Doctor Who_ Warlock - Andrew Cartmel [12]
‘Is it supposed to do that?’ said Ace.
‘No.’ The Doctor sounded disgusted. ‘The graphs are supposed to remain steady on the screen until I cancel them.’ The blank screen glowed on his face. ‘They should remain stable for years if necessary.’
‘What were you analysing?’ asked Benny. ‘The chemical composition?’
‘Something like that. Did you get a clear look at the screen before the traces faded?’ Both women nodded. ‘Well, what did you think?’ said the Doctor.
‘Same basic shape,’ said Bernice.
The Doctor frowned thoughtfully. ‘The resemblance certainly seemed to fall within the parameters of acceptable error.’
‘You mean it’s the same drug,’ said Ace.
‘Yes.’
‘That tablet I got today and that old mushroom from Russia.’
‘Exactly,’ said the Doctor. Ace thought that he looked angry. ‘At least we know that much.’
There was a long moment of silence in the dark garage. It was Bernice who finally broke it. ‘What should I cook for supper?’ she said.
‘Don’t worry. I’ve brought something,’ said the Doctor. ‘It should do for Ace and myself.’
‘What about me?’
‘I’m not sure you’ll actually have time to join us.’ He handed Benny one of the documents from the confidential IDEA file.
‘That’s thirty years in prison for you too,’ said Ace as Benny read it.
‘Or death.’ Benny turned the page over. ‘Doctor, this is blank. All it’s got on it is the letterhead for the International Drug Enforcement Agency.’
‘Exactly. It shows the address of their headquarters,’ said the Doctor, searching through the pockets of his jacket. ‘That’s all you need,’ he said, taking out an envelope containing red and blue airline tickets. ‘And these.’ He handed them to Benny. She studied the flight details.
‘New York?’
‘Don’t worry,’ said the Doctor. ‘They’ll give you supper on the plane.’
* * *
Chapter 2
There were three women in the small apartment: Miss Winterhill and the two girls who were keeping the Mayans company.
At first Creed thought both the women with the Mayan brothers were hookers. Then he revised his opinion and decided that one of the girls was actually the older brother’s regular girlfriend. And yet he could have sworn he’d seen her before, out on the street somewhere, turning tricks.
Maybe, he decided, she used to pursue that line of work and the older brother had been a john and they’d hooked up together. Maybe they were in love. Maybe it was a true drug dealers’ romance.
Girlfriend, whore, thought Creed; in these circles the dividing lines tend to blur. In fact, everything was beginning to blur. He had been smoking boo all afternoon and he felt that quite soon he might begin to melt pleasantly into the couch he was sitting on. The younger Mayan brother wouldn’t like that; he was very proud of the leather couch, as well as of the tubular steel armchairs and the coffee table.
The table was made of a big rectangular block of shatterproof glass poised on small black feet. Creed stared with detached interest through the chunky prism of it at his own feet, muddy combat boots visible on the floor through the assortment of junk on the table.
There were several beer bottles on the table, mostly empty now, with gnawed wedges of lime stuffed in their necks. Beside the beer bottles was a handgun, apparently made by a Belgian manufacturer, although Creed couldn’t identify which one. The gun was remarkably light because most of its frame and moving parts were made of plastic, to avoid triggering airport alarms. It was a smuggler’s weapon.
Next to the gun on the table were several bright sheets of paper printed with photographs, torn from a magazine. From where Creed sat, the pictures appeared to be abstract shapes of golden brown and bright blue.
On closer examination they turned out to be photographs of beautiful young women, limber and tanned, posing with pornographic frankness under some blazing tropic sky. The pictures had been folded and in the sharp creases were traces of white powder detectable against the contrasting