Denise Dalton tapped on the door to Phillip Porter’s suite on the third floor of The Complex. “Mr. Porter,” she said, “I’ve got your dinner.”
“Come!” Porter yelled from behind the door. Denise shifted the tray she was carrying and reached for the knob. Porter was talking to himself and swearing as she pushed her way into the room. Denise looked around. Porter was standing naked in front of a full-length lighted mirror, wearing only a short white towel around his waist.
“Damn fluorescents!” Porter shouted at his reflection. He turned to Denise. “Come over here!”
Denise placed the tray on the table and moved to stand beside Porter, their reflections side by side in the mirror. Under the harsh lighting, Porter’s rib cage stood out like xylophone keys, a stark contrast to Denise’s more rounded form. She averted her eyes and looked at Porter’s face. “Mr. Porter,” she said, “I’m Denise Dalton. I’m a lab tech here, down in the file room. It’s nice to finally meet—”
“Hold out your arm!” Porter yelled. Denise jumped, then complied, her arm shooting out straight toward the mirror. Porter leaned forward, his arm similarly extended, and compared it with Denise’s reflection. “Yellow,” Porter said. He took a step back and turned to Denise. “Yellow as a banana.” Denise stared uncomprehendingly at Porter. “These lights make my skin look yellow,” Porter said. “But not yours.”
Denise’s forehead wrinkled and furrowed as she self-consciously rubbed her arms, olive skin glowing in the fluorescent light. “I’ve been in the sun a lot. I’m pretty tan,” she said.
Porter sniffed and adjusted his towel. He moved to the table and lit a cigarette before examining the food on the tray. He lifted the silver domes covering each plate, made a face, and slammed each one back down. “Ridiculous,” he said. “I own this place and I can’t even get a decent meal.” He moved away from the table and plopped down on the bed, puffing on the cigarette.
Denise shifted her weight back and forth on the balls of her feet. “You know, Mr. Porter, you really should eat something.”
Porter glared at her. He stood suddenly and moved to the table, then grabbed one of the lids and lifted it, stabbing it in the air toward Denise. “You want this slop?”
Denise paled and moved back, toward the door. “No,” she said.
“Then why should I eat it?” Porter continued glaring at her then threw the lid across the room, where it slammed into the wall with a loud bang. “Take it away.”
Denise stood unmoving, trembling, while Porter made his way back to the bed. He stretched out and picked up his cigarette, puffing viciously and rubbing his abdomen just below his ribcage. Denise took a step toward the table, then another. “Mr. Porter,” she said, her voice wavering, “are you O.K.?”
Porter stubbed out the butt he was smoking and lit another. “I’ll be fine as soon as I get back to San Francisco. Get a real meal.”
Denise stopped in front of the table and started to reassemble the trays. “About your skin, . . .” she said, hesitating, judging Porter’s reaction before proceeding. He said nothing, but glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. “You might want to see a doctor,” she said.
“Why?” he snorted. “So they can tell me to stop smoking and cut down on fatty foods? I’ve been smoking since I was twelve and eating red meat since I was three, and I’m not going to stop simply because some doctor thinks my skin looks a little yellow.” Porter held out his hand in front of him and turned it over and over, studying it. “Probably just nerves.”
Denise had finished stacking the plates and now lifted the tray to her shoulder. She stood, watching Porter examine his palm. Finally, she took a step toward the door, the dishes clattering. Porter looked at her, his hand frozen in mid-air. “What’d you say your name was?”
Denise stopped and looked back over her shoulder. “My name’s Denise Dalton. If I can do anything for you, I’m at extension 2110, downstairs in the lab.” She grinned. “I mean, I usually work down in the file room, but I’m filling in for somebody on this floor tonight. So anyway, if you need anything—”
Porter let his eyes run up and down Denise’s body. “As a matter of fact,” Porter said, “there is something.”
Denise’s smile retracted at Porter’s leer. “Yes?” she said.
“I want you to contact my driver, Walter Heinz, back at the home office. Tell him I’m ready to leave.”
Denise frowned, thinking. “Are you sure you don’t want to see someone first, Dr. Marcus or somebody?”
Porter sat bolt upright. “No! Don’t say anything to Marcus. I’m not supposed to be leaving yet and I don’t want Dr. Marcus to . . . worry.”
Denise thought for a moment, then nodded. “Will do,” she said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Denise turned and left the room. Porter stared at the closed door for a moment, then looked back at his hand. He stood and moved again to the mirror, then leaned toward it, his face just inches away from the glass. He opened his eyes wide and pulled the lower lids down with his fingers, examining the sclera. “Damn,” he said. “Just like summer squash.”
Denise scurried down the hallway and placed the trays on a kitchen cart. She paused in thought, her hand on her forehead, then turned and marched to the elevator. She got in and punched the button for the fifth floor. “Not good,” she muttered to herself, “not good at all.” The doors opened and Denise started down the hallway, reading the name tags on the outside of each office. She paused when she got to the one labeled “Craig Marcus,” then reached out and knocked.
“Come in,” Marcus called from behind the door. Denise tentatively turned the knob and peeked inside. Marcus and Ruth were seated at a round table, computer printouts spilled all over the table in front of them. They looked up, waiting. “Yes?” Marcus said.
“Uh, hi, Dr. Marcus. You probably don’t remember me—”
“Sure I do,” Marcus interrupted, “you’re the file clerk who helped me out that one time.” The memory caused Marcus to think of the Jennifer Holloway file and the notes that remained in his safe at home.
“Uh, right, um lab tech actually.” Ruth and Marcus smiled, still waiting. “Anyway,” Denise said, “the reason I’m here, is Mr. Porter.”
Marcus frowned. “Is something wrong? Did he do something?”
Denise blushed. “No, no, nothing like that, it’s just that . . . .”
“Yes?” Marcus said.
“He doesn’t look good. He’s all yellow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean his skin, his eyes, they look yellow. He said not to tell you, but—”
“No, no, you did the right thing.” Marcus turned to Ruth. “Have you seen him lately?”
Ruth shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since he got here last month. He stays in his room most of the time.”
“Yeah, he’s like a hermit. I’ve not seen him much either,” Marcus said. He turned to Denise. “Don’t worry, you did the right thing. We’ll check on him.”
“There’s just one more thing,” Denise said. “He says he’s going to leave, go back to San Francisco, as soon as he can. He wants me to call his driver and tell him to fly out here right now and get him.”
“Walter.” Marcus shook his head. “Don’t call the Driver yet. We need to make sure Porter stays here until we look at him. And don’t worry. We won’t say anything.” Ruth nodded in agreement.
“Thanks,” Denise smiled, relieved. She backed out of the room and shut the door.
Ruth turned to Marcus. “What do you think that’s all about?” she said.
Marcus shrugged. “Beats me. But he can’t go anywhere tonight without Walter and the car, so I’ll stop by and see him in the morning.”
—
Porter looked around his room and swore. He walked to the door and opened it a crack, then looked down the hallway toward the reception area. There was one person at the desk, a secretary, who was reading a magazine. Porter eased the door shut and moved to the bed where his luggage sat, packed and neatly stacked. He opened a carry-on and pulled out a hat and a pair of dark glasses. He put them on, then pulled his collar up around his neck and tugged his long-sleeve shirt down to cover his wrists. Porter glanced at himself in the mirror and made a face, then opened the door and started down the hall.
“Going someplace?”
Porter turned with a start and bumped into Marcus. “No,” Porter said, trying to look away and avoid Marcus’ stare. “Just going to get a magazine.”
“Good,” Marcus said. “Then you won’t mind if we go back into your room for a little visit.” Marcus opened the door and looked inside at the suitcases. “Packed pretty heavy for a guy just going to get a magazine,” he said. Porter hesitated, then went back into the room with a sigh.
“Mind if I look at your eyes?” Marcus said, pointing at the sunglasses.
Porter waited, watching Marcus, and then turned and marched to the writing desk where he sat down. “That damn Denise! She’s talked to you, hasn’t she? That’s why Walter hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Denise was concerned about you. She asked me to look in on you before you went back to San Francisco.”
Porter stared at Marcus, not mollified.
Marcus gestured toward Porter’s face. “May I take a look?”
Porter scowled, and then yanked the glasses from his face. Marcus walked over and bent down, looking into the whites of Porter’s eyes. They were the color of scrambled eggs. Marcus swallowed hard. Liver failure, he thought. Maybe cirrhosis or hepatitis. Maybe pancreatic cancer. Or TL. “Lie down,” he said.
Porter hesitated. “Why?”
Marcus frowned and Porter acquiesced. Marcus pressed his fingers deep into Porter’s abdomen and probed the gut, causing Porter to inhale and wince. Marcus continued his exploration, unfazed by Porter’s protests. He pressed deeper, and—.
“Ow!” Porter cried out, trying to pull away.
Marcus kept his fingers thrust into Porter’s abdomen and gave another quick push. “Ow!” Porter yelled again, pulling Marcus’ hand away.
“Sorry,” Marcus said. “I didn’t realize it was so sensitive.”
“Liar,” Porter said. “You’ll get your revenge any way you can, won’t you? What did you find?”
“Hard to tell. I’d like to run a few blood tests.”
Porter stared at Marcus then rubbed his eyes before he put his glasses back on. Marcus picked up Porter’s hand and examined the palm and the inside of his arm. Light yellow, just like the eyes, except fainter, and more orange.
“What do you think it is?”
Marcus shook his head. “Could be a skin condition, maybe a vitamin deficiency,” he said. “We’ll know more after the tests. I’ll have a phlebotomist come in and collect some blood.”
“Is it TL? I don’t see how it could be, given that I have not been around anyone who is infected with the virus.”
“Yeah, no one except all the sick people you have out here in Bigwood Springs paying you blood money,” Marcus said.
“I know TL’s incubation period, and the math on that does not pencil,” Porter said. “If I’ve contracted it, it had to be before I left the Bay Area. Perhaps it was Walter! He does tend to frequent many public places.”
“Look, it’ll take a few hours to get the results back, so just stay here and take it easy,” Marcus said.
“Stay here? I’d rather eat cactus.” Marcus stared him down until Porter relented. “Oh, all right,” he said. “But at least let me get some decent food flown in.” Porter paused, then sat up onto the edge of the bed and looked at Marcus. “Why are you doing this?” he said.
Marcus paused, and then said, “Doing what?”
“Helping me. Being nice to me.”
Marcus laughed. “Can’t help it. I’m a doctor. Hippocratic oath and all that.”
Porter smiled thinly. “Hippocrates must spin in his grave every time you pronounce yourself a healer. Remember the oath you took: ‘first, do no harm?’”
Marcus took a step toward Porter and raised his hand, index finger extended, as if to poke Porter in the chest. “You should realize” he said, “that at some point blackmail stops working.”
Porter’s smile broadened. “But not yet, right?”
Marcus finger remained poised over Porter’s sternum.
“Right?”
Marcus lowered his hand, turned and went out into the hallway.
“Oh, and hey Warden,” Porter called out, his voice redolent with mocking condescension, “may I please make a phone call? I want to ask Walter to come back from San Francisco with some take-out Chinese.”
Marcus didn’t answer and slammed the door behind him. Porter laughed out loud, then again donned his costume and made his way to the reception desk. The secretary glanced up, her eyes growing wide when she realized who it was, then averted her gaze and looked back at her magazine. Porter cleared his throat and spoke to the young woman. “Excuse me,” he said, handing her a piece of paper. “Can you place a call for me? It’s to a cell phone in San Francisco, and I don’t know how to get an outside line.” The receptionist swallowed, and then dialed the number. She gestured to the courtesy phone on the other side of the lobby. “I’ll put it there,” she said.
Porter smiled, his sunglasses riding up ascending cheeks. “Thanks,” he said before moving to the phone. He picked it up just in time to hear Walter answer.
“Hello?” Walter said. His voice was muffled and faint. “Look, I’ll have to call you back, whoever this—”
“Shut up,” Porter said, cutting him off. “I want you to fly back out to The Complex right away. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“But wait,” the Driver stammered, still whispering, “there’s this guy here, a tall skinny guy, that’s been asking about Kramer and—”
Porter interrupted again. “Why are you whispering?”
“We’re watching his apartment, waiting for him to get home. He got away from me at the office.”
Porter sighed. “Stop playing secret agent, Walter, and fly out here. Now. And bring some take-out from Yet Wah. General’s Chicken and Happy Family. And Tsingtao to drink.” Porter hung the phone up with authority, not waiting for Walter’s response. He glanced at his watch. Two hours from now, he thought, I’ll be getting a nice MSG buzz. He fished a cigarette and a red-tipped kitchen match out of his pocket, then ignited the match with his thumbnail. He watched it flare and glow, then lit his cigarette.