My erection instantly wilted as the memory of the dead girl blossomed to fill my mind. There was no time for Isabel to complain, because just then came the sound of someone entering through the door from the hall to the anteroom. "Sunday," she whispered, leaped off the desk, ran around behind it, and ducked for cover. I lifted my trousers a mere moment before the door to the inner office opened. When I turned around, Schell and Parks were standing there, staring at me. I lifted my hand to straighten my turban and realized I was still holding Isabel's underpants.

"Gentlemen, you've found me," I said in a slightly shaky swami singsong.

"One of my people said she saw you heading toward this side of the house," said Parks. Both he and Schell looked expectant-Parks hopeful, Schell somewhat bemused.

"Find something there?" asked Schell, pointing to the balled-up contents of my hand.

"Most certainly, good sirs. I have discovered the culprit. Mr. Parks, when we were last here and brought forth the spirits, your mother left you a toy bear, but it seems your wife is more mischievous and left you her undergarment. No doubt a curse upon your house." I held up the offending article and let it unfurl. I noticed then for the first time that they were pink.

Parks gave a violent shudder. "The bitch," he said. "Even in death she taunts me."

"Good lord," said Schell, "I can't imagine the damage this item would have eventually done to you had it gone undiscovered."

"Excuse my language, please, Mr. Schell, but I feared her spirit was still out to do me in."

"You'll be all right for the time being, but we'd better schedule another sйance in order to solve this problem once and for all. I believe we can effectively rid you of her demonic essence."

Parks nodded. "Please, I'd pay anything to get rid of her for good."

"To clear the entire house would be somewhat more expensive, but for a valued patron like yourself, we can make the price reasonable," said Schell.

I went to the desk and lifted a pen that stood upright in an elaborate inkstand. Hooking the pink curse upon one end of it, I walked forward and handed the other end to Parks. He took it but grimaced horribly and held the pen with the tips of only two fingers. "Revolting," he said and shuddered.

"Do not wait, but take them immediately to your closest fireplace and burn them. Then collect the ashes, mix them with chopped garlic, and bury them no less that three feet deep in the ground. This you must perform without the help of another," I said.

I saw the merest corner of Schell's dour expression crack, and he had to look away from me for a moment to collect himself. "Don't worry about us, Parks, we can show ourselves out," he said. "Best to see to the task at hand immediately."

The millionaire turned and headed out the door. "I owe you a great debt of gratitude. Call me as soon as you can to set up that appointment."

"Will do, sir," said Schell.

I waved my arm to indicate to Schell that he should exit first. He did. Then I followed. We walked back to the Cord in silence. I wasn't sure if Schell was amused by my antics or upset with me for playing so recklessly. Once we were in the car and had left the estate, I looked over at him. His body was jerking up and down as if he was quietly convulsing. Then I looked up at his face, saw a smile on it, and knew he was laughing. He shook his head.

"Diego," he said, "I might as well just turn the business over to you now."

"Did you see his face when I handed them to him?" I asked.

Schell pulled the car over, parked, and gave himself up to mirth. When he dried his eyes a minute later, he said, "Can you imagine what that poor woman had to deal with?"

"Thanks," I said to him.

"Yes, well, you're welcome, but let's keep our wits about us, shall we? I'd like you to proceed at a somewhat slower rate with this young lady."

"I know," I said.

"It wouldn't pay at your age to have to get married," he said, putting the car back in gear and pulling out onto the road.

The conversation was getting embarrassing, and then it came to me how to quickly change it. "I remembered the symbol from the cloth on the Barnes girl," I said.

Schell took the bait. "What was it?" he asked.

"A large circle, outlined in red. Inside it was a cross, equally dividing the circle, outlined in black. At the center of the cross was another circle all of white, and at the center of that circle a red teardrop."

WHY THE TEARDROP?

The day we went to see The Worm, the city wore a disguise of jangling excitement over its normally grim features of unemployment and destitution. On the previous afternoon, in Chicago, during the seventh inning of the World Series, score tied 4 to 4, Babe Ruth had come up to bat. There had been a season-long, bitter rivalry between the two clubs. Ruth was met by calls of derision from the opposing bullpen. His only reaction was to calmly lift his bat and use it to point out into the distance at something or someone only he could see. The pitch came from Charlie Root, and the Babe blasted a home run that broke the tie and gave the Yankees the momentum to win the game. The city's predominantly downtrodden inhabitants feasted on this feat of confidence, and we overheard people talking about it on the train, in the station, and on the streets. None of us, Antony, Schell, or I, cared much about baseball, but the feeling was infectious, and the entire city seemed to be swaggering.

Around the corner from the main branch of the New York Public Library, across the street and down an alleyway littered with ash cans and junk, was a plain metal door in the side of a brick building. Antony stepped forward, rapped twice, waited a second, rapped again three times, and then took a step back and joined Schell and me. The door squealed open a quarter of the way and a small, old woman with a nearly bald head covered in a hairnet, wearing a pair of thick-lensed glasses, appeared.

"What do you want?" she said in a nasty tone.

"Which way to Paradise?" asked Antony.

She opened the door wider and beckoned for us to enter. Her look of anger melted into a smile, and she said, "Get in here, Henry Bruhl."

Once we were standing inside a dimly lit foyer and the door had been closed and locked, Antony leaned over and kissed the woman's wrinkled cheek. She then turned to Schell and said, "How are you, Tom?"

"Pleasure to see you again, Grace," he said. He lifted her hand and kissed it.

"Still full of shit, I see," she said.

"At your service," said Schell.

She turned to me and eyed me up and down, focusing on my turban. "Who's this, Genghis Khan?" she asked, holding her hand out to me.

"This here is Ondoo," said Antony. "He's a swami."

"Halloween isn't till the end of the month," she said and grabbed my hand and squeezed it.

"Nice to meet you," I said.

"Is this your boy, Thomas?" she asked Schell.

He nodded.

"God help you," she said to me.

"We're looking for The Worm," said Antony.

"Well, you know, he's always either here or over at the library. You're in luck, 'cause he's back there right now, three sheets to the wind and diddling some Columbia professor's wallet."

"Thanks," said Schell.

"I'll bring you back a round of drinks," she said.

We left the foyer and walked down a dark hallway that ended in a short downward flight of steps. The place had obviously been the basement of an old warehouse; the bricks of the walls were crooked, and some had fused together over time. The stairs led to a large expanse crammed with tables and booths beneath a low ceiling of thick wooden timbers. There were candles on the tables and one electric light behind a makeshift bar made of sawhorses and old doors, covered with tablecloths. It was still early in the afternoon, and besides the bartender, who sat on a chair behind the bar, there were only three or four other customers.