“Funniest damn thing,” said Bigelow. “This business about Harry. You don’t suppose. . .”
“I don’t suppose anything, Jim. Let’s just hope he turns up.”
“Yeah.” Bigelow stopped pedaling. He sat catching his breath and staring at the video screen, where a tropical rainstorm was now pounding the jungle ferns. “Trouble is,” he said quietly, “I don’t expect he will turn up all right. It’s been two days.”
Angus abruptly switched off the treadmill. Forget the cooldown. He’d move straight to the upper body workout. He slung his towel over his shoulder and crossed the room to the Nautilus. To his annoyance, Bigelow got off the bike and followed him.
Ignoring Bigelow, Angus sat down on the bench and started with his latissimus dorsi workout.
“Angus,” said Bigelow, “Doesn’t it worry you?”
“There’s nothing we can do about it, Jim. The police are looking.”
“No, I mean doesn’t it remind you of. . .” Bigelow’s voice dropped to a murmur. “What happened to Stan Mackie?”
Angus went still, his hands gripping the Nautilus pulleys. “That happened months ago.”
“Yes, but it was the same thing. Remember how he showed up with his fly unzipped? And then he forgot Phil’s name. You don’t forget the name of your best friend.”
“Phil’s quite forgettable.”
“I can’t believe you’re so flippant about this. First we lose Stan. And now Harry. What if—” Bigelow paused and glanced around the gym, as though afraid someone else might be listening. “What if something’s going wrong? What if we’re all getting sick?”
“Stan’s death was a suicide.”
“That’s what they say. But people don’t go jumping out of windows for no reason.”
“Did you know Stan well enough to say he didn’t have a reason?”
Bigelow looked down. “No. . .”
“Well, then.” Angus resumed working at the pulleys. Pull, release. Pull, release. Keep those muscles young. . .
Bigelow sighed. “I can’t help wondering. I never felt right about it. Maybe this is some sort of . . . I don’t know. Divine consequence. Maybe it’s what we deserve.”
“Don’t be so Catholic, Jim! You’re always waiting for a lightning bolt to hit you. It’s been a year and a half, and I’ve never felt better in my life.” He stretched out his leg. “Look at my quadriceps! See the muscle definition? It wasn’t there two years ago.”
“My quadriceps hasn’t improved any,” Bigelow noted glumly.
“That’s because you’re not working at it. And you worry too damn much.”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Bigelow sighed and looped his towel around his neck. It made him look like some old tortoise poking its head out of its shell. “Are we still on for this afternoon?”
“Phil hasn’t said otherwise.”
“Right. Then see you at the first tee.”
Angus watched his friend lumber out of the gym. Bigelow was looking old, and no wonder; he’d spent only ten minutes on the bike, hardly an aerobic workout. Some people just couldn’t commit to their own health. Instead they wasted their energy worrying about things they could do nothing about.
His latissimus dorsi muscles were burning with that pleasant ache of a thorough workout. He released the pulleys and rested for a moment. Looking around the gym, he saw that all the other machines were in use, mostly by women, the granny set in their sweat suits and tennis shoes. A few of the ladies glanced his way, flashing him the come-hither look he found so ridiculous in women their age. They were far too old for his taste. A woman of, say, fifty might be more to his liking. But only if she was slim and fit enough to keep up with him, in every way.
It was time to work on the pectorals.
He reached up for the appropriate arm grips and was about to make the first squeeze when he noticed that something was wrong with the machine. The right-hand grip seemed to be vibrating.
He released his hold and stared at the grip. It was perfectly still, no vibrations at all. Then he looked down, and felt a sudden chill. What is going on?
His right hand was shaking.
Molly Picker raised her head from the toilet and pulled the flush lever. There was nothing left in her stomach; she’d thrown it all up. Pepsi, Fritos, and Lucky Charms. Dizzy, she sat down on the floor, leaned her back against the bathroom wall, and listened to the water whoosh down the pipes. Three weeks, she thought. I been sick for three weeks now.
She dragged herself to her feet and stumbled back to bed. Curling up on the lumpy mattress, she fell quickly and deeply asleep.
At noon, she woke up when Romy walked into her room. He didn’t bother to knock first; he sat down on the bed and gave her a shake. “Hey, Molly Wolly. Still got the ol’ stomach bug?”
Groaning, she looked at him. Romy reminded her of a reptile, his hair all slicked back and shiny, his eyes so dark you couldn’t see the pupils. Lizard man. But the hand stroking her hair was gentle—an aspect of Romy she hadn’t seen in such a very long time. He gave her a smile. “Not so good today, huh?”
“I threw up again. I can’t stop throwing up.”
“Yeah, well, I finally got you something for that.” He placed a bottle of pills on the nightstand. It had a label with handwritten instructions: Take one pill every eight hours for nausea. Romy went into the bathroom, filled a glass with water, and returned to Molly’s bed. He opened the bottle, shook a pill out, and helped her sit up. “Down the hatch,” he said.
She frowned at the pill. “What is this?”
“Medicine.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“It’s okay. It’s what the doctor ordered.”
“What doctor?”
“Here I’m trying to be nice, trying to make you feel better, and you talk back. I don’t really give a shit if you take the pill or not.”
She turned away and felt his hand pressing against her back, tightening into a fist. Then, unexpectedly, he relaxed and began to rub her back in warm, coaxing strokes.
“C’mon, Moll. You know I look out for you. Always have, always will.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “Like that makes me special.”
“You are. You’re my special babe. My own best girl.” He slid his hand under her shirt and stroked across her skin. “You been so prickly lately. Didn’t feel like showing you no favors. But you know I’m always watching out for you, Molly lollipop.” He tasted her earlobe and murmured: “Yum.”
“So what’s in the pill?”
“I told you. It’s so you’ll stop puking and start eating again. A growing girl’s gotta eat.” His lips slid down her neck, to graze her shoulder. “If you don’t eat, pretty soon I’ll have to bring you to some hospital. You want to wind up in a hospital? Bunch of strange doctors?”
“I don’t want to see no doctors.” She regarded the pill in her hand and felt a sudden sense of wonder, not about the pill, but about Romy. He hadn’t been this sweet to her in months, hadn’t paid her much attention at all. Not like before, when she had been his special girl. When they’d spent nights together in bed, watching MTV, eating ice cream, drinking beer. When he was the only one who’d touch her. Who was allowed to touch her. Before everything between them had changed.
He was smiling, not his usual small, mean smile, but one that actually touched his eyes.
She swallowed the pill and washed it down with a sip of water.
“That’s my girl.” He eased her back down to the pillow and tucked her in. “You go to sleep now.”
“Stay with me, Romy.”
“I got things to do, babe.” He stood up. “Business.”
“I have to tell you something. I think I know why I been sick—”
“We’ll talk about it later, okay?” He gave her a pat on the head and left the room.
Molly stared at the ceiling. Three weeks is too long for the stomach flu, she thought. She placed her hands on her belly and imagined she could already feel the swelling the
re. When did I mess up? Which guy pumped in a live one? She was always careful, always carried her own rubbers, had learned to apply them with the silky strokes of foreplay. She wasn’t stupid; she knew a girl could get sick out there.
Now she really was sick, and she couldn’t remember when she’d made the mistake.
Romy would blame her.
Rising from the bed, she felt light-headed. It was the hunger. These days she was always hungry, even when she felt nauseated. As she dressed, she munched on some more Fritos. The salt tasted good. She could have devoured handfuls, but there were only a few chips left. She tore the bag open and licked the crumbs, then saw herself in the mirror, her lips crusted with salt, and she was so disgusted by the image she tossed the bag into the rubbish and left her room.
It was only one-fifteen, and there was no action coming down yet. She saw Sophie up the street, leaning in a doorway as she chugged from a Pepsi can. Sophie was all butt and no brains. Determined to ignore her, Molly walked right past, her eyes focused straight ahead.
“If it isn’t Miss Titless,” said Sophie.
“Bigger the tits, smaller the brain.”
“Then girl, you must have one hell of a big brain.”
Molly kept walking, quickening her pace to escape Sophie’s whinnying laughter. She didn’t stop walking until she’d reached the phone booth two blocks away. She searched the tattered copy of the Yellow Pages, then slipped a quarter into the slot and dialed.
A voice answered: “Abortion Counseling.”
“I need to talk to someone,” said Molly. “I’m pregnant.”
A black car glided to a stop at the curb. Romy got into the backseat and shut the door.
The driver didn’t turn to look at him; he never did. Most of the time Romy found himself staring at the back of the man’s head, a narrow head with white-blond hair. You didn’t see that color of hair very often, not on a guy. Romy wondered if the bitches went for it But the way he figured it, bitches didn’t really care if you had any hair on your head, as long as you had money in your wallet.
Romy’s wallet was feeling pretty thin these days.
He looked around at the car, admiring it as he always did, yet resentful of the fact the guy in the driver’s seat was the man on top in more ways than one. Didn’t need to know the man’s name or what he did; you could smell his superiority like you could smell the fact these seats were leather. To a guy like him, Romulus Bell was just a scrap of litter that had blown into the car and would soon be ejected. Not worth a backward glance.
Romy looked at the man’s exposed neck and thought how easy it’d be to turn the tables. If he wanted to. That made him feel better.
“You have something to tell me?” the driver said.
“Yeah. I got another one knocked up.”
“Are you certain?”
“Hey, I know my girls, inside and out. I know it before they do. I been right every other time, haven’t I?”
“So you have.”
“What about the money? I’m supposed to get my money.”
“There’s a problem.”
“What problem?”
The driver reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror. “Annie Parini didn’t show up for her appointment this morning.”
Romy stiffened, his hand gripping the seat in front of him. “What?”
“I couldn’t find her. She wasn’t waiting on the Common as we agreed.”
“She was there. I walked her there myself.”
“Then she must have left before I arrived.”
The stupid bitch, he thought. How could you keep a business going when the bitches were always going against him, always screwing things up? Bitches had no brains. And now they were making him look bad.
“Where is Annie Parini, Mr. Bell?”
“I’ll find her.”
“Do it soon. We can’t let her go more than another month.” The man waved his hand. “You can get out of the car now.”
“What about my money?”
“There’s no payment today.”
“But I told you, I got another one knocked up.”
“This time we want delivery first. The last week of October. And don’t lose the merchandise. Now get out, Mr. Bell.”
“I need—”
“Get out.”
Romy climbed out and slammed the door. At once the car drove away, leaving him staring after it in fury.
He began to walk up Tremont Street, his agitation mounting with every step. He knew where Annie Parini hung out; he knew he could find her, and he would.
The words of the driver kept playing in his head. This time, don’t lose the merchandise.
* * *
The phone rang, waking Toby from a sleep so deep she felt as if she was surfacing through layers of mud. She fumbled for the receiver and knocked it off its cradle. It thudded to the floor. As she rolled over in bed to retrieve the phone, she caught sight of the bedside clock. It was twelve noon— for her, the equivalent of the middle of the night. The receiver had tumbled onto the other side of the nightstand. She used the cord to haul it back up.
“Hello?”
“Dr. Harper? It’s Robbie Brace.”
She lay in a stupor, struggling to remember who this man was and why his voice sounded familiar.
“Brant Hill Nursing Home?” he said. “We met two days ago. You asked me about Harry Slotkin.”
“Oh. Yes.” She sat up, her mind suddenly swept clear of sleep. “Thanks for calling.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much to report. I have Mr. Slotkin’s clinic chart in front of me and I see a clean bill of health.”
“There’s nothing at all?’
“Nothing that would explain his illness. Physical exam’s unremarkable. Labs look good . . .” Over the receiver, Toby could hear the rustle of pages being turned. “He had a full endocrine panel, totally normal.”
“When was this?”
“A month ago. So whatever you saw in the ER must’ve been fairly acute.”
She closed her eyes and felt her stomach knotting up again with tension. “Have you heard anything new?” she asked.
“They dragged the pond this morning. Haven’t found him. Which is good, I guess.”
Yes. It means he could still be alive.
“Anyway, that’s all I have to report.”
“Thank you,” she said, and hung up. She knew she should try to fall back to sleep. She was scheduled for another shift tonight, and she’d had only four hours of rest. But Robbie Brace’s call had left her agitated.
The phone rang again.
She grabbed the receiver and said, “Dr. Brace?”
The voice on the other end sounded startled. “Uh, no. This is Paul.” Paul Hawkins was chief of Springer ER. Officially he was her boss; unofficially, he was a sympathetic ear and one of her few close friends on the medical staff.
“Sorry, Paul,” she said. “I thought you were someone else calling back. What’s up?”
“We have a problem here. We need you to come in this afternoon.”
“But I got off just a few hours ago. I’m scheduled for another shift tonight.”
“This isn’t for a shift. It’s for a meeting with Administration. Ellis Corcoran’s asked for it.”
In the hierarchy of doctors at Springer Hospital, Corcoran, chief of the Med-Surg staff, was at the top of the authority pyramid. Paul Hawkins, and every other department chief, answered to Corcoran.
Toby sat up. “What’s this meeting all about?”
“A couple of things.”
“Harry Slotkin?”
A pause. “Partly. There are other issues they want to discuss.”
“They? Who else is going to be there?”
“Dr. Carey. Administration. They have questions about what happened that night.”
“I told you what happened.”
“Yes, and I’ve tried to explain it to them. But Doug Carey’s got some goddamn bee in his bonnet. He’s complained to Corcoran.”
>
She groaned. “You know what this is really about, Paul? It has nothing to do with Harry Slotkin. It’s about the Freitas boy. The one who died a few months ago. Carey’s trying to get back at me.”
“This is an entirely separate issue.”
“No it’s not. Carey screwed up and the kid died. I called him on it.”
“You didn’t just call him on a mistake. You got him sued for it.”
“The boy’s family asked for my opinion. Was I supposed to lie to them? Anyway, he should have been sued. Leaving a kid with a splenic rupture on an unmonitored floor? I’m the one who had to code the poor kid.”
“All right, so he screwed up. But you could’ve been more discreet with your opinions.”
And therein lay the real problem. Toby had not been discreet.
It had been the sort of code every doctor dreads: a dying child. The parents shrieking in the hallway. During her struggle to revive the boy, Toby had blurted out in frustration: “Why isn’t this boy in the ICU?”
The parents had heard it. Eventually, the lawyers heard it too.
“Toby, right now we have to focus on the issue at hand. The meeting’s scheduled for two o’clock this afternoon. They weren’t going to invite you, but I insisted.”
“Why wasn’t I invited? Is this a secret lynching?”
“Just try to get here, okay?”
She hung up and glanced at the clock. It was already twelve-thirty; she couldn’t leave until she found someone to stay with her mother. Immediately she picked up the phone again and called Bryan. She heard it ring four times, and then the answering machine picked up. Hi, this is Noel! And this is Bryan! We’re absolutely dying to hear from you, so leave a message. . .
She hit the disconnect button and dialed another number—her sister’s. Please be home. For once, Vickie, please be there for me. . .
“Hello?”
“It’s me,” said Toby, releasing a sigh of relief.
“Can you hold on a minute? I’ve got something on the stove. . .”
Toby heard the receiver clunk down, and the rattle of a pot lid. Then Vickie came back on the line.
“Sorry. Steve’s partners are coming for dinner tonight and I’m trying out this new dessert—”