A dose of dangerous, impenetrable, subversive noir is just what the doctor ordered, or is it?
University College, London. Johnson marched me through the clipped campus, down echoing corridors, past alabaster busts and locked doors. At the end of a long corridor, he stopped at a door marked Private.
“It’s never too late for university, Cartier,” he said, knocking.
“Pray enter,” said a voice from within.
Sam Goldfrapp drummed his desk, his trademark round shades bulging out of his crop of mad hair, framed certificates multiplying across the walls.
“You must have a very good excuse,” he said, hands clasped as though praying. “Considering the gravity of the situation.”
“Considering the gravity of the situation,” I repeated. “No.”
“What the fuck have you been doing, Cartier?” He slammed the desk. “Linda Mandraballi,” he shouted. “Chakra is murdering the innocents.”
“Dr. Chakra,” I told him, “is just another downtown crank.”
“Chakra is no doctor,” Goldfrapp added. “Chakra is a fake, a purveyor of dangerous quackery, a murderous psychopath who’s destroying young lives.”
“You don’t say.”
“Maybe you overlooked that piece of evidence, Cartier.”
“Maybe I did,” I added, folding my arms. “Maybe I didn’t.”
Read ‘No Prescription Required for Murder’ at Mondays Are Murder.