Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

Raga Six (A Doctor Orient Occult Novel)

Frank Lauria

Copyright © 1972, 2001 by Frank Lauria

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For my parents, and for John Hohnsbeen,

Don and Nancy De Mare, Alice Rydh, Ray Lofaro,

H.B & Bruce Gilmour, and of course,

Ragass—who know what to blow...

Oh, that magic feeling,

Nowhere to go

—John Lennon
 

CHAPTER 1

New York, 1969
 

Sordi still couldn’t believe it.
 

He shook his head sadly as he looked around the room. The gold afternoon light poured through the terrace doors and filtered through the dust, illuminating the particles. That relentless New York grime he had come to despise in the three years he had lived here. Tonight he knew he would even miss the dirt.
 

He liked this room.
 

He liked the dark brown wood beams that stretched across the ceiling. He liked the open sweep of partitionless space extending from the front terrace facing the Hudson Palisades to the rear balcony overlooking the herb garden. He liked the taste of fresh fish grilled on his circular chrome fireplace. He liked his private entrance. He liked everything about the place.
 

And he didn’t like having to leave. He couldn’t comprehend the necessity. It had happened too quickly.
 

His ticket was in his pocket and his money had been deposited in the Bank of Naples, but he couldn’t understand why it had to be done.
 

If there was some good reason for destroying a perfect way of life, perhaps he could feel better about leaving. But there had been no explanation. Finished, that’s all.
 

Survival was no problem. The doctor had provided him with enough money to live on for a few years. There was still his family home on Ischia. A little investing and he’d be all right. But he just wasn’t ready to retire so soon. Working for Doctor Orient had given him a taste for learning. Serving as his secretary had been like being an assistant to a university scientist. The doctor had taught him how to use his mind. And he had taught the doctor how to cook. It had been a warm, stimulating experience. And now it was over.
 

He shrugged his shoulders. He would never understand.
 

He walked slowly across the inlaid wood floor to the terrace. The darkening red sky over the river was streaked with violet. Lights were beginning to appear in the windows of the high-rise apartments facing the city.
 

He had known something was wrong last summer.
 

Doctor Orient should have gone to the house on the Cape as usual instead of staying in the city and becoming involved with that project. It certainly would have been better than getting mixed up with Doctor Ferrari. That man had brought trouble with him the first day he arrived.
 

First it was the detectives poking around everywhere, upsetting the routine. During the four months Ferrari was there they came every day to search the house. It was just as well that he hadn’t been allowed near the laboratory or the study during those months. He’d been kept so busy making coffee and fixing snacks for the cops that he wouldn’t have been much help to the doctor anyway.
 

Then it was the way the doctor was working. Ferrari kept him in the laboratory for two and three days sometimes. The doctor stopped eating and got too thin and nervous. Just when he thought he’d succeeded in teaching Doctor Orient something about food.
 

And finally the arguing every night.
 

Sordi shivered and went inside as a cutting wind blew up from the river. He closed the terrace doors carefully. He’d never heard Doctor Orient raise his voice in anger until those last few months.
 

Sometimes, in spite of the security of the Secret Service men, he had seen the young girl in the wheelchair arrive. Five men would surround the car and take her inside so quickly that he could catch only a glimpse of them from the stairs.
 

After the first month everything had become relaxed and the detectives began spending more time in the kitchen. But even they didn’t seem to know very much about what was going on. The girl was the daughter of some big politician from California and was getting special therapy for her legs. They called the girl Judy but he didn’t believe that was her real name.
 

The detectives had become friendlier toward him as time passed, helping him around the house and always commenting on his clothes, but the cold, flat look in their eyes was always there. There were some kinds of Americans Sordi found it difficult to like.
 

He had known the girl was cured even before they had told him. One day he saw her coming out of the study. She was walking very slowly between Doctor Orient and Doctor Ferrari. They helped her into a wheelchair that was outside the door. Three weeks after that, the detectives told him they were going to miss his cooking.
 

On the same night that he had seen the girl come out of the study, the doctor and Ferrari had their first argument. He had gone to the head of the stairs to see if something was wrong. He could hear Ferrari’s infuriatingly coarse voice interrupting the doctor’s words, the sounds becoming progressively louder. They went on like that for two hours. Finally Ferrari stormed out of the study and left. The doctor slammed the door shut and stayed in his study until the next night, refusing to eat or open the door.
 

After that, there were many more arguments.
 

Then Ferrari, the detectives, and the girl stopped coming to the house. The doctor had spent three weeks just sitting in his closed study day after day. Until the day Doctor Orient came and told him it was finished, he was selling the house.
 

Sordi picked up his Louis Vuitton suitcase and walked toward the stairs. No matter, he reassured himself, tonight I’ll be in Roma and it will be a new beginning.
 

When he came down the stairs, he saw Doctor Orient waiting for him outside the study.
 

He was so thin these days, even thinner than the time he had the trouble with the crazy girl. His dark skin was getting sallow from being indoors so much and his green eyes were washed out and dim.
 

Doctor Orient was tall and usually carried his frame with the alert poise of an athlete, but now his wide shoulders slumped and his long hands dangled unenthusiastically from his wrists. Even the white streak
 

in his long black hair seemed to have gotten wider in these last few months. He had always been a private man, but lately he’d become unreachable. Sordi dropped his bag and looked into his face. Six months ago the doctor had looked like a boy of twenty-five. Tonight the lines stretched deep under his jutting cheekbones, pulling down at the upturned corners of his mouth. He looked burned out.
 

But his hand was firm and, when he spoke, Sordi could hear something beyond the words of farewell. The sincere awareness of three years of friendship.
 

Suddenly he wanted to take the doctor by the shoulders and shake him. Ask him point-blank why the hell all this stupidness.
 

But he didn’t.
 

Instead, he picked up his bag, put his hand on the doctor’s arm and said, "It’s a nice night, should be a good flight. You know where to get in touch with me."
 

The doctor nodded and Sordi knew that he wouldn’t forget. He jammed his hand into the pocket of his long leather coat, pulled out a small ball of tissue paper and handed it to the doctor. "That’s yours," he said.
 

At least on Ischia, he reminded himself as he walked away, you can depend on people.
 

Orient stuffed the ball of tissue into his shirt pocket as he watched Sordi leave. He felt depressed. Sordi’s craggy expression was always a masterpiece of innocent diplomacy but it wasn’t difficult to see the confused hurt in his face.
 

He turned and went into the study.
 

The room was completely empty except for the desk and two chairs. The books that had once stuffed the shelves, overflowing into every corner of the room, had been crated and taken away. The paintings, star charts, and diagrams had been taken down from the walls. The microfilm reader, film projector, slide projector, screens, videotape equipment, and editing table were gone. Everything had been stripped away from the long room except for the massive rolltop desk under the high, slanting skylight.
 

The man who bought the house had insisted that the desk be included as an item of contract. Orient had agreed; all he was concerned about was cutting all ties as quickly as possible.
 

Right now Andy Jacobs was hovering over the desk like an impatient old bullfrog, his tongue flicking nervously as he waited to snare the remaining signatures required to liquidate the estate.
 

"Let’s get goin’, Owen," Andy croaked the sole but persistent bit of wit that he employed every time he saw Orient.
 

Orient walked slowly over to the desk, picked up the gold fountain pen lying on the blotter and began signing his full name, Owen Orient III, wherever the attorney pointed his blunt, hairy finger. And with each signing, Andy would repeat another variation on his position.
 

"Do you think it’s fair tribute to everything your parents, and you, worked so hard for?" Reasonable, never angry, pausing patiently for Orient to scrawl another initial. "There are ways I could handle the estate. You would never have access to a single penny, but you could pass it on to an heir. A son perhaps. Could happen, you know, Owen; thirty-one is time enough to find the right woman. Everything is change." Gruff but gentle, even throwing in a bit of Eastern thought to lure a response.
 

"Owen, you could take some more time to consider the house on the Cape." Chiding but patient, asking only for rationality. "Why, I spent many summers there with your parents before you were born, boy." Firm. Appealing to his sense of heritage.
 

Orient grunted, nodded, and kept signing.
 

When it was finished, he slowly screwed the cap on the pen and straightened up. He felt a quick pang
 
when he saw the expression of genuine concern on Andy’s face; a sense of loss that
 

began to widen when he recalled Sordi’s wounded smile. Perhaps he should have gone to the airport with his friend. He tried to shake off the emotion. It was all the way it had to be.
 

"You know, Senator," Orient reflected, "I’m willing to bet you never would have lost that seat in Washington if you hadn’t decided to retire."
 

Andy Jacobs carefully arranged the papers into neat piles. "Leaving yourself with nothing isn’t funny, boy," he said softly. He began separating the assets from the liabilities.
 

"Getting rid of the books and manuscripts with a big chunk of your life to begin with. But you give that radical school"—Andy gave Orient a moment to ponder the responsibilities of tradition—"all your immediate assets"—he paused again to give Orient time to consider the gravity of money—"to establish a school of psychic research." He scratched his lumpy nose while he tried to find some emotional connection to the words. Finding none, he continued.
 

"Throwing the income from your father’s films into establishing neighborhood hospitals was a magnanimous but unnecessary gesture," he said, his hoarse monotone floating calmly on a righteous current of reason. "Your estate had always been set up to donate more than its share to charities."
 

Orient sat down on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. At least he had to let Andy have his summation address.
 

"I personally fail to understand why the property income couldn’t be used to provide some trust for your later years." The senator moved his bulk regretfully so that he could peer directly into Orient’s face.
 

Andy may be getting on, Orient noted, but there’s still plenty of brimstone in those bloodhound eyes. He began to become uncomfortable under the old senator’s persistent scrutiny. Andy had been his friend, adviser, and attorney all his life. He had arranged his affairs after the death of his parents, and had always tried to protect him. Now there was no way to prevent disappointing him.
 

"Owen, I’m telling you as an old friend who wants to keep you from a grave mistake." Andy came closer. "Getting rid of your estate is one thing, but giving up all claims for your medical research to