Mayer was a short, stocky white-haired man. “Come in,” he called when they knocked at the door. “Mr. Grelich! And Mr. Castleman is in there with you?”
“I am,” Ritchie said. “And I demand an explanation.”
“Of course you do,” Mayer said. “Come in, have a seat. Coffee? Something stronger?”
“Coffee, black, no cream,” Grelich said.
Mayer said a few words into the phone. “It’s on its way. Gentlemen, I am so sorry... “
“You didn’t return our calls,” Ritchie said.
“I apologize. Miss Christiansen, our regular receptionist, left early when Nathan didn’t show up at the lab. She didn’t come in today. The one outside is a temp. When I reached Miss Christiansen today by phone, she claimed she didn’t know anything about the situation.”
“Hah!” said Grelich.
Mayer went on, “So far I have been unable to locate Nathan, the lab tech, the one who actually did your operation. Or botched it, I should say.”
“Nathan,” Grelich said darkly.
“He is the one we will have to talk to, the only one likely to have an explanation for how this sorry situation came to pass.”
“But where is this Nathan?” Ritchie asked.
Mayer shrugged. “I phoned his boarding house, he wasn’t there. I talked with his rabbi, whom he gave as his main reference when he applied for this job. His Rabbi, Zvi Cohen, said he hadn’t spoken with Nathan in over a week. I went myself to the handball courts at 92nd and Riverside, at the rabbi’s suggestion. None of the players had seen Nathan in several days.”
“Have you notified the police yet?”
“I shall have to, if he doesn’t show up very soon. I have no other way to trace him.”
Ritchie asked, “What about my own body? The Castleman body?”
“I’m afraid it didn’t survive the transfer,” Mayer said. “As we expected. It has been disposed of according to your instructions.”
Hearing that his body was irrevocably gone gave Ritchie a pang of regret. It hadn’t been a particularly nice body, but it had been his for a long time. And now he had no physical body. Except for Grelich’s body, and Grelich didn’t seem so keen on giving it up any longer.
Back at his apartment, Ritchie decided it was time to find Nathan Cohen, the missing tech who was probably responsible for the whole megillah, a word that Grelich supplied him with.
But before he could get started with that, he got a telephone call, which Grelich didn’t prevent him from answering.
“Ritchie Castleman here,” he said.
Mr. Castleman? I am Edward Simonson. Mr. Mayer has recently hired me to run the lab. I am a graduate of CCNY, fully accredited and certified. I worked for two years at the Zeitgeist Institute in Zurich. If you want—”
Grelich said, “What is this?”
“This is Mr. Grelich speaking now?”
“Yes, it is. What do you want?”
“I am authorized by Mr. Mayer to tell you that if you wish to return to the lab, we assure you that the operation and removal will be properly conducted at this time, and at no cost to you.”
“You’ll make sure I die this time?” Grelich said.
“Well... Yes, that was your original intention in coming to MMT, was it not?”
“That was then and now is now.”
“Does that mean you’ve changed your mind?”
“I’m thinking it through again,” Grelich said. “Look, we’re not interested right now. We have a few matters to sort out first. We’ll get back to you.”
Grelich hung up. Ritchie was glad Grelich hadn’t immediately accepted this offer to correct his bungled suicide. He didn’t want to see Grelich die. But he wasn’t too happy that he was going to have to continue sharing a body with a near stranger.
Grelich said to Ritchie, “We need to find out what went wrong.”
“Of course,” Ritchie said.
The telephone rang again. This time Grelich picked it up.
Mr. Castleman?” a female voice asked.
“This is Grelich.”
“Mr. Grelich, this is Rachel Christiansen. I’m the regular receptionist at the MMT Company. I wanted to call and apologize for what I have done to you—not on purpose, I assure you—I never imagined—”
“What did happen?” Ritchie broke in.
“It’s such a complicated story I really think we should meet—that is, if you have the time... “
“I got the time!” Ritchie said. “Where? When?”
“There’s a sort of coffee shop near where I live. That’s in The Bronx, or maybe it’s upper Manhattan—I’m new in the city and I only know how to get to work and back.”
“What’s the place called?”
“The Brown something or other. Cow? Sheep? I’m not sure. I never go in there. It looks—shady.”
“Address?”
“Let me see, I get on the subway at 167th Street and Jerome Avenue, and the Brown whatever it is is two blocks downtown from the entrance, that would be at 165th Street, on the east side of Jerome Avenue. Unless it’s two blocks uptown—forgive me, I’m usually much more together than this—but recent events—”
“I know,” Ritchie said. “I understand. Look, we’ll get a cab. Probably take half an hour to get to you in the Bronx. Is that OK?”
“Certainly, Mr. Castleman. It’s the least I owe you. Though I’m not sure the place is entirely savory—”
“How bad can a coffee shop be?” Grelich broke in. “We’ll be there.”