Richard. I’ve been eager to get you in on this.” He was so certain of what he was about to unveil, it was a bit unsettling to consider I’d pitted myself against it. As it happened, nothing in Perkus’s mien evoked the desperation I’d promised Richard Abneg would strike him as worthy of his concern. Possibly intuiting my agenda when I’d asked to visit, Perkus was showered and shaved, had a fresh shirt on under his navy pinstripe three-piece, and socks covering his knobby toes, black socks that if they weren’t clean didn’t reveal their footprints in filth, the THC dust-bunnies swirling under the little side table where he kept his computer. Hair still damp so it lay combed back to emphasize his widow’s peak, Perkus resembled a tiny agitated banker, no worse. He’d certainly bounced back from the cluster headache. Even seemed to be thriving in his new pursuits. I could tell Georgina Hawkmanaji was already charmed, and it threw me to memory of Susan Eldred’s office, how he’d swept me off my feet.

He sparked the first joint and passed it to Richard, then went on rolling two more, fingertips busy like a mad scientist at a console. “You’ll want to be freshly stoned,” he announced to no one in particular, to all of us. Richard didn’t hesitate, leaning back in his tux, now untucked and unbuttoned and unzipped in several places, bow tie dangling like a tongue, and drew in a lungful, seemingly certain he could conduct a diagnosis of Perkus in a state of intoxicated complicity. Then made as if to pass the joint to me, skipping Georgina Hawkmanaji, who sat erect and curious, pleasantly impassive, between us. Georgina reached out to intercept it, her glance at him only sweet, unreprimanding. She crossed her eyes and pursed her lips kissingly outward, rather than clamping them together, painting the rolling paper with burgundy lipstick before curtly coughing out her portion and waving the joint in my direction. I had to cradle her hand to steady it, then pluck the joint from her trembling fingers with my other hand. If the Hawkman hadn’t smoked, I suppose I might have abstained, too, the gesture of a gentleman. But I’d called this curious company together, and I wasn’t willing to be left behind wherever they were headed. I nearly finished the joint. Perkus used what remained to ignite the next, which we also devoured.

“Hurry!” said Perkus, now sweeping aside the smoking materials and dashing from the kitchen. Enspelled, we crowded around his small computer screen, Richard pulling up a chair and patting his lap to invite Georgina to settle there. I stood and craned over Perkus’s shoulder. I wondered at Richard Abneg’s uncommon passivity, but then I’d hardly equipped him to grasp what was wrong here. He’d have to gather an impression before leaping in with the caustic force I’d been bargaining for.

Perkus rattled his mouse, trying to wake up the dial-up connection. “I think there’s about twenty minutes to go,” he said. “Chase, would you turn up the music? Thanks.”

“What is that crap?” said Richard distractedly. A veteran of Perkus’s enthusiasms, he’d obviously begun readying himself for some esoteric disclosure on the computer screen. The music was, I hoped, the first clue that we’d migrated out of the usual range.

“It’s Sandy Bull,” said Perkus, not turning from the screen. He’d called up eBay, and now tapped Refresh, so the page blinked and began redrawing itself. “So, Chase’s acupuncturist was onto something, actually, there is some kind of tonality that resonates with the limbic system, and Sandy Bull’s guitar has got it in spades. You’ll see, it opens you right up to the chaldron. Chase explained to you about chaldrons, didn’t he?”

“Oh, sure,” said Richard, unflappably mocking. “All about chaldrons and acupuncture and limbic tonality in spades. You know me, Perkus, that’s some of my favorite stuff.”

“Be polite,” said Georgina softly.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Perkus breathlessly. “You’ll see. You have to be listening to the Sandy Bull and high on Ice when you see the chaldron, at least for maximum effect.”

“I’m in your hands.”

Well, we were certainly high. The four of us seemed to throb there where we’d gathered in Perkus’s dim lair, Georgina gracefully flung across Richard’s lap, long legs and elbows askew, hands gathered beneath her chin, Richard grunting slightly as he shifted her weight around trying to get vantage past her shoulder, the building’s radiators cackling and whining as they beat back the chill seeping through window seams, the four of us like the chambers of a collective beating heart, pulsing with expectancy despite Richard’s congenital cynicism or my heretical doubt. Perkus, the fugitive ecstatic, had infected us with zeal again, the critic’s illness. Who knew, there might be something limbic in the music as well, only I wasn’t sure I knew what the word meant. Just at the instant this occurred to me Perkus got the finished image of a chaldron, all the pixels now smoothed around the edges, centered on-screen.