The way things were developing, he believed he could raise the ante on his paperback deal, and there was movie interest. He had heard that Hollywood was a fine place for obnoxious fellows with money.
Freddy felt good. He shot down the ramp to the underground garage in his building and wheeled into his parking place with a spirited squeal of rubber. There on the wall was his name in letters a foot high, marking his private spot. Mr. Frederick Lounds.
Wendy was here already—her Datsun was parked next to his space. Good. He wished he could take her to Washington with him. That would make those flatfeet’s eyes pop. He whistled in the elevator on his way up.
Wendy was packing for him. She had lived out of suitcases and she did a good job.
Neat in her jeans and plaid shirt, her brown hair gathered in a chipmunk tail on her neck, she might have been a farm girl except for her pallor and her shape. Wendy’s figure was almost a caricature of puberty.
She looked at Lounds with eyes that had not registered surprise in years. She saw that he was trembling.
“You’re working too hard, Roscoe.” She liked to call him Roscoe, and it pleased him for some reason. “What are you taking, the six-o’clock shuttle?” She brought him a drink and moved her sequined jump suit and wig case off the bed so he could lie down. “I can take you to the airport. I’m not going to the club ’til six.”
“Wendy City” was her own topless bar, and she didn’t have to dance anymore. Lounds had cosigned the note.
“You sounded like Morocco Mole when you called me,” she said.
“Who?”
“You know, on television Saturday morning, he’s real mysterious and he helps Secret Squirrel. We watched it when you had the flu. . . . You really pulled one off today, didn’t you? You’re really pleased with yourself.”
“Damn straight. I took a chance today, baby, and it paid off. I’ve got a chance at something sweet.”
“You’ve got time for a nap before you go. You’re running yourself in the ground.”
Lounds lit a cigarette. He already had one burning in the ashtray.
“You know what?” she said. “I bet if you drink your drink and get it off, you could go to sleep.”
Lounds’s face, like a fist pressed against her neck, relaxed at last, became mobile as suddenly as a fist becomes a hand. His trembling stopped. He told her all about it, whispering into the buck jut of her augmented breasts; she tracing eights on the back of his neck with a finger.
“That is some kind of smart, Roscoe,” she said. “You go to sleep now. I’ll get you up for the plane. It’ll be all right, all of it. And then we’ll have a high old time.”
They whispered about the places they would go. He went to sleep.
17
Dr. Alan Bloom and Jack Crawford sat on folding chairs, the only furniture left in Crawford’s office.
“The cupboard is bare, Doctor.”
Dr. Bloom studied Crawford’s simian face and wondered what was coming. Behind Crawford’s grousing and his Alka-Seltzers the doctor saw an intelligence as cold as an X-ray table.
“Where did Will go?”
“He’ll walk around and cool off,” Crawford said. “He hates Lounds.”
“Did you think you might lose Will after Lecter published his home address? That he might go back to his family?”
“For a minute, I did. It shook him.”
“Understandably,” Dr. Bloom said.
“Then I realized—he can’t go home, and neither can Molly and Willy, never, until the Tooth Fairy is out of the way.”
“You’ve met Molly?”
“Yeah. She’s great, I like her. She’d be glad to see me in hell with my back broken, of course. I’m having to duck her right now.”