Havoc - v4 (11 page)

“Excuse me?”

“I don’t think this is your man. He wasn’t a geologist. He was a historian.”

Mercer cursed and immediately sensed Mrs. Moreland’s disapproval over the phone. He apologized, thanking her for her time. He stared into space for a minute, his hand still holding the portable phone. “What the hell,” he said and dialed information for the small New Jersey college.

“Our records go back to the day the school was founded by Benjamin Keeler in 1884,” a perky coed named Jody in the alumni office assured Mercer when he asked.

“I’m looking for information about Chester Bowie. He graduated in 1899.”

“Oh sure,” Jody said as though she knew the man. “Bowie the booby.”

“Excuse me?”

“Oh, it’s a nickname he had. He is sort of, like, a legend here.”

“How so?”

“He was a student here and then became a teacher. I guess he was a real whack job. He vanished in the 1930s or something.”

The timing could fit had Mercer been wrong about the African woman’s age. “Why do you say he was a whack job?”

“I’m not sure. Students here use his name if someone does something stupid, like you know ‘pulling a Chester.’ It’s just, like, a thing we say.”

Mercer had thought using the word “like” so often had died out a decade ago. “Is there anyone in the office who could give me a bit more information?”

“Um, not really. I’m here by myself and I don’t know when my boss is coming back. She’s on maternity leave.” Jody went quiet before perking up once again. Her voice jumped several octaves. “But hey, there was like this book written a couple years ago. This woman wrote it and she had a section about Bowie the booby. She gave a couple of signed copies to the school. There’s one here someplace.” She fumbled through a bunch of drawers, slamming them so the metal rang in Mercer’s ears. “Yes! I found it.
Science Beyond the Fringe: Alchemy to Perpetual Motion and Those who Sought the Free Lunch
by Serena Ballard.”

Mercer was more than a little intrigued that a historian of ancient Greece was in a book about junk science. He thanked Jody and hung up, typing the title on an Internet bookseller’s site.

And there it was:
Science Beyond the Fringe
by Serena Ballard. The book had been published three years earlier and by the looks of it hadn’t done well. There were no readers’ reviews and the site indicated the book was already out of print.

Next he typed the author’s name onto a search engine and came up with an uninspired Web site dedicated to the book. As the title implied, the book chronicled pseudo-scientists in their bizarre quest to invent the impossible. On the single-page site were short paragraphs about some of the stranger folks—a dry cleaner from New York who tried to patent his interstellar telephone, a mechanic from Pennsylvania who spent his life trying to draw usable power from static electicity, and another from California who was convinced he’d deciphered the language of humpback whales.

Mercer got the sense that the book was written with tongue firmly planted in cheek and thought it might make an amusing read. At the bottom of the page was a link where he could e-mail the author so he dashed a quick note to Serena Ballard explaining his interest in Chester Bowie and giving his telephone number.

To his astonishment his phone rang in less than a minute.

“Hello?”

“Dr. Mercer?”

“Yes. Is this Serena Ballard?”

“It is. I can’t tell you how surprised I was to get your e-mail.”

“About half as much as I appreciate you getting back to me,” Mercer said. She had a beautiful throaty voice.

“According to the Web counter on that old site you just doubled the number of hits since it went online.”

“I have the feeling the book didn’t do as well as you’d hoped.”

She chuckled. “The publisher lost my princely advance of one thousand dollars. In truth,
Science Beyond the Fringe
was a labor of love. I sent it to publishers on a lark.”

“Still, writing a book is a hell of an accomplishment.”

“I did it for my grandfather. If you saw the Web site you might have noticed the bit about the guy in Pennsylvania who tried to harness static electricity.”

“Your grandfather?”

“He was inspired by a machine he read about in Ayn Rand’s
Atlas Shrugged
and knew he could make it work. He spent every night and weekend in his garage tinkering away. He burned it down once and spent a week in the hospital after nearly electrocuting himself. He got a chance to read my book before he died, but never knew that I managed to get it published. You indicated you wanted some information about Chester Bowie.”

“What can you tell me about him and what did he do to merit a mention in your book?”

“Bowie taught ancient history at a place called Keeler College here in New Jersey.”

“You’re in New Jersey?”

“Yes, I’m the marketing director for the new Deco Palace Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City. It’s great. Have you ever been here?”

“No, but I have a friend who considers Atlantic City his third home.”

“Third home, wow.”

“Not that impressive because he uses my place as his second. Anyway back to Bowie.”

“Chester Bowie taught ancient history at Keeler. From what I recall from my research he was a real flake. He muttered to himself all the time and always wore a cape around campus.”

“And what did he do to merit a mention in your book?” asked Mercer.

“Well he wasn’t a scientist but he
was
a crackpot. That’s why he’s in there. He was convinced that the creatures from Greek mythology actually existed.”

“You mean griffins, Medusa, and giant three-headed dogs?”

“Yup.”

“I guess that would certify him as a crackpot.”

“It’s not as bad as that,” Serena admitted. “What Bowie believed is that ancient Greek farmers plowing their fields discovered bones from animals that went extinct in the last ice age. Not knowing how the skeletons fit together, he believed they created all kinds of fantastic monsters from the bones, mixing and matching as they went along and then inventing stories about their creations.”

Mercer absorbed what she’d just said and couldn’t find any quick flaws in Bowie’s theory. It was a simple, elegant answer to a question he’d never considered, but it got him no closer to explaining how Chester Bowie came to be at a high-grade uranium deposit in Central Africa where he presumably vanished in the mid-1930s.

“He had no other interests? Geology for example?”

“Not that I’m aware of.” Serena paused. “I hate to say this but I don’t remember much about him. I wrote the book a few years before I got it published, and Bowie was only a couple of paragraphs. I still have boxes at home with some of my old research material. There might be something in one of them. I could look through it and mail you anything I find.”

Mercer considered her offer. He doubted he was on the right track even though the dates somewhat corresponded with what he knew. This could very well be the wrong Chester Bowie. However, he had nowhere else to turn. Pressed by a vague sense of urgency, he asked, “Would it be possible for me to come up and get them?” He sensed hesitancy. “I assure you I’m not a stalker or anything. I can even meet you at the hotel.” Mercer knew he’d have to bring Harry. The old bastard would pout for weeks if he knew Mercer had gone to a casino without him.

“Well, I suppose so. I can go home at lunch and grab the stuff. I’m pretty sure I know which box it’s in. Are you in New York?”

“No. D.C.” Mercer checked his watch. “How about five o’clock in the lobby.”

She gave a small laugh. “This hotel is huge. We’d never find each other. How about the Bar Americain. It’s right next to the casino’s main entrance.”

“Bar Americain it is. Five o’clock. And, Serena, thank you.”

“I’m glad I can help. I’ll even see what I can do about getting you a room comped.” Then she added as an afterthought, “I never asked. What’s this all about, anyway?”

“I’ll tell you when we meet. Suffice it to say that Chester Bowie found something and it sure wasn’t minotaur bones.”

Mercer checked the time again and decided it was still too early for Harry to be at Tiny’s, so he called White’s apartment. When he got no answer he tried Tiny’s but even the owner, Paul Gordon, wasn’t there. He climbed the back stairs up to the rec room to refresh the inch of tar-thick coffee fused to the bottom of his mug. Harry was slouched at the bar, pen poised over the
Washington Post
crossword, a Bloody Mary within easy reach.

“Morning,” he growled.

Mercer shook his head slowly. “Help yourself to my paper and booze.”

“Already done, my boy, already done.”

“Feel like going for a ride?”

“No.” Harry didn’t look up from the puzzle. “Tiny’s getting some guys together for a poker game tonight. I’m gonna crash on your couch this afternoon to rest up for it.”

“I’m going to Atlantic City.”

Still Harry remained slouched, but he didn’t miss a beat. “Drag, get your leash. You’re spending the day with Uncle Tiny.”

The dog raised himself over the back of the couch to regard his master through bloodshot eyes. His head was bowed so that his ears dangled past his long gray muzzle. He gave one soulful bawl.

“Sorry, pooch, I’m exchanging your crap for a game of craps today.”

“We’re getting a room for the night. Go home and pack. I’ll pick you up in an hour.”

“I’ll be ready in fifteen minutes.”

The tires of Mercer’s Jaguar convertible gave a slight chirp as he pulled into a spot near the top floor in the parking structure adjacent to the Deco Palace Hotel and Casino. He killed the engine but could do nothing to stifle the excited monologue Harry had kept up since getting off the Garden State.

“Then there was this time I was here, oh, must have been eighty-eight or eighty-nine with Jim Read. You remember Jimmy? For some reason he and I drifted apart when he got sober.”

“You drifted apart for the same reason feminists don’t hang out with pornographers,” Mercer said sarcastically.

Harry ignored his remark. “Anyway, we came up here and I have never seen someone as hot with the dice. Not Jimmy. I swear to God the dice would land on their edges for him. No, it was this little old biddy, well, she was probably five years younger than I am now, but could she roll. She must have gone on—”

“The way you’re going on now?” Mercer interrupted.

“Give me a break, will you. I haven’t been to a casino since you were in Canada.”

“That’s what, seven months, Harry?”

“Five. Tiny and I came up when you went back to finish your contract with DeBeers.”

Mercer unlimbered himself from the sports car. “And you took my Jag, no doubt.”

Harry held a Zippo to his Chesterfield and arched his brows at Mercer. “No doubt.”

From the elevator a moving walkway glided them through a long tunnel lined with advertisements for shows, restaurants, and of course, the gaming tables. Keeping with the hotel’s Art Deco theme, big band played over hidden speakers. The other guests riding with them were mostly older New Yorkers uniformly dressed in nylon sweat clothes in neon colors with gold chains resting on fleshy breasts for the women and mats of graying hair for the men. None of the couples spoke to each other. They seemed intent on getting to the games with as little distraction as possible.

The conveyor ended at the lobby. The expansive space was themed after the old iron-and-glass railway stations seen in hundreds of movies from the thirties and forties, but with Art Deco accents on the walls and numerous columns. The reception desk ran along one wall with a commanding view of the boardwalk and the ocean beyond. Opposite was a real locomotive, puffing ersatz steam, connected to a pair of beautifully restored Pullman cars. There were forests of potted palms and all the staff were dressed in period uniforms.

“There it is,” Harry said, pointing across the vast lobby to the Bar Americain.

“Leave it to you to find the bar.” Mercer checked his watch. They were a half hour early but he could use a drink.

They ducked into the bar, which was remarkably intimate despite its size. The room looked like it had been the set for Rick’s Café Americain from
Casablanca
. There was even a black piano player at an old upright, and while he was probably named Jamal or Antoine, his staff badge identified him as Sam.

Harry muttered, “I feel I should be wearing a tux and drinking champagne cocktails.”

They sat at the alabaster-topped bar. Harry ordered a Jack and ginger while Mercer asked for a gimlet.

“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world…”

Mercer recognized the voice at once, but couldn’t believe it. He swiveled on his bar stool. Cali Stowe wore a black suit with flared slacks and a cream silk shell. Her ruby hair danced and tangled to her shoulders. Her lips were such a bright red that he had trouble dragging his eyes to hers. There was humor in them that sparkled into a smile. She’d looked beautiful in Africa, unwashed and dressed in wrinkled safari clothes. Here she was absolutely stunning and it took Mercer a moment to get over his shock.

“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he finally stammered and saluted her with his glass.

“Buy a lady a drink?” She didn’t wait for an answer and addressed the bartender. “Dewar’s rocks with a water back.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Mercer said, “but you are about the last person in the world I expected to see here. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

She took a sip from her drink. “I’m a compulsive gambler. Can’t stay away. Mortgaged the house, sold the car, the works. I live in a Dumpster out back.”

“I’m in love,” Harry said, then stood to introduce himself. “Harry White, at your servicing.”

She chuckled at his quip and they shook hands. “Hi, Harry. I’m Cali Stowe.”

Harry shot Mercer a glance before saying, “She was the one in Africa?”

She too gave Mercer an appraising look. “And now I’m here. What
are
the odds?”

“Pretty even if you’re meeting Serena Ballard.”

“Head of the class for the guy in the Armani sports coat.” She took the stool next to Mercer, forcing Harry to lean over the bar so he could ogle at her. “She and I spoke this afternoon, and imagine my surprise when she told me she already had a meeting to discuss Chester Bowie today.”