Death Will Get You Sober: A New York Mystery; Bruce Kohler #1 (Bruce Kohler Series) (4 page)

“They only kill people on the stairs.” I wasn’t kidding. The dark stairwell had a reputation. “He had cancer. Rumor has it that he begged them not to send him to hospice because this detox was the closest thing he had to home and family.”

“Jeez. Talk about a fate worse than death.”

“It made me think. I know it’s down to me or old Jack one of these days. Believe it or not, I don’t want to die.”

“So what are you going to do different?”

“I’m not sure yet. You know treatment programs haven’t worked for me. There’s one temp agency that hasn’t thrown my file away. I figured I’d call them. I can work a few days a week, and it’ll leave plenty of time for meetings.” I had temped doing office work on and off for years, but I wasn’t the world’s most reliable employee. I’d managed to burn a lot of bridges. Dumb luck that one still held up. My Plan B in the past had always been to tap Jimmy for a loan. That I did mean to do different. But I didn’t want even to mention it to Barbara. No point getting her mad about the past.

“And at the meetings,” she prodded, “what are you going to do different? Coming late, leaving early, and standing in the back schmoozing and drinking coffee hasn’t worked for you either.” She reached out and rubbed my arm a little. Telling me she said it because she cared, not just to bust my balls.

“I’ll get a sponsor.”

“It can’t be Jimmy.”

“Yes, dear,” I said with a hint of snap and crackle.

AA sponsors have long-term sobriety and a built-in bullshit detector, which I knew I needed. I had always been an outstanding bullshitter. It’s not that Jimmy didn’t see right through me, but we had too much history together.

“He’d be happy to go to meetings with you.”

“Kill two birds with one stone, huh?”

“You know how hard it is to get Jimmy away from his computer,” she said. “And he can always use a meeting.”

“Bless your codependent little heart, you’re not still afraid he’ll drink again after all these years, are you?”

Barbara grinned. “As he points out to me, how do I imagine he could forget, with me talking a blue streak about it all the time.”

“You’re a good soul, Barbara.”

“Why, thank you,” she said, pleased. “And I’m there for you too if you ever want to talk or anything. You know we both love you.”

Impulsively, I held out my arms. She locked her arms around my waist and snuggled her face into my sweatshirt.

“Mmm, you smell like clean laundry.” She did the bloodhound thing again. “And shaving soap and just a little smoke.”

“You don’t like smoke.”

“Better than the unbearable reek of alcohol seeping out through the pores.”

“Amazing what a difference a few days off the stuff makes,” I admitted. “I’m a new man.”

“You’re good to hug, too. So’s Jimmy, of course.”

“But different,” I pointed out. I’m compact. Jimmy is a big tall guy with the density of a firm mattress.

“Mmm. Hugging Jimmy is like hugging Santa Claus.” She gave my ribs a squeeze. “You really don’t deserve these nice hard muscles, considering your lifestyle.” She squeezed again and let me go.

Laughing, I popped my head out the laundry room door. I could see Charmaine coming down the hall, her irritable voice heralding her arrival.

“I think your date is here,” I said.

Bark trotted after her, working hard to keep up with her brisk pace.

“Please!” she snapped. “Sister Angel is muttering about a blessed release, and the hospice is whining about what should they do with his paperwork if he isn’t coming after all.”

Barbara and I exchanged a complicit glance. They were talking about Elwood.

“It’s sad to see the old ones go,” Bark said. “I used to drink with Mudbone. He was the last. No one left now remembers when I lived in a box.” I knew by now that Bark had been on the Bowery forever. He started drinking during the Korean War and lived in a cardboard box for at least a quarter of a century before getting sober, to his own surprise as well as everybody else’s.

Charmaine’s voice softened more than I’d thought it could. “You’ve been sober a long time.”

Barbara stepped out and greeted Charmaine with a peck on the cheek and Bark with a quick hug. I hung back, trying not to fraternize with the staff.

“You’re amazing, Bark,” Barbara said, “one of a kind.”

“Right,” the old man said drily. “They don’t make drunks like they used to any more.”

“Ready to go?” she asked Charmaine. “With you in a sec.” She swung back into the laundry room, one hand on the door frame.

“You take care of yourself,” she admonished me. “Don’t you dare go AMA before you’re discharged, and don’t get into any trouble.”

“Me?” I projected injured innocence. “Trouble? This is detox. A bunch of guys in their jammies and not so much as a can of Bud Lite. What could possibly happen?”

Along with Barbara’s visit, Elwood’s death kind of broke up the long, timeless days for me. Although it was hardly a blip for the detox as a whole, I couldn’t stop thinking about the old man. No matter how bad a drunk you are, most of the people you trip over aren’t dead. I thought about stuff I usually make sure I avoid, like pain and loneliness. I wondered if he had had time to feel relieved that he wouldn’t have to go to hospice. I wondered if I’d been too flip with the baby cops who’d come and taken a perfunctory statement. I even wondered if he’d really died of natural causes. Maybe he had seen the sneak thief or known somebody’s secret.

New Year’s Eve came quicker than I expected. We celebrated with an extra meeting. Recovering alcoholics don’t make New Year’s resolutions. We’ve all been on the wagon and fallen off too many times. If we choose to stay sober, we do it one day at a time. That feels a lot more tolerable than forever. If you make ninety days, they give you a little pin with a camel on it and the number 24, because a camel can go twenty-four hours without a drink. Jimmy had a camel. I didn’t.

After New Year’s Day came Check Day, and God and I both got our twenty-four hour pass. He asked me what I planned to do.

“I thought I’d call my friend Jimmy, go to a meeting.” I wasn’t sure whether I was lying or not. Mostly I just wanted to walk around. Breathe some air that didn’t smell of ammonia. Smoke a pack or two without anybody glaring at me. Throw the butts on the sidewalk if I felt like it. Eat a cheeseburger. “What about you?” Maybe he’d ask to hook up with me. I wasn’t sure whether or not I wanted that either.

“Oh, this and that.” He gave the bed he was making a final thwack and stuffed a few small items in his pockets. “See a few people, rattle a few cages.”

It didn’t sound like he needed my company. I felt relieved. I’d call Jimmy. No, I wouldn’t. Maybe I would. I knew what he’d say if I did: “Let’s go to a meeting.”

Lying awake in bed the night of January third, I thought the day hadn’t gone badly. I had woken up this morning in Laura’s loft in SoHo, a nice change from detox. We’d made love. To tell the truth, though I would never admit it to Barbara, I think Laura is almost as crazy as Barbara thinks she is. I did manage to get a divorce. Okay, she got a divorce, but I didn’t fight it.

Still, Laura and I knew each other’s bodies. It’s so simple to go to bed with an old lover. I’d long since adopted the path of least resistance, the way people adopt a road. So for better or worse, my ex-wife and I put it on rewind for a few hours. It was a relief in more ways than one. My mental checklist for sobriety: One, don’t drink. Two, go to a meeting. Three, see if I can still get it up. I could.

Seeing Barbara had been weird but nice. Jimmy lucked out with her. I usually got the girls. Jimmy thought he would end up with one of those Catholic girls from Queens who wouldn’t wear patent leather shoes because they might reflect up their dress. Barbara’s smart, she’s funny, she can talk the hind leg off a donkey, and she’s crazy about Jimmy. I enjoy her little foibles and the way she tries to take care of me, an uphill task if I ever saw one.

God and I got back at about the same time. He was still the closest thing I had to a friend in detox. His ugly side hadn’t turned toward me yet. No one else was exempt. God didn’t worry about getting knifed because he didn’t plan to stick around on the Bowery. I couldn’t curb my curiosity about him. He had a presence. You couldn’t ignore him. I wanted to hear more about his family. What hadn’t he told me? Why had they stopped speaking to him? Why did he clam up? I asked how his day out had been.

“Interesting. Made a few overdue calls. Annoyed a few people.” He smiled rather nastily.

Dinner featured mystery meat as usual. A culinary arts training program that served as work release for felons did the detox catering. I’m not making this up. Everyone kept more than usually silent during the meal. It had been a stressful day for some. Three guys hadn’t made it back. They were out there copping drugs or in a doorway with a bottle. Two more had tried to get back in but been kicked out as soon as the breathalyzer lit up on them. Those were the Strike Threes. One or two more would most likely get thrown out when the lab results came back in a day or two. I didn’t see any empty seats, though. Business in these places always booms after major holidays. Especially New Year’s Eve. Now there’s a holiday with no traditions whatsoever. If you don’t count getting blitzed and counting backwards from twelve.

A video provided the evening’s entertainment. Big thrill. Foreplay consisted of the usual squabble between what the guys wanted and what the staff wanted. That meant something with a lot of noise, automatic weapons, explosions, and at least one car chase versus something silly and harmless that they thought might make us laugh, like
I Love Lucy
. Even drunks on the Bowery laugh at Lucy.

I had seen too many movies and TV shows on acid to find whatever they chose anything but boring. Instead, I hung out in the smoking room trying to decide what I wanted to do when they discharged me tomorrow. The lady or the tiger? A meeting or the nearest bar? By 9:30 I hadn’t even figured out if AA or the booze was the tiger. I went and lay on my bed, staring at the ceiling until the movie ended and the guys started drifting in. Just after lights out, about 10:30, I heard the small sounds of God undressing and getting into the bed next to mine. He called out a gruff good night. I mumbled one back without opening my eyes.

I couldn’t sleep. Alcoholic jet lag. My old sleep pattern, up all night and zonked all day, wouldn’t do if I stayed sober. About half an hour passed. Then I heard God get out of bed, presumably to go to the bathroom. I must have dozed and missed him coming back, because later I heard him get up again. When he came back, I propped myself up on one elbow. It never got really dark in the ward. The unshaded windows looked out on streetlights and neon signs outside the stores and bars across the street.

“You okay, fella?”

“Terrible cramps.” He sat doubled up on the edge of the bed looking kind of greenish, though some of that was the light from the nearest sign. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead.

“You want me to get the night nurse?”

“No, I’ll be fine,” he said on a gasp. “Just want to lie here.”

I lay back down. For the next hour I heard him thrashing around, trying to get comfortable and obviously failing. The bed, old-fashioned metal springs with a cheap, hard mattress over it, squeaked every time he rolled.

“You want me to call the nurse?” I peered over at him. He looked lousy.

“No. I don’t know. Something I ate? Feel like shit. Bathroom. Help me get up?”

I sat up and swung my legs onto the floor. I had reached over to take his arm when he suddenly dropped his head over the side of the bed and vomited onto the floor. I leaped back, swinging my legs back up onto my bed just in time. He started jerking around. It looked like he was convulsing.

“I’ll get the nurse.” I rolled off the other side of the bed, away from him. My voice surprised me by sounding scared.

His convulsions got noisier. Heads lifted from pillows all down the row of beds. I hadn’t made it all the way to the nursing station when the night nurse, a pint-sized Filipino woman named Sylvia, hurried to meet me. Sister Angel trotted up right behind her.

Sylvia and Sister Angel bent over the bed.

“Hold still, Godfrey,” Sister Angel said. “Let Sylvia take your vitals.”

Sylvia did her best to take his temperature, pulse, and blood pressure. But he couldn’t hold still for long enough. His chattering teeth sounded as loud as a jackhammer drilling in the street. I sat up on my bed trying to stay out of the way. Someone turned the lights on. Someone else mopped up the vomit, which I appreciated. God promptly heaved again, but this time Sister Angel held a basin in the right place.

“Here!” Sylvia snapped, her eyes falling on me. “Come and help me hold him.”

“Me?”

I took a couple of gingerly steps toward them. At her direction, I put one arm around God’s shoulders, half propping him against me. My other hand clasped his upper arm. It felt strange to hold him. He felt hot and cold, damp and dry at the same time. I could feel the muscles underneath his thin pajamas. It seemed unreal, almost like an out of body experience. The hubbub swelled to a crescendo all around me. Yet at the same time, all the sounds seemed to come from far away.

I don’t know how long it went on. It felt like forever. Every once in a while God would gasp out a few words, mostly incomprehensible. Once he called for brandy in a loud voice. His breathing sounded terrible. It came in irregular gasps with jerky pauses between them. Then everything stopped. The weight of him fell back onto my chest and shoulder. My arm buzzed with pins and needles from being in one position so long.

“Let him down!” Sylvia snapped. “Gently, just ease him down. Hurry!”

She slammed the palms of her hands down on his chest a few times.

“Are you all right? Are you all right?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer.

The whole thing had a ritual quality to it. She leaned over him as he lay flat on his back. She lifted his chin up and back with her fingers, putting her ear to his lips and nostrils. She squinted down along his chest, checking for the rise and fall as air went into his lungs. She looked grim. No breath. Clamping her hand over his nostrils, she inhaled deeply. Then she laid her mouth across his and blew a long breath out. She did it again, the ear, the mouth, a breath, sighting along his chest. At the same time, her fingers groped at the side of his neck. She shook her head abruptly, as if a fly were buzzing around her ears.