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Blair could see himself crouching in the alley with his suit jacket over his head and muttering some prayer that was quick and to the point. He expected to be the next to get hit by the pick, but instead he heard muffled thuds from a distance, someone else moaning, and the sound of blood splattering everywhere.
Peeking out from under his jacket, Blair found the same man who’d assaulted Cynthia now standing over the body of someone else. Shining the flashlight toward the end of the alley, the assailant looked around, gripping the pick as if he expected yet another person to jump out from the shadows. When he saw that no one was there except an old cat sauntering past, the man picked up his felt hat where Blair had dropped it and then switched off the light. Tossing the pick and the gloves he’d been wearing aside, he walked out of the alley. His body moved with confidence and grace, like a scholar gliding across a stage to reach a lectern. Blair’s head echoed with the sound of shoes clapping against the pavement.
When Blair was sure that the guy was gone, he got out of the alley as quickly as possible, leaving through the opposite end. His steps were lively, and he felt something stick to the bottom of his shoe. Undaunted, Blair didn’t stop running until he managed to get a healthy distance away from there.
The streets were deserted, and only an occasional car was parked next to the curb, and a couple of those were ticketed vehicles. Traffic lights all over the city were flashing either red or yellow as they always did between eleven o’clock at night and six the next morning. Thank God the streetlights were still burning, attracting moths and other insects content to dance the late hours away. Power lines crackled overhead.
Blair kept running until he thought every chamber of his heart would burst. Stopping before he collapsed, he leaned against a parked Chevy Cavalier station wagon and then started vomiting all over the sidewalk. Blood was mixed with the vomit, no doubt the result of ruptured esophageal varices. All he needed right now was to be reminded of his plugged up liver.
“Dr. Vaughn!” someone called, and that made him jump. “Dr. Vaughn, are you all right?”
Blair looked into the reassuring face of Mercedes, the church volunteer who had served him earlier that evening.
“Call me Blair,” he insisted, still bent over against the car. Blair threw up again, and afterward he found it difficult to catch his breath.
“My God, what’s happened to you?” Mercedes asked. “Are you bleeding?”
“Only internally,” he said.
She looked aghast by the obvious implications of that.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
He nodded, coughing up what had been left behind and then spitting it out onto the sidewalk with the rest. “What time is it?” Blair asked between gasps. “The time.”
Mercedes checked her watch. “It’s almost two-thirty.”
“In the morning?” he asked, and she nodded. “What are you doing here?”
Mercedes sighed, laughing lightly. “I work here, remember?” She pointed to the church behind her.
“Well, they don’t serve food at two-thirty in the morning,” he said. “It’s dangerous for you to be out here so late at night.”
“It’s dangerous for you, too,” she said. “I figured you’d be at the YMCA or in a boardinghouse by now.”
“What makes you say that? You need money to get into those places, and you know I don’t have any.”
She smiled. “You probably haven’t found it yet, but I slipped twenty dollars inside your coat.”
“You gave me the money?” he asked, and so she nodded. “I don’t take handouts, especially from women.” He was lying, but it sounded like the right thing to say at the time. Of course he was down and out, but she didn’t have to know how low.
“You looked like you needed a little money to help you out tonight,” she said. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you.”
Mercedes lowered her big, brown eyes as she reached inside her purse for a key. Unlocking the door to the Chevy wagon, she said, “Do you need a lift, or would that be too much like a handout, too?”
Blair stood away from the car just to let her know how annoyed she was making him. Still, he knew he’d asked for that tone in her voice.
“Okay, yeah,” he said, “I need a lift.”
“Where are you going?”
“Southbound, as far as you’re going.”
“All right,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Hop in.”
After they got inside the station wagon, she drove off down the street. The air in the vehicle was tinged with a most delightful mix of daylilies and rainwater, as potent and yet as subtle as a spring day. Blair had encountered the scent before, but he couldn’t remember where.
After a long silence, Mercedes asked, “Did you spend the money on alcohol?”
He looked ashamed of himself, but he liked her too much to lie. “Yes,” he said, looking down at his hands.
She seemed genuinely concerned about the state he was in, and she gripped the steering wheel tighter. “I can smell liquor on you, but you don’t seem to be drunk. How much alcohol did you drink?”
Blair shrugged his shoulders. “A third of a liter of whiskey and about a fifth of gin.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope.”
Glancing up at the visor above his head, Blair found a case for glasses clipped to it, but it was empty. Blair had seen cases with black leather and gold trim before, but he couldn’t remember where. Leaning forward, he examined it close enough to make out the word ‘Revo’ along the side of it in fancy, gold letters.
“So, what kind of a doctor are you?” Mercedes asked, and he looked at her impatiently.
“I’m a doctor of dental medicine.”
“You’re a dentist?” she asked. He nodded, studying the dark buildings they passed as if he were looking for something; he only wanted to avoid her inquisitive eyes. Earlier rains had left curious imprints along the edges of the car’s windows, which would’ve been spotless otherwise. As Mercedes drove along, the wind pushed the water droplets back until they raced toward the rear of the car.
“Yes, I’m a dentist. Blair W. Vaughn, D.M.D. at your service.”
“What made you give it up?”
“I didn’t,” he said. “I still have an active license. It doesn’t expire for another year.”
“Well, why don’t you have a practice?”
“Setting up a practice is expensive, especially around the suburbs of Detroit. I’ve always worked for someone else. Besides, you need steady hands if you’re going to cut a prep or access a nerve chamber. People are nervous enough when they go to a dental office. The last thing they want to see is a syringe darting around because you can’t keep your hands still.”
“It’s the alcohol, isn’t it?” she surmised.
“Yes. I can’t seem to call myself a drunk yet, but I do admit that alcohol is a problem for me.”
“You should get some help, Blair.”
“What, A.A.?” he asked, and so she nodded. “No, I’m not ready for that.”
Blair stared at Mercedes until he could no longer focus on her. There was only two feet between them, but his mind just couldn’t seem to gauge the distance.
Finally, she asked, “Are you all right?” but he never remembered answering her.