John Hawks - The Traveler

“Good evening, gentlemen. Which one of you is Dr. Richardson?”

“That’s me.”

“A pleasure to meet you. I’m Dr. Raymond Flores. The Evergreen Foundation said you’d be dropping by tonight.”

Dr. Flores escorted them down the hallway. Even though it was late, a few male patients wearing green cotton pajamas and bathrobes wandered around. All of them were drugged and they moved slowly. Their eyes were dead and their slippers made little hissing sounds as they touched the tile floor.

“So you work for the foundation?” Flores asked.

“Yes. I’m in charge of a special project,” Richardson said.

Dr. Flores passed several patient rooms, then stopped at a locked door. “Someone from the foundation named Takawa asked me to look for admits picked up under the influence of this new street drug, 3B3. No one’s made a chemical analysis yet, but it seems to be a very potent hallucinogen. The people taking it think they’ve been given a vision of different worlds.”

Flores unlocked the door and they entered a detention cell that smelled of urine and vomit. The only light came from a single bulb protected by a mesh screen. A young man wrapped in a canvas straitjacket lay on the green tile floor. His head was shaved, but a faint haze of blond hair was beginning to appear on his skull.

The patient opened his eyes and smiled at the three men standing over him. “Hello, everyone. Why don’t you take out your brains and make yourselves comfortable?”

Dr. Flores smoothed the lapels of his lab coat and smiled pleasantly. “Terry, these gentlemen want to learn about 3B3.”

Terry blinked twice and Richardson wondered if he was going to say anything at all. Suddenly he began pushing with his legs, wiggling across the floor to a wall, then forcing himself up to a sitting position. “It’s not really a drug. It’s a revelation.”

“Do you shoot it, snort it, inhale it, or swallow it?” Boone’s voice was calm and deliberately neutral.

“It’s a liquid, light blue, like a summer sky.” Terry closed his eyes for a few seconds, then opened them again. “I swallowed it at the club and then I was cracking out of this body and flying, passing through water and fire to a beautiful forest. But I couldn’t stay for more than a few seconds.” He looked disappointed. “The jaguar had green eyes.”

Dr. Flores glanced at Richardson. “He’s told this story many times, and he always ends up with the jaguar.”

“So where can I find 3B3?” Richardson asked.

Terry closed his eyes again and smiled serenely. “Do you know what he charges for one dose? Three hundred and thirty-three dollars. He says it’s a magic number.”

“And who’s making that kind of money?” Boone asked.

“Pius Romero. He’s always at the Chan Chan Room.”

“It’s a midtown dance club,” Dr. Flores explained. “We’ve had several patients who have overdosed there.”

“This world is too small,” Terry whispered. “Do you realize that? It’s a child’s marble dropped into a pool of water.”

They followed Flores back out into the corridor. Boone walked away from the two doctors and immediately called someone with his cell phone.

“Have you examined other patients who have used this drug?” Richardson asked.

“This is the fourth admit in the last two months. We put them on a combination of Fontex and Valdov for a few days until they’re catatonic, then we lower the dosage and bring them back to reality. After a while, the jaguar disappears.”

BOONE ESCORTED RICHARDSON back to the SUV. He received two more phone calls, said “yes” to each person, then switched off the cell.

“What are we going to do?” asked Richardson.

“Next stop is the Chan Chan Room.”

Limousines and black town cars were double parked outside the club entrance on Fifty-third Street. Held behind a velvet rope, a crowd of people waited for the bouncers to search them with hand-held metal detectors. The women standing in line wore short dresses or flimsy skirts with slits up the side.

Boone drove past the crowd, then stopped beside a sedan parked halfway down the block. Two men got out of the car and walked up to Boone’s side window. One of the men was a short African American wearing an expensive suede car coat. His partner was white and as big as a football lineman. He wore an army surplus jacket and looked like he wanted to pick up a few pedestrians and throw them down on the street.

The black man grinned. “Hey, Boone. It’s been a while.” He nodded at Dr. Richardson. “Who’s your new friend?”

“Dr. Richardson, this is Detective Mitchell and his partner, Detective Krause.”

“We got your message, drove here, and talked to the club bouncers.” Krause had a deep, growly voice. “They say this Romero guy came in an hour ago.”

“You two go around to the fire door,” Mitchell said. “We’ll bring him out.”

Boone rolled up the window and drove down the street. He parked two blocks away from the club, then reached under the front seat and found a black leather glove. “You come with me, Doctor. Mr. Romero might have some information.”

Richardson followed Boone to an alleyway at the rear exit of the Chan Chan Room. A rhythmic, thumping music pushed through the steel fire door. A few minutes later the door popped open and Detective Krause threw a skinny Puerto Rican man onto the asphalt. Still looking cheerful, Detective Mitchell strolled over to the man and kicked him in the stomach.

“Gentlemen, we’d like you to meet Pius Romero. He was sitting in the VIP room drinking something fruity with a little umbrella. Now that’s not fair, is it? Krause and I are dedicated public servants and we never get invited to the VIP room.”

Pius Romero lay on the asphalt, gasping for breath. Boone pulled on the black leather glove. He gazed at Romero as if the young man was an empty cardboard box. “Listen carefully, Pius. We’re not here to arrest you, but I want some information. If you lie about anything, my friends will track you down and give you a great deal of pain. Do you understand that? Show me that you understand.”

Pius sat up and touched his scraped elbow. “I ain’t doing nothing wrong.”

“Who supplies your 3B3?”

The name of the drug made the young man sit up a little straighter.

“Never heard of it.”

“You sold it to several people. Who sold it to you?”

Pius scrambled to his feet and tried to run away, but Boone caught him. He threw the drug dealer against the wall and began slapping him with his right hand. The leather glove made a smacking sound every time it hit Romero’s face. Blood trickled out of his nose and mouth.

Dr. Richardson knew this violence was real-very real-but he didn’t feel attached to what was happening. It was like he was one step back from what was going on, watching a movie on a television screen. As the beating continued, he glanced at the two detectives. Mitchell was smiling while Krause nodded like a basketball fan who had just seen a perfect three-point shot.

Boone’s voice was calm and reasonable. “I’ve broken your nose, Pius. Now I’m going to strike upward and crush the nasal turbinate bones beneath your eyes. These bones will never heal successfully. Not like a leg or arm. You’re going to feel pain for the rest of your life.”

Pius Romero raised his hands like a child. “What do you want?” He whimpered. “Names? I’ll give you names. I’ll give you everything…”

AROUND TWO O’CLOCK in the morning, they found the address near JFK airport in Jamaica, Queens. The man who manufactured 3B3 lived in a white clapboard house with aluminum lawn chairs chained to his porch. It was a quiet, working-class neighborhood, the kind of place where people swept their sidewalks and placed concrete statues of the Virgin Mary on their tiny front lawns. Boone parked his SUV and told Dr. Richardson to get out. They walked over to the detectives sitting in their car.