Bitter Medicine (10 page)

I walked to the door with him, the uniformed man trailing behind. Rawlings turned on the landing to look at me.

“If I find that you were withholding on Malcolm Tregiere, I am going to haul your ass in for obstruction so fast it’s going to be smoking.”

“Yeah, yeah. Drive carefully.” I shut the door and locked it.

Mr. Contreras shook his head. “Disgusting the way he talked to you, cookie. And you have to sit and take it. You oughta call a lawyer is what you oughta do.”

I laughed a little, getting violent feedback from the stitches in my face. “Don’t let it trouble you. I wouldn’t last a minute on the street if a little tough talk got to me.”

We went back to dinner, now cold but still tasty. Mr. Contreras had grilled some fresh tomatoes along with the meat. They were easy to chew and had the rich flavor that only homegrown tomatoes have these days. I’d eaten three when the phone rang, Lotty calling to check up on me. And to remind me that Consuelo’s funeral was tomorrow. And Victoria Charlotte’s.

Then Paul phoned, and finally Tessa, who’d heard
about my action-packed night from Lotty. She was far more sympathetic.

“Jesus, Vic—if I’d known you’d get yourself badly hurt I would never have pushed you so hard. I wasn’t thinking—I should have realized anyone who would beat Malcolm’s brains out wouldn’t think twice about hurting you.”

I responded with a Sam Spade toughness I was far from feeling, telling her it was a good sign when you got a little reaction on the street: It meant you were hitting the right nerve. It sounded good, but didn’t mean anything. I had no idea whether the Lions had killed Malcolm. And if they had, I had no idea why.

After Tessa hung up, I told Mr. Contreras that I was getting a little worn down and needed to rest. He obligingly cleaned up the dishes and took the remains of the steak downstairs for his cat.

“Now, listen, doll—I may be a hundred years old, but I got good ears. Anyone comes gunning for you, I’ll hear ’em coming and head ’em off.”

“Anyone comes gunning for me here, you call the police. And stay inside with your door locked.”

He cocked a defiant eyebrow at me, prepared to argue the point at length. I bade him a firm good-bye and bolted my own doors, back and front. Any door can be broken down by someone who wants to badly enough, but I had extra-heavy ones installed when I moved in, with good locks. I’ve been attacked at home too many times to treat the prospect lightly.

I lay down with the radio turned low to the game. At first I could vaguely hear Harry Caray’s inane screaming, but as I relaxed the noise faded to a buzz and I lapsed into a feverish dream.

I was outside the high cyclone fence surrounding my high school’s athletic field watching a baseball game. Bill Buckner was on third. He turned and saw me and beckoned to me to climb the fence to join him. I started to climb but my right leg was paralyzed. I looked down and saw the mute mournful face of the baby staring at me as she clutched my pant leg. I couldn’t dislodge her without hurting her and she would not let go of my jeans. The scene switched, but wherever I went, whatever else was going on, the baby clung to me.

I knew I was sleeping and wanted desperately to climb out of the quicksand of dreams. Whether because of the three scotches or the drugs they’d given me at
the hospital. I couldn’t make myself wake up. A ringing phone became part of a nightmare about hiding from SS guards, with the baby clinging to my shirt and wailing. I finally wrenched myself from sleep into consciousness and groped with a leaden arm for the receiver.

“H’lo,” I said thickly.

“Miss Warshawski?”

It was a light tenor that was vaguely familiar. I struggled to rouse myself, clearing my throat.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Peter Burgoyne, from Friendship Hospital in Schaumburg. Have I called at a bad time?”

“No. No. I’ve just been sleeping. I wanted to wake up. Hold on.”

I got sluggishly to my feet and staggered to the bathroom. I took off my clothes, which I hadn’t changed when I came back from the hospital, and stood under a cold shower, letting water run through my hair and over my sore face. I knew Burgoyne was waiting, but I took an extra minute for a shampoo—clean hair is the key to an alert mind.

Wrapping myself in a large terry-cloth robe, I padded with a semblance of energy back to the bedroom. Burgoyne was still attached to the other end of the line.

“Sorry to keep you waiting. I was in an accident last night—I’ve been sleeping off some drug the hospital gave me.”

“Accident! Car wreck? I assume you weren’t hurt badly or you wouldn’t be home?”

“No, just cut up a bit around the face. An ugly sight but not a mortal condition.”

“Well, maybe I should call another time,” he offered dubiously.

“No, no, this is fine. What’s up?”

When he saw Malcolm’s death in the papers he’d been devastated. “What a blow for you after the girl and her baby died. And now you’ve been in an accident, too. I’m sorry.”

“Thanks. It’s good of you to call.”

“Look…. I want to go to the girl’s funeral. Maybe I shouldn’t, but I feel pretty depressed that we couldn’t save her.”

“It’s tomorrow,” I said. “Holy Sepulchre Church at Kennedy and Fullerton. One o’clock.”

“I know—I checked with the family. The thing is, I feel awkward going by myself. I wondered—do you think—were you going?”

I ground my teeth. “Yeah, sure, I’ll go with you,” I said unenthusiastically. “Do you want to meet at the church, or would you rather come to my apartment?”

“You’re sure you’re up to it? You don’t sound as though you really want to go.”

“I don’t want to go. And you’re the third caller today to remind me about it. But I’ll be there, so if you want a barricade I guess I can provide it.”

He decided to come to my apartment at twelve-thirty—easier than looking for each other in the crowd
of family, nuns, and schoolmates who would be packing the church. I gave him directions and hung up.

I wondered if Burgoyne lost many patients—if he did he must feel chewed up all the time. Maybe the relatively high standard of living in the northeast suburbs meant that he didn’t have a lot of high-risk pregnant women using his beautiful neonatal-care center. Maybe Consuelo was the first pregnant teenager he’d treated since leaving Chicago. Or maybe he really hadn’t started treating her right away because he thought she was an indigent Mexican.

I called Lotty to let her know I wouldn’t be going to the funeral with her and went back to bed. This time I slept soundly and dreamlessly and woke a little after five the next morning.

I put on shorts and a sweatshirt and walked the two miles to the harbor to watch the sunburst over the lake. The fisherman—or some fisherman—was there again casting into the slate-still water. I wondered if he ever caught anything, but didn’t want to disturb the Dutch-landscape beauty of the scene by talking to him. On the way home I tried jogging a few blocks, but the motion set up an unpleasant shaking in my face. Give it a few more days.

Mr. Contreras opened his front door as I came into the lobby.

“Just checking that it was someone who belonged here, doll. You feeling better today?”

“Much, thanks.” I went on up the stairs. Morning is not my favorite part of the day—this was the first time all summer I’d been outside early enough to see the sun rise—and I wasn’t in the mood for chitchat.

I went to a small safe I’d had built into the wall in the hall closet and took out my gun. I don’t often carry it, but if Rawlings picked up Sergio and I signed the complaint I might need it. I cleaned the Smith & Wesson carefully and loaded it. With the clip in, it weighed over two pounds, an awkward weight if you’re not used to it. I stuck it into my waistband and spent some time practicing getting it out and releasing the safety quickly. I really should go to a range regularly, but it’s one of myriad high-discipline projects I can’t force myself to undertake.

After a quarter hour or so of practice I put the gun away and wandered out to the kitchen. Yogurt with fresh blueberries went down easily so I had two bowls with the morning
Herald-Star.
Gooden had shut the Cubs out in the first game, but under the smooth arm of Scott Sanderson the good guys had come back 7-2 in the second.

I put the bowl into the sink. Thanks to Mr. Contreras’s work, it was the only dirty dish in the house. Maybe I should have him up for dinner every Sunday.

I surveyed the living room. Clutter to live by. But I was damned if I was going to clean house just because Burgoyne had invited himself to Consuelo’s funeral. By the same logic I left the bed unmade and added my
shorts and sweatshirt to several other garments draped across a chair.

I went into the bathroom to inspect the damage. The reddish-purples in my face were already trailing away to greens and yellows. When I pressed my tongue underneath the wound, it pulled against the stitches but the wound didn’t gape apart. Dr. Pirwitz had been right—this was going to clear up pretty fast. It seemed to me makeup would only accentuate the horrors of the flesh; I limited my toilet to a careful washing and anointing of the wound with the salves given me at Beth Israel.

For the funeral, I picked a navy suit whose bolero jacket ended low enough on the hips to cover the gun. Its rayon-linen blend would be tolerable, if not wonderful, in the heat. With a white lawn blouse, sheer navy panty hose, and low-heeled black pumps, I looked like a candidate for convent school.

When Burgoyne arrived a little before twelve-thirty, I buzzed him in through the street door, then went out to the landing to see what Mr. Contreras might do. Sure enough, he arrived promptly on the scene. I laughed quietly to myself as I eavesdropped.

“Excuse me, young man, but where are you going?”

Burgoyne, startled: “I’m visiting one of the tenants on the third floor.”

“Warshawski or Cummings?”

“Why do you want to know?” Burgoyne used his doctor-to-hysterical-patient voice.

“I’ve got my reasons, young man. Now, I don’t want to have to call the cops, so who are you visiting?”

Before Mr. Contreras got to the point of demanding a driver’s license, I called down that I knew who it was.

“Okay, doll.” Mr. Contreras’s voice floated back up. “Just wanted to make sure he wasn’t friends of friends you don’t want calling on you, if you get me.”

I thanked him gravely and waited on the landing for Burgoyne. He ran up lightly and reached the top without breathing hard. In a navy summer suit, with his dark hair washed and combed, he looked younger and happier than he’d seemed at the hospital.

“Hi,” he said. “Good to see you again…. Who’s the old man?”

“Neighbor. Good friend. He’s feeling in a protective mood but it’s well-intentioned—don’t let it upset you.”

“No, no. It doesn’t. You ready? You want to go in my car?”

“Just a second.” I went inside to fetch a hat. Not for religious scruples. I was taking very seriously the idea of keeping direct summer sun off my face.

“That’s quite a cut you got there.” Burgoyne looked closely at my face. “Looks like you were hit by a piece of flying glass. I thought most windshields crumbled these days instead of shattering.”

“I was cut by a piece of metal,” I explained, double-locking the door.

Burgoyne drove an ’86 Nissan Maxima. The car was beautifully appointed, with leather seats, a leather dashboard, individual six-way seat controls, and, naturally, a phone resting over the universal joint. I sank back in the bucket seat. No city sounds reached us, and the air-conditioning, which kept the car at 69 degrees, was noiseless. If I’d gone into corporate law and kept my mouth shut when I was supposed to, I’d be driving a car like this. But then I’d never have met Sergio or Fabiano. You can’t have everything in this life.

“How’d you get Monday afternoon off for a funeral?” I asked idly.

He smiled briefly. “I’m in charge of OB at Friendship—I simply tell people I’m taking off.”

I was impressed and said so. “You’re pretty young to have moved so fast, aren’t you?”

He shook his head. “Not really. I think I told you I went out there when they were just starting to build up their obstetrical service. So I have seniority. That’s all. Just like being a pipefitter.”

It took a scant ten minutes to cover the three miles to the church. We had no trouble finding a parking space in the derelict streets. Burgoyne carefully locked the Maxima and switched on its alarm. It might slow down the less enterprising of the neighborhood’s youth, at least in broad daylight.

Holy Sepulchre had been built sixty years ago as part of a large Polish community. In its heyday, close to a thousand people attended the main Sunday mass. Now,
even a multitude of Alvarados, an entire convent of nuns, and dozens of schoolgirls could not fill the nave. Unadorned stone pillars disappeared high overhead into a vaulted ceiling. A high altar attached to the wall was lit fitfully by many candles: Holy Sepulchre had stood firm against many of the changes of Vatican II. The windows had been covered with wire netting to protect the few remaining pieces of stained glass, adding to the church’s dark, forbidding atmosphere. Any color was provided by the schoolgirls, who were dressed in bright pastels. I liked the Catholic custom of not wearing mourning for the funeral of a child.

Lotty was sitting by herself about two-thirds of the way up the aisle, looking severe in black. I went up to sit next to her, Burgoyne trailing meekly in my wake. In a hasty undertone I performed introductions. Lotty nodded briefly.

The organ played softly as people went to the front of the church to kneel at the flower-laden coffins. Mrs. Alvarado sat in the front row with her five other children. I could see the back of her head nod stiffly as various people stopped to condole with her.

The music increased a few decibels. Under its cover, Lotty leaned her head next to my ear and muttered, “Fabiano’s sitting three rows up with his mother. Take a look at him.”

I followed her discreetly pointing finger, but could see only his slouched shoulders and a one-eighth view of his face. I raised inquiring eyebrows at Lotty.