Hardware (10 page)

“You drunk?”

“No. Wish I was.”

“You didn't drive over the edge?”

“I was goddamned hijacked. Beaten.”

“By whom? Why? Personal business?”

“You gonna help me get outta here?”

“Marvin, honest, I don't think I can walk up the hill. Twisted my ankle. Damn near broke my nose.” My head was pounding. I closed my eyes tight, opened them wide. The hammering seemed dull and far away.

The two of us were whispering instinctively. Talk too loud, somebody might come by and mug you. The idea that anybody lingering in the Franklin Park bushes would qualify as a Good Samaritan was ludicrous.

“Shine that light your way. Lemme see you better,” Marvin said.

I held the light under my chin so I'd look like a Halloween spook. From Marvin's tight-lipped reaction, I realized the eerie lighting was merely gilding the lily.

“And you got a hack up there, right?” he said slowly.

“You thinking about a switch?” I asked. “I look that bad? Like I got beat up?”

“You'll do.”

I listened. No sirens.

“Carlotta, I'm hirin' you. As of right now. My credit good?”

“Gloria already hired me.” I made up my mind quickly. “Top of the hill. Shut the flashers on the cab. The radio's on, but only Gloria can hear.”

“I ain't trustin' no radio. Scanners, you ever hear of them?”

“Okay, don't bother with the radio. Think you can yank my license, get back down here, and stick it in eight twenty-one?”

“Give me the flashlight and I can.” His face changed and I realized his bloated features were attempting a smile. The stuff of nightmares.

Then he was gone, up the hill. I could hear him crashing through the brush like a grizzly bear. Five long minutes later, he leaned into the damaged cab with a groan and jammed my license into the visor, almost upsetting the cab's teetery balance.

“How you gonna play it?” he asked. “I could tell you what they looked like—”

“No time. I'm gonna go unconscious. I won't remember a thing,” I said.

“Good,” Marvin said.

“Money in the cab?”

“Not much.”

“They know you?”

“Nope.”

“Why you staring at me?” I asked.

“You could maybe use more blood,” he said judiciously. “Three guys beat you.”

“Three? You better see a doctor.”

“I know boxin' folks'll fix me up, no police report.”

I listened again for the wail of sirens. Nothing.

“Black guys, white guys?” I asked.

“Salt and pepper. Third one maybe Latino.”

“How come they left you in such good shape, Marvin?”

“Because I started out in terrific shape—and mostly I played dead. They had serious guns. They wanted me dead, I'd be meat. Look, babe, I gotta little penknife … you know, one flick, your nose'll bleed a little more and—”

“Marvin, stay away from my nose! You cut me, fucker, even a scratch, the deal's off. I wake up in the hospital, I'll remember, and Gloria'll have your ass in a frying pan.”

The threat of his not-so-little sister stopped him cold. I could almost see the tension leave his body. Maybe he wouldn't have done me serious damage. On the other hand, he wanted to mess with somebody.

A faint wailing siren split the air like a steam whistle from an old forgotten train.

“Get going, Marvin,” I said, “before I come to my senses.”

“Lie down. They'll tape your ankle. Get crutches. And you got memory loss.”

“Move,” I ordered. “If they find you, they'll think you beat me up, jerk. Take the pipe. And my gun, dammit. They'll never believe me if I have a gun.”

Please, I thought, don't let Marvin commit a felony with my piece. Please, God, let it come home to its drawer unfired.

I heard him scramble up the hill as I artfully arranged myself in the grass and closed my eyes.

“Call Gloria,” I said. “First thing.”

I couldn't make out his reply.

Things I do for Gloria, I ought to get my head examined. Picked up three guys. Forced me off the road. Nope. Nobody'd buy that one … I'd never pick up three guys, not in my right mind. Temporary amnesia, only way to go.

At least I didn't have liquor on my breath.

I lifted my leg and massaged my ankle, gritting my teeth. It occurred to me that here I was, remaining at the scene like a righteous citizen, the way I hadn't waited when I'd actually been a victim. Maybe that's why I'd volunteered—not for love of Gloria and Sam and G&W, but as an act of crazed atonement.

I envisioned myself explaining it: See, Mooney, I was shot at from this black van, and I didn't report it, so then a few weeks later I pretend to be a crime stat.

I ought to schedule an appointment with the shrink almost next door.

I wished I'd caught a glimpse of the drive-by shooters. I could describe them to the cops as the guys who beat me up and dumped me in the prickle bush. The prickle bush … Would the cops trace my descent, catch me in a lie?

My ankle throbbed. Liquid, presumably blood, continued to trickle from my nose. I recited multiplication tables slowly, made it well into the nines before I heard the slam of a car door, unrecognizable voices. Cherry lights flashed.

I closed my eyes. Amnesia was my savior. Let the cops figure it out. With my eyes shut I muttered a silent prayer for Marvin. Drive carefully. Don't pass out on the road. Don't use or lose my gun. Find a good, quiet disbarred physician.

Do doctors get disbarred? Why do people think prayers are more likely to be answered when they scrunch their eyes shut?

The dark night was my friend. So were the cops and paramedics churning the ground, calling out to one another.

“This way,” a voice shouted. “Down here!”

I wondered if Marvin and I shared the same blood type. Would the cops see anything beyond a simple auto accident? I willed my body limp, tried to stop my mind from exploring every possible avenue of discovery and failure.

I cheered myself with the thought that what had really happened was too unlikely for the cops to guess.

TWELVE

I played possum while cautious paramedics immobilized my neck and lifted me onto a backboard, then a gurney, for the slow uphill march. I made a brief return to “consciousness” in the ambulance, lingering long enough to demand Beth Israel over Boston City. Beth Israel's nurses are the best. Besides, nobody comes to visit at Boston City Hospital; they're scared of getting shot en route. I also vetoed blood transfusion. Not that I needed it, but you can't be too careful.

I listened to the paramedics chatter about which fast-food joint they'd patronize on their next break—and tried not to curse out loud when they jostled my ankle. Swaying in the overheated ambulance, I started sweating till my shirt was soaked, molded to my body underneath my coat. Blood and mud and perspiration and prickles everywhere. I couldn't breathe through my nose, which worried me.

When the police officer bouncing along in the jump seat asked what happened, I wearily closed my eyes.

I'd decided to stay knocked out for admission. My wallet was in my hip pocket; they could locate the appropriate ID and insurance cards without my help. I spent the travel time visualizing the contents of my wallet, so I'd know if any of the staff suffered light-finger syndrome, whether or not to stop credit on my Visa.

I attempted to salve my conscience. First I told myself that my ankle would have required orthopedic attention anyway—probably not in such dramatic circumstances, but definitely not during regular office hours. An emergency-room visit is an emergency-room visit.

Then I tried reminding myself that if not for my intervention the hospital would have been stuck with Marvin. Marvin's more serious injuries would assuredly bill higher. I tried not to think about my insurance deductible.

Wham. The doors opened and the show began.

My headache escalated from simple pounding to full bass drum. I was indoors. Lights burned down on me. Voices surrounded me.

“Get her vital signs.”

“Accident! Full level-one trauma protocol!”

“Find the surgical resident!”

“Okay, let's go. Type her blood and cross-match for six units.”

“She's out.” A deep voice cut across the rest. “Have to establish an airway.”

Someone stuck a cold metal scope into my mouth and I came up spluttering. “Quit that!” I said.

“I think we've got an airway,” the man with the deep voice said. He was a little past middle age, cocoa-colored and silver-haired. Handsome. “Can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Can you move your right hand?”

I did.

“Good. Your left?”

“It's my ankle,” I said. “Left.”

He ignored me. I repeated myself, but he was occupied with my forehead and my nose. Evidently head wounds took top priority.

“Get her to X-ray,” he said. “Whole body. Skull films. She was unconscious for some period of time. After X-ray, move her right to the CAT scan.”

Bright white lights and machinery everywhere. My stomach felt queasy. Had I fallen into poisoned brambles? I heard more sirens approaching and closed my eyes in case they were police units, not ambulances.

Gloria was at my side when I woke, massive, dark, and silent in her wheelchair. As soon as I opened my eyes and allowed them to focus, she held a warning finger to her lips. I blinked and shook my head. Some anesthesiologist must have wiped me out. I had no idea what time it was.

The room had two beds. The second was vacant, blank and sterile as a clean sheet of paper. The wallpaper was sky blue. A pattern of tiny yellow-and-white buds crawled up toward the gleaming white ceiling. The curtains echoed the cheery yellow. Yuck. A sink was tucked into a tiny alcove, a paper-towel dispenser overhead. Two wall-mounted tissue boxes held latex gloves.

I could smell again. I sniffed deeply and wished I hadn't. Even the best hospitals smell of rubbing alcohol and tidied-up death.

I lifted a hand to my head. Gauze and tape covered a two-inch patch above my right eye.

Following Gloria's pointed gaze, I glanced at the doorway. A stolid cop on duty. Thanks, Mooney, I thought, less than gratefully.

“How's he doing?” I murmured to Gloria.

“She awake?” The cop demanded at the same time.

“Hush,” Gloria said, ostensibly to the cop, but I could tell she was worried I'd blurt out the real story. Maybe she thought the anesthesiologist dealt in truth serum as well as morphine.

“You fooled them, told them you were my sister, right?” I asked in a low voice.

“Your momma,” she answered dryly. “Sam's away again or he'd be here. Paolina, now … she's been haunting the waiting room.”

Paolina! I used the guardrail of the bed to haul myself into a sitting position.

“Where is she?” My head spun. Too late, I remembered that hospital beds came equipped with controls to gently raise and lower the patient.

“Carlotta, calm down! I told her you'd be fine. Told her you'd visit as soon as you could. She's gone home.”

“Thanks,” I said, easing myself back onto the pillow. My stomach felt like somebody was mixing a vodka collins within.

“I'm the one to say thanks,” Gloria murmured.

“Miss?” The door cop had managed to locate a pencil and flip open his notebook. “Can you describe the men who attacked you?”

So. I hadn't passed muster as an accident victim. Some forensic digging had been done. I can't say I was astonished, not with a cop at the door.

Gloria stared at me. Hard.

I said, “Where am I?”

I've always wanted to say that: “Where am I?” like in an old black-and-white film. I suspect I may have fluttered my eyelashes. Who-eee. Whatever did that anesthesiologist stick me full of? I felt fine as long as I was lying down. Just fine.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see Gloria choking back laughter. She recovered nicely, said, “Officer, maybe you ought to tell the nurse she's awake.”

“I'm supposed to write down everything she says.”

“You get the part about ‘Where am I?'?” Gloria inquired.

“Maybe you could fetch the nurse,” the cop said huffily.

“Maybe,” I said brightly, “I could press the call button.”

“I need to talk to the lady alone,” the cop said to Gloria, stressing
alone
. “If you could locate her doctor, please …”

“And call Paolina,” I whispered.

“She might be in school.”

“Leave a message with Marta. Phone the school.”

“Sure thing,” Gloria said. She gave me another searching once-over.

I returned her gaze steadily. One thing I learned from my years on the force: Stick to the Big Lie. “I don't remember anything.” That was my story, and it was a good one. Strong alibis are simple alibis. You start messing with little bits and pieces here and there, like the phase of the moon, or who you picked up last, and you've got a whole stack of lies to memorize. Stick to basics. I don't remember. The end.

Gloria wheeled herself out.

“Uh, what's your name?” the cop asked. A waste-of-time question, I thought. Not a cop question, a doctor question. Right up there with shining lights in my eyes and checking to see that my pupils matched. Mooney must have assigned my case a low priority.

“Carlotta,” I said. “Carlyle. Like the nineteenth-century British essayist.” I wound up spelling it.

“Now, Carlotta,” the cop said. That's why he wanted my name, so he could get chummy with me. “I want you to think back and tell me the last thing you remember.”

I wrinkled my brow in utter concentration. “You asked me my name,” I said triumphantly.

“Before that,” he said. “Before the hospital.”

“So that's where I am,” I said, eyes wide with phony relief.