Angel With a Bullet (17 page)

Twenty-five

Tendrils of yellow mix
with smoky gray to dance upon fleshy screens. I blink the ghosts away, head pounding with each flutter. My left hand throbs, my body aches, and my skull is a bruised honeydew of tender spots.

I'm not on the floor anymore. Instead, my neck and back are cushioned with pillows. I feel the fabric with my hand. I am on the couch. The couch where Goldilocks slept through the angry bear attack.

I open my eyes. A wilted cabbage, thick leaves flapping like loose skin, looks down at me. I wonder if I have fallen down the rabbit hole again.

“Drink this,” says the cabbage, holding out a small glass of clear liquid.

“Is that to make me grow or shrink?” I mumble. “I forget what comes first.”

The cabbage looks away, its green leaves flapping at something beyond my line of sight.

When its face returns, it begins to look familiar.

“Wake up, kid,” says the cabbage. “You're gonna be OK.”

I blink again, trying to focus. The cabbage slowly fades and Frank's concerned face blossoms into view. He looks like hell: baggy eyes, tousled hair, out-of-control eyebrows, and a dusting of gray stubble darkening his chin as though he sneezed in an ashtray.

“Did I wake you?” My voice is hoarse.

Frank laughs. It sounds wonderful and despite my pain, I try to join in. My own laugh is weak and broken, but still, it's good to be alive.

“Can't leave you alone for a second,” he says. “What the hell happened?”

“Ask the idiot who dove out the window.”

“The window?”

“Yeah. Dumb move. No fire escape on that side.”

Frank's brow knits in a frown.

“You sure he went out the window?”

“You didn't see the body? He landed on top of a car in the alley. An old Chevy, I think. Made a real mess of the roof.”

Frank moves to the broken window and peers out. I follow him with my eyes. Everything else hurts too much.

“Nobody down there, Dix,” he says. “No dented car, either.”

“You sure?”

Frank's mouth twitches. “I've had some practice spotting these things.”

“I thought he was dead. Bastard stabbed me in the—”

I hold up my left hand. The knife is gone and my hand is wrapped in a thick white bandage. I can't move my fingers.

“That's just a patch job,” says a woman's voice from the kitchenette.

I turn my head to see a broad-shouldered woman in her early fifties with a tanned, oval face that, although we all need a little help, doesn't require much makeup to be pretty. She is wearing a loose-fitting jogging outfit in a cheerful shade of purple. It's the kind of thing you throw on when you need to dash to the corner shop for a chocolate bar before your favorite TV show starts. A matching lavender scrunchie keeps shoulder-length hazelnut hair pulled back from her face. With her hair down, she probably looks younger.

Sitting beside her on the kitchen counter is a small leather doctor's bag. It's monogrammed in silver.

“Dix, meet Ruth,” Frank says. “Ruth was kind enough to come over when I called. You had a knife sticking through your hand.”

“Yeah,” I say dryly. “I noticed that.”

Ruth steps forward so I don't have to crane my neck so far, and I suddenly recall where I know her name from.

“You're the coroner!” I say.

Ruth smiles and nods.

“Frank's mentioned you,” I add.

Ruth's smile grows brighter. “I cleaned and stitched the wound. You're fortunate. The knife was sharp and the blade went through the flesh without obstruction.”

“And that's good?”

Ruth's chuckle is low and husky, like I imagine Marlene Dietrich's would be after a night smoking cheap German cigarettes and drinking twelve-year-old cognac.

“It means I can't see any reason for permanent damage. The knife appears to have sliced nicely between the metacarpus bones, which in itself is a minor miracle. The damaged muscle is very good at self-repair, given time. It's more difficult, however, to see tendons and nerves without really getting in there. I fabricated a splint to prevent you moving your fingers until you can get to the hospital and see a specialist. All in all, I would say you're a very lucky woman.”

“Yeah, I feel it.” My eyes drift to her medical bag again. “You don't happen to have anything in there for pain, do you?”

“Oh, I never thought of that,” she says. “My regular clients never ask.”

I stare at her open-mouthed. “That's because they're dead!”

Both Ruth and Frank burst out laughing.

“Oh, you guys are hilarious,” I say. “What do you do for an encore? Sonny and Cher songs?”

“Nope,” Ruth replies with a wink. “We're into line dancing.”

My lips curl into a less than congenial sneer but soften again when Ruth brings over a small container of Percocet.

“Go easy on these,” she says as I pop two. “They can be addictive.”

I swallow, not caring if they're laced with heroin, just so long as they take the edge off the pain.

I close my eyes for a few moments to allow the drugs time to dissolve into my bloodstream. When I open them again, I ask, “How's Kristy?”

“She's fine,” says Frank. “I carried her next door to her bed. Sam's with her.”

“Was she injured?” I ask.

“No,” Ruth joins in. “Her pulse is fine, but she's in a deep sleep. Possibly drug-induced. I couldn't wake her.”

“It was some kind of gas,” I say. “There's a small tank attached to a hose outside the window.”

Frank returns to the broken window and looks outside again. “I don't see it.”

“Shit!” I try to sit up. And fail. “Is Diego's painting still around? I dropped it in the lobby.”

“I'll check later.”

“Who in hell was I fighting, Frank?” I ask angrily. “Spider-Man? It's a two-story drop out that window. There was no way he was getting up and walking away. I saw him lying on that car after the fall. Hell, I puked on him, and he didn't budge.”

“We'll find out, kid.” Frank returns to the couch and sits on its edge. He takes my uninjured hand in his. “But for now, get some rest.”

I want to argue with him, but the Percocet is kicking in and my eyelids are heavy. I decide to let them rest, just for a little while.

_____

When I open
my eyes again, it's morning.

A proud, red-breasted robin sits on the ledge of my broken window and chirps its delight at the absence of rain and an unexpectedly clear, fog-free sky. I would have chirped, too, but the Percocet has worn off and I am feeling too damn grumpy.

I grope around for the prescription bottle, pop the cap one-handed, and swallow two pills dry.

When I get to my feet, the robin takes flight. I can't blame it; I must look a fright.

Carefully, I stretch my muscles. Knots the size of Frank's fists lodge in my shoulders, legs, and back. I bend from the waist, touch my toes, and all the blood in my body rushes to my brain in a dizzying flood.

I must have blacked out. When I open my eyes again, I am back on the couch. But at least I'm sitting up. I stand again, wait a few breaths, and then head toward my bedroom. I unbutton my jeans as I go, desperate for a shower and fresh clothes.

I have just pulled my T-shirt over my head when—

“Hope you don't mind, Dix, but there was nowhere else to sleep.”

I don't scream. I think about it, but my brain doesn't seem capable of even the basest instincts.

“Jeez, Frank!” I clutch my heart and awkwardly pull my t-shirt back down. “You trying to finish the bastard's job from last night?”

Frank's mouth twitches. “You know, maybe it's the light, but you don't look a thing like Whitney Houston.”

“Hmmm, and you're Kevin Costner, I suppose?”

“Practically twins.”

Frank throws his legs over the side of my bed and stretches his arms. He is still fully dressed in his wrinkled suit and tired trench coat. His thin, unkempt hair looks the same post-sleep as it does pre.

“You could have taken your coat off you know? I do wash the sheets.”

Frank stands up. “That would be like asking Batman to remove his cape.”

I grin. “Well, if you wouldn't mind slinging your bat-hook somewhere else, I desperately need a shower.”

“No problem, you got anything to eat? I'm starved.”

I glance over at Bubbles, the oldest goldfish in the world, swimming happily in her bowl.

“Anything that doesn't move, you can eat,” I offer. Bubbles looks relieved.

Frank plods out of the room.

Grabbing a fresh towel, I head to the bathroom, strip, and step into the tub to shower. Before I can turn on the water, there's a knock on the door.

“What?” I call out.

“Got a present for you,” Frank calls back.

“Can't it wait?”

“Nope.”

I step out of the tub, wrap a towel around myself and open the door a crack.

Frank holds out an empty plastic grocery bag and a thick elastic band.

“Nice. Make it yourself?”

“It's for your hand,” he says. “You don't want the bandage getting wet before you see the specialist.”

I grab the bag and elastic with my good hand.

“I'll cherish it,” I say and close the door.

_____

After dressing in clean clothes and popping two more Percocet, I feel almost human until I look in the mirror. I don't need concealer; I need to book myself into the local autobody shop for major reconstruction. After doing my best with what I have on hand, the final ingredient necessary for complete transformation is coffee.

I exit the bedroom to the sound of Frank's laughter as he talks on the phone.

I flash him a goofy face and enter the kitchenette to the blessed aroma of fresh-perked No Sweat Peruvian. Expecting the worst—based on my experience with men who could only make coffee if you left instructions in the form of a Bil Keane
Family Circus
comic strip—I pour myself a small splash in a mug and taste.

To my surprise, it is excellent.

I fill the mug almost to the brim, add a drop of cream, and inhale.

“Dix!” Frank calls from the sofa. “Phone's for you.”

“Who is it?”

“Your mother.”

I stiffen. “You're talking to my mother?”

Frank nods.

“And laughing?”

“Yeah, she's—”

I hold up my hand to stop him. “Gimme the phone!”

Frank hands over the receiver with an expression that suggests I have just grown a second head.

“Hi, M—”

“Who is that nice man who answered the phone? He sounds older, much too old for you, but very nice. Is he single? How do you know him and why is he in your apartment? He didn't stay the night, did he?” She gasps. “Don't tell me you've become a prostitute.”

“No, Mom! I'm not a prostitute.”

Frank grins wide and crosses his arms. I sit on the couch and turn my back to him.

“Well, who is he then?”

“He's a cop. A detective.”

“What have you done?”

“I haven't done anything. He's help—”

“I've always said the city is too dangerous. Remember that time your father and I visited and that man urinated on our car wheels? Who does that?”

“I remember, Mom. How could I possibly forget? You kee—”

“You should come home.”

“I am home. San Francisco is my home.”

“No, you should come back to your family.”

“I have family. My friends are—”

“Hmmm. I was watching Dr. Phil and I think your friends across the hall might be more than roommates.”

“Really?” My mind flashes to the image of Sam handcuffed to the bed and wearing a dog mask.

“Yes. Dr. Phil says it's becoming more and more common now for women to—”

“How's Dad?” I interrupt, knowing it is a cruel question, but seeing little alternative.

“Don't get me started. I think he's on Viagra.”

“Mom!”

“Well, I mean, at his age, and then suddenly there's talk he's been at the Barn and dancing with everything in a skirt. Young, old, he's not picky.”

“He's allowed to have a life.”

“You always loved h—”

“You're allowed to have a life too.”

“Hmmmm.” She sniffles. “Who would want me?”

“You don't need a man to enjoy yourself.”

“No,” she says softly. “But it helps. I like to be treated right.”

“I gotta go. I have a meeting. Was there anything you needed?”

“No, dear, I'm fine. You go on, don't worry about me. Marcy's coming over later and we're going to hit the thrift stores and then maybe catch afternoon bingo.”

“OK, have fun. I love you.”

“Love you too, little bird.”

She hangs up.

I turn to Frank.

“Don't say a freakin' word.”

Frank's mouth twitches—a lot.

_____

“So you want
me to drop you at the hospital?” Frank asks as we reach the bottom of the coffee pot.

I shake my head. “I appreciate the offer, but I have an appointment first.”

Frank frowns. “The Percs may dull the pain, but you need to make sure—”

“I will, Frank, but Roger Kingston isn't an easy man to see and from what I hear, he holds a grudge if you disappoint. I'll go to the hospital later. Promise.”

“What are you hoping to get from Kingston?”

I shrug. “A reason why Diego hated Adamsky would be good. Was he obsessed? Jealous? Is there a woman involved? Is that why he topped himself in such dramatic fashion—or why someone helped speed his demise along? Also, why does Kingston want the blood painting so badly that he had his rep arrive at the apartment before the body was even cold? And how did he know about it so soon, especially if Casper was no longer legally representing Diego's work?”