I said I had some information about Deke Tauber that might be of interest to him, but that I was looking for some information in return. He was cagey at first, but

eventually agreed to meet me – at the skating rink in Rockerfeller Plaza.

Two hours later we were pacing up and down Forty-seventh Street. Then we drifted on to Sixth Avenue, past Radio City Music Hall and up towards Central Park

South.

Kenny Sanchez was short and paunchy and wore a brown suit. Although he was serious and obviously very circumspect when it came to his work, he started to

relax after about ten minutes and even became quite chatty. Exaggerating slightly, I told him I’d been a friend of Deke Tauber’s for a while in the 1980s, but that we’d

lost touch. This seemed to fascinate him, and he asked me a few questions about it. By answering these freely, I created the impression that I was willing to share any

Information I had – which meant that by the time I started asking him questions, I had pretty much won him over.

‘The basic tenet of this cult, Eddie,’ he told me, in confidential tones, ‘is that each individual needs to escape the inherent dysfunction of the family matrix, and – get

this – to re-create themselves independently in an alternative environment.’

He stopped for a moment and shrugged his shoulders, as if to distance himself from what he’d just said. Then he continued walking.

‘When it started up, Dekedelia was no more, or less, flaky than any of a dozen other of these outfits – you know, with lectures and meditation sessions and

newsletters. Like all the others, too, it had an aura of cheap, second-hand mysticism about it – but things changed pretty quickly, and before you knew it the leader of

this quote-unquote spiritual movement was producing best-selling books and videos.’

I took an occasional sidelong glance at Kenny Sanchez as he spoke. He was articulate and this stuff was obviously vivid in his mind, but I also felt he was anxious to

let me know that he was on top of his brief.

‘The problems started soon after that. A succession of people – always young, usually stuck in dead-end jobs – seemed to just disappear into the cult. But there

was nothing illegal about it, because the members were always careful to write “goodbye” letters to their families, thus …’ – he held up the index finger of his right hand

– ‘… cleverly pre-empting any missing-person investigations by the police.’

He was focusing on three individual cases, he said, young people who had disappeared within the past year, and he gave me a few details about each of them – stuff

I didn’t particularly need to hear.

‘So, how are your investigations going now?’ I asked.

‘Erm … not so well, I’m afraid.’ He clearly hadn’t wanted to say it, but it didn’t look as if there’d been much choice. Then, as though to compensate, he added, ‘But

there seems to be something strange going on at the moment. Within the past week or two, rumours have been circulating that Deke Tauber has taken ill. He hasn’t

been seen, hasn’t given any lectures, hasn’t done any book-signings. He can’t be reached. He’s effectively incommunicado.’

‘Hhmm.’

I felt the time had now come for me to show my hand.

I said I had reason to believe that Deke Tauber was taking a strange, physically addictive designer drug and that if he was ill it might be because the only known

supplier of the drug had … disappeared recently, leaving all of his clients high and dry – as it were. Kenny Sanchez was naturally very interested in this, though I did

keep it quite vague and told him almost immediately what I needed – which was information on an associate of Tauber’s, a Todd-something. I told him that if he helped

me out with this, I’d pass on any further information I managed to uncover about the drug thing.

In trying to impress me, Kenny Sanchez had lost his professional bearings somewhat, but he still managed to balk convincingly at the notion of revealing, to a third

party, information he had learned during the course of an investigation.

‘Information on an associate of Tauber’s? I don’t know, Eddie – that’s not going to be easy. I mean, we’re bound by rules of confidentiality …’ – he paused – ‘…

and ethics … and stuff …’

I stopped on the corner of Sixth and Central Park South and turned to face him. He stopped as well. I looked directly into his eyes.

‘How do you get information in the first place, Kenny? It’s a commodity, like anything else, no? A currency? This would simply be an exchange …’

‘… I suppose …’

‘I mean, what are sources anyway?’

‘Yeah, but …’

‘There has to be some give and take, surely.’

I kept on at him like this until he eventually agreed to help me out. He said he’d see what he could do, and added – sheepishly – that if he tried he could probably get

access to Tauber’s phone records.

*

I spent the weekend packing up the remainder of my stuff and having most of it moved into the Celestial. I got to know the main guy, Richie, at the desk in the lobby. I

checked out a few more furniture showrooms, as well as having a look at the latest in kitchen appliances and home entertainment systems. I bought a complete set of

Dickens, something I’d been meaning to do for ages. I also learned Spanish – something else I’d been meaning to do for ages – and read One Hundred Years of

Solitude in the original.

Kenny Sanchez called me on Monday morning. He asked if we could meet, and suggested a coffee shop on Columbus Avenue in the Eighties. I was going to object,

and suggest somewhere a little closer to midtown, but then I didn’t. If this was to be one of his little private investigator things – meeting in public places, like skating

rinks and coffee shops – then so be it. I made a few calls before going out. I set up an appointment for later with my Tenth Street landlord to hand over the keys. I

made an unsuccessful attempt to set another one up with the guy who was going to be tiling my bathroom. I also spoke to Van Loon’s secretary and scheduled a couple

of meetings for the middle part of the afternoon.

Then I went down to First Avenue and hopped in a cab.

*

That was last Monday morning.

As I sit now in the eerie quiet of this room in the Northview Motor Lodge, it seems incredible to me that that was only five days ago. Equally incredible, given all

that’s happened since, is what I was doing – setting up business meetings, worrying about bathroom tiles, taking what I imagined were sensible steps to address the

MDT situation …

Outside there has been a subtle shift in the light. The darkness has lost its edge, and it won’t be long now before a blue tinge starts seeping up from the horizon. I am

tempted to put the laptop down, to go outside and look at the sky, and feel the vast stillness that surrounds this small clearing on the edge of a Vermont highway.

But I stay where I am – inside, in the wicker armchair – and continue writing. Because the truth is, I don’t have that much time left.

*