THE DOCTOR wouldn't blink at a transsexual for a patient. He didn't judge his clients, he just wrote their needs on his Rx pad. He sold what the customer wanted, and he didn't take checks. Quaaludes, steroids, amphetamines, barbiturates. That kind of traffic wouldn't make him rich. But the page from the prescription pad told me what I wanted to know: the doctor was selling Androlan, Malogex…all the injectable forms of testosterone. Even threw in a supply of needles. There's a new program for child molesters. The shrinks still haven't figured it out- the freaks, they don't want to be cured. This new program, it's only for special degenerates. Ones with money. Counseling, therapy…and Depo-Provera. Chemical castration, they call it. Reduces the sex drive down to near-zero. Supposedly makes the freaks safe, even around kids. Methadone for baby-rapers. Some judges love it. The freaks are crazy about the program- it's a Get Out of Jail Free card. The maggots do their research better than the scientists and all their federal grants. They figured out that a regular dose of testosterone cancels the Depo-Provera. Gets them back to what they call normal.
Testosterone's not a narcotic. The feds don't check on how much you dispense. The doctor was doing all right. Medicine changes with the times. When I was a kid, the underground plastic surgeons would give you a new face if you were running from the law. Now some doctors will put a new face on a kid- a kid whose face is on a milk carton. It would do until they outlawed abortions again.
Michelle bought such a big supply that the doctor must have figured she was going into business for herself. The word I got was that he'd wholesale the stuff if the price was right. Michelle paid him in Krugerrands. A dozen gold coins, almost six grand.
The doctor lived up in Westchester County. He had two kids- a boy away at college and a fifteen-year-old girl. We watched the Mercedes pull out of the driveway, his wife next to him in the front seat. The girl was already out for the evening. We figured on a few hours.
The back of the house was protected by an unbroken row of thick hedges. Max unscrewed the top of a cardboard tube, the kind you keep an expensive fishing rod in. Pulled out two aluminum poles. They telescoped like car antennas. He cross-latched the two poles with some X-braces, making a ladder. Max went up first, climbing backwards as easy as if he was using a staircase. The Mole followed him, satchel on a strap over his shoulder. I came next- the Mole was no athlete.
It was a short drop to the ground. The windows were free of burglar-alarm tape. The doctor's wife wouldn't like the look. The Mole fluttered his hand- a flag in a breeze. Motion sensors. "Hard-wired," he whispered. "Expensive."
"Can you take it out?" I asked.
The Mole didn't answer, looking through the window with some kind of lens held up to his glasses. "There," he said, pointing.
I saw a wooden box in a corner of the living room. Some kind of dark wood, a slim crystal vase standing on top. A tiny red light glowed near the base.
The Mole fumbled in his satchel. Max braced the pane of glass with his hands as the Mole fitted a tiny drill against the surface. He nodded. Scratched an X on the glass with a probe, fitted the drill point into it. Pressed the trigger. A split-second whine. He reversed the drill bit, pulling it free of the glass. Then he threaded a wire through the hole. Attached the other end of the wire to something inside his satchel. The Mole pushed a toggle switch and the red light on the box inside the house winked out. I could have opened the back door with a credit card.
We left Max on the first floor in case somebody came home. The Mole took the upstairs bedrooms, I hit the basement.
The doctor had a nice little home-office setup downstairs. IRS would approve. I pulled the antenna on the same little box Terry had used to show off for his mother and went to work. It only took a couple of minutes. Second-rate wall safe behind a framed painting of assholes on horses chasing a fox. Amateur Hour. I could have knocked off the dial and pried the thing open in twenty minutes.
It took the Mole less than five. It looked like gray putty he pasted around the edges of the safe. Until you saw the fuse. When he touched it off, we stepped back to watch. A soft pop and the door crumpled.
Our Krugerrands were inside. The doctor liked gold. Canadian Maple Leafs, Chinese Pandas, Australian Koalas. American cash in neat stacks. A small leather loose-leaf book. A Canadian passport. The doctor was prepared- but not for us. We took it all.