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Authors: Peter Straub

Koko

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Praise for
KOKO
and
PETER STRAUB’S
BLUE ROSE TRILOGY

“A work that will stand as a milestone.… Straub is master.”


Los Angeles Daily News

“Masterful, compelling.… The best of Peter Straub’s writing.”


Houston Chronicle

“The characters are outstanding.… They are the story, enshrouded by a nightmare that
never lifts. Peter Straub takes bold risks and he succeeds.”

—San Jose Mercury News

“Enormously entertaining and scary.… Rich, complex, dark, and tough to put down.”


New York Daily News

“Terrifying psychological horror.… Straub [is] a master storyteller.”


The Plain Dealer

FIRST ANCHOR BOOKS EDITION, JULY 2009

Copyright © 1988 by Seafront Corporation

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Anchor Books, a division of
Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.
Originally published simultaneously in the United States in hardcover by E. P. Dutton,
a division of Penguin Group (USA), Inc., New York, and in Canada by Fitzhenry and
Whiteside Ltd., Toronto, in 1988.

Anchor Books and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Straub, Peter, 1943–
Koko / by Peter Straub.—1st Anchor Books ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-307-77395-1
1. Vietnam War, 1961–1975—Veterans—Fiction.
2. Psychological fiction. I. Title
PS3569.T6914K6 2009
813′.54—dc22
2009004648

www.anchorbooks.com

v3.1_r1

For Susan Straub
and
For Lila J. Kalinich, M.D
.

CONTENTS

I believe it is possible and even recommended to play the blues on everything.

—FRANK MORGAN
,
alto saxophonist

PART
ONE
THE
DEDICATION
1

At three o’clock in the afternoon of a grey, blowing mid-November day, a baby doctor
named Michael Poole looked down through the windows of his second-floor room into
the parking lot of the Sheraton Hotel. A VW van, spray-painted with fuzzy peace symbols
and driven by either a drunk or a lunatic, was going for a ninety-eight-point turn
in the space between the first parking row and the entrance, trapping a honking line
of cars in the single entry lane. As Michael watched, the van completed its turn by
grinding its front bumper into the grille and headlights of a dusty little Camaro.
The whole front end of the Camaro buckled in. Horns blew. The van now faced a stalled,
frustrated line of enemy vehicles. The driver backed up, and Michael thought he was
going to escape by reversing down the first row of cars to the exit onto Woodley Road.
Instead, the driver nipped the van into an empty space two cars down. “Well, damn,”
Michael said to himself—the van’s driver had sacrificed the Camaro for a parking place.

Michael had called down twice for messages, but none of the
other three men had checked in yet. Unless Conor Linklater was going to ride a motorcycle
all the way from Norwalk, they would almost certainly take the shuttle from New York,
but Michael enjoyed the fantasy that while he stood at the window he would see them
all step out of the van—Harry “Beans” Beevers, the Lost Boss, the world’s worst lieutenant;
Tina Pumo, Pumo the Puma, whom Underhill had called “Lady” Pumo; and wild little Conor
Linklater, the only other survivors of their platoon. Of course they would arrive
separately, in taxis, at the front of the hotel. But he wished they would get out
of the van. He hadn’t known how strongly he wanted them to join him—he wanted to see
the Memorial first by himself, but he wanted even more to see it later with them.

Michael Poole watched the doors of the van slide open. There appeared first a hand
clamped around the neck of a bottle which Michael immediately recognized as Jack Daniel’s
sour mash whiskey.

The Jack Daniel’s was slowly followed by a thick arm, then a head concealed by a floppy
jungle hat. The whole man, now slamming the driver’s door, was well over six feet
tall and weighed at least two hundred and thirty pounds. He wore tiger-stripe fatigues.
Two smaller men similarly dressed left through the sliding door in the side of the
van, and a big bearded man in a worn flak jacket closed the van’s passenger door and
went around the front to take the bottle. He laughed, shook his head, and upended
it into his mouth before passing it to one of the others. Individually and collectively
they looked just enough like dozens of soldiers Poole had known for him to lean forward,
staring, his forehead pressed against the glass.

Of course he knew none of these men. The resemblance was generic. The big man was
not Underhill, and the others were none of the others.

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