Hardware (14 page)

“Shit. My hair,” she said, grabbing at her turban and charging upstairs.

No wonder the house smelled odd. The orange streaks were hair dye, not paint.

And Frank was not Frank.

Who knew? Sam knew.

I dialed his number. His message machine answered. I started to hang up, decided to wait. I know the recording by heart. Five steady rings, then the pickup, the mechanical hum of spooling tape, the deep, sexy voice: “You've reached five five five, eight two five four. Sorry I can't talk now. Leave your name and number after the beep and I'll be in touch.”

I listened to Sam's bass-baritone, his phrasing. The pattern was as familiar as breathing, automatic, beyond thought.

Abruptly, a new sentence: “In case of emergency, you can reach me at two oh two, five five five, oh three two three.” I recognized the Washington, D.C., area code.

I picked up the receiver and pressed eleven buttons. A woman answered energetically. A pleasant voice. Youthful. Soprano. No discernible accent. Her simple, repeated “hello” threw me. I'd absolutely expected a hotel operator, an institutional response.

On the subject of men, my
bubbe
liked to say,
Me ken im getryen vi a kats smetene
. “You can trust him like you can trust a cat with sour cream.” I clamped my tongue between my teeth.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” she said. Then she must have turned away from the mouthpiece. I heard her mutter faintly, “Just a sec, honey, I'll be right with you.”

I said, “Excuse me, I think I may have the wrong number.”

“What number are you trying to reach?” she asked politely.

“Two oh two, five five five, oh three two three.”

“Right. To whom did you wish to speak?”

I heard his voice in the background. A rumble, off mike, but recognizable. I pressed the plunger gently. The click sounded loud and final.

Honey
.

SIXTEEN

I'm not sure how long I sat at my desk. I replaced my .38 in its locked haven, unloading it and sniffing the barrel for telltale signs of use. My nose told me nothing. Maybe I was coming down with a cold. Mooney's threatened gun-shop excursion filled me with apprehension. I'm not bonded to my .38; I have no weapons nostalgia. I just never dreamed I'd need a machine gun to stay in business. Maybe, I thought idly, I should consider using some of Paolina's father's dough to invest in an armored car.

If my ankle hadn't started throbbing, I might have brooded all night, yanking my hair out strand by strand. Driven by pain, I belatedly followed doctor's orders, hobbling to the kitchen, where I discovered, to my dismay, that both ice-cube trays had disappeared from the freezer. Despite my threats, Roz continues to perform chemical experiments in her sideline as a photographer, absconding with any kitchen utensil that strikes her fancy. The missing ice-cube trays might be lurking in the basement darkroom, rendered unusable by the residue of one of her chemical cocktails.

There are advantages to having a lousy housekeeper and an old refrigerator with a defrost mechanism that quit functioning in the fifties. I attacked the caked ice on the sides of the freezer compartment with a carving fork. No dice. I don't own an ice pick; a screwdriver did the trick.

I piled ice chips on a dish towel, folded it in three lengthwise, hopped back to the living room.

Underneath a sock and layers of bandage, my ankle was a multihued, puffy distortion. I wound the makeshift ice pack around it, haphazardly securing the ends of the towel with paper clips. Then I propped the whole shebang on my desktop blotter and leaned back in my chair.

Elevation and ice. The wonders of medical progress: exactly the same treatment my mother would have advised. The doctor hadn't offered her other fail-safe prescription, chicken soup, but I would have cheerfully downed a bowlful had the homemade variety been available. Campbell's lacks the healing touch.

This woman in Washington, who the hell was she? I knew enough about Sam's family to rule out his sister, his cousins, even distant relations. “Honey,” she'd called him. The casual endearment grated. Sam's mistress? His intended bride? How had I gotten mixed up with a man who didn't have the nerve to tell me? Maybe
nerve
was not the right word. Maybe he had a hell of a nerve.

A sick uncle in Providence? Or a lady in Washington?

Now, now. There, there. I cautioned myself against jumping to conclusions. But it seemed to me that the message on Sam's machine meant that he was spending a great deal of time at the 202 exchange.

Stop it! I scolded myself.

I reviewed my meeting with Marvin, scribbling notes to record his exact words. I stopped mid-sentence and reached for the phone. No reason I couldn't dial Mooney, tell him I'd recalled that one of my attackers had said he'd been paid to beat up cabbies.

No reason except that Mooney wouldn't believe my selective memory. He'd insist on hypnosis.

Hypnosis. Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea. Maybe Keith Donovan, the shrink almost next door, could do the trick.

Bad idea. I knew it as soon as it crossed my mind. Despite his thing with Roz, I had more than a mild yen for Donovan myself. I suspected it was mutual. Donovan had said as much, admitting that he found himself intrigued by women who seemed comfortable with violence. Specifically by me. Except for Sam, matters might have developed. And now …

Stop it!

I had a client, even if she'd only paid me a dollar thus far, and that on account. I concentrated on details relating to the evening of Marvin's beating: the chill, damp air, the moonless sky, the piney tang of greenery. Maybe Mooney was right. Maybe a hint, a clue, lay dormant in my unconscious.

I leaned back and closed my eyes. The icy cloth felt fine against my ankle. Conversations replayed themselves like faint taped messages. Gloria, her voice as close to panic as I've ever heard it: “
I wouldn't have let him drive, except two more guys quit on me today
.…”

I sat bolt upright, jarring my foot. I'd forgotten her words in my anger over her next admission: Sam had ordered her to keep me off the late-night shift.

Two drivers quitting on the same day? It wasn't as if the economy had done a quick one-eighty, with jobs for ex-cabbies plentiful. I grabbed the phone and dialed.

“Green and White,” she answered.

“Gloria,” I said, speaking loudly over the pounding background music, knowing I wouldn't have to identify myself. Call her more than once and you're in Gloria's memory bank for good. “I need names and addresses for the two who quit right before the Wednesday night graveyard shift.”

“Hang on. Phones're hot.”

I got slammed into telephone limbo before I could protest. I checked my wristwatch. Five-o'clock rush. Gloria works phone lines like a keyboard artist plays the organ. With her great pipes and reassuring manner, she's as soothing as a minister. When she says she's gonna send a cab within ten minutes during an ice storm, you believe her.

“Why?” was all she said when the phone clicked back to life. The master manipulator had no need to check whether she'd reconnected to the right party.

“I talked to Marvin—” I began.

“Leroy said.”

“I need to follow up on something.”

“Those guys who left me didn't beat on Marvin, babe. Little shrimpy men, both of 'em.”

“Gloria, I want to talk to them.”

“Both Haitians, different last names, livin' at the same address. Flophouse, phone in the hall.”

“Give me the address.”

“And don't ask questions? With me your client and all and payin' for your precious time?”

“You'll miss cab calls, staying on this line,” I said.

“You're looking for Jean Halle and Louis Vertigne. Twenty-eight forty Vinson. Dorchester.”

“Phone?”

“Five five five, seven eight oh six. Now, what did Marvin say? He blame me? Is that woman looking after him right? I want him in a hospital, but he says he's fine. He don't look fine.”

“I'm hanging up, Glory.”

“No wonder you attract so many clients,” she said. “It's your phone manners.”

“And I'll need a list of all the cabbies who've quit on you lately,” I said. “Say, in the past year.”

“You're kidding.”

“No.”

“I'm supposed to give you everything you want, and you won't answer a single question.”

“How's your diet going?”

She hung up. I knew that would get her off the line.

I let the phone ring seventeen times. Eighteen. Nineteen. I don't usually hang on that long, but a rooming house is not a home. A blaring phone is nobody's true responsibility. You need to wallop somebody over the head with the idea that they'll get no peace until they answer.

Twenty-five, twenty-six.

The voice was female and ill-tempered. A little hazy, like I'd woken her from a deep sleep.

Sweetness and sincerity seemed worth a try. “Sorry to disturb you,” I said, wishing I had a voice as compelling as Gloria's. “I wouldn't unless it was urgent.”

“Sure,” the woman responded dryly, unimpressed.

“I'm trying to reach Mr. Jean Halle or Mr. Louis Vertigne,” I ventured, taking a stab at pronunciations I'd heard only once.

“So?”

“It's extremely urgent that I speak with one of them.” Was I laying it on too thick? Can something be more urgent than urgent?

“They live on the third floor,” the woman admitted grudgingly.

“Are they home?”

“How would I know?”

“Is there some way you might be able to find out?”

“Well, it's like this: I could hustle up three flights of stairs in my fuckin' bathrobe and bang on the door. The question is, why should I?”

“Hello?” I said.

Silence.

Undaunted, I dialed again. Busy signal. No doubt she'd left the receiver dangling in a gesture of neighborly goodwill.

Shit. Face-to-face is the way to go. I wouldn't have bothered with the phone except for my ankle.

As I leaned over to examine its yellow-green bruising, the doorbell rang three times. Three times means Roz, which is a good thing since I had no intention of hopping to the door like a wounded bunny.

Roz raced down, high heels pock-pocking the steps. Her hair was fully exposed. I shuddered involuntarily.

The orange streak across her forehead was the tip of a bizarre iceberg. Orange, purple, and blue were the colors: orange on the stubbly third of her head she'd shaved to a glossy shine two weeks earlier. Purple faded to blue on the other side. Trimmed short in back and dramatically longer in front, it resembled a flying wedge and was tastefully bisected by a single cornrow of neon purple.

Just when I think she's hit the edge, Roz breaks new ground. She's her own best canvas.

Keith Donovan—between patients, no doubt—had removed his tie and suit jacket, revealing a crisp white shirt trisected by red suspenders. Had he considered their acquisition long and hard before purchasing? Had he analyzed what they might communicate about his personality? Had he thought half as much about his choice of bedmates?

He looked great as usual, slim and fit, but the suspenders made him seem younger than he was—and he must have been a whiz kid to speed through med school and hang his own shingle while in his late twenties. I bet none of his patients ever glimpsed the fireman suspenders. Perhaps they were a special treat for Roz. Maybe she used them to tie him up in some original and erotic fashion.

“Carlotta,” he said, breaking stride when he saw me. “You okay?”

Roz tapped her toe on a step, annoyed at the delay. Keith has a well-established practice, probably can't take more than an hour off to fool around. I felt cranky at the very thought. All I needed was to spend time with my foot on ice listening to Roz in ecstasy. Roz is noisy. It's not an item I thought about covering in our initial tenant-landlord interview: Do you shriek when you make love?

“I am not okay,” I said. “I need help. You're an M.D., right?”

I watched him notice the crutches and absorb the reason for the ice pack.

“I need to walk,” I said.

“Let's take a look.” Solemnly, he unwrapped my foot. If I'd known I was going to have a gentleman caller, I'd have used a clean dish towel.

“Keith,” Roz protested from the staircase.

He probed my ankle with gentle fingers. “Place your hands on the television screen,” he intoned, “and repeat after me: I believe in the Lord, I believe in His healing powers.”

“Keith,” I said, “I keep my TV in the closet and this is not what I had in mind.” He had a faint dimple in his left cheek. I'd never noticed it before.

“Bruises on your face hurt?” he asked, crouching down and lightly tapping his fingertips against my cheek, over the bridge of my nose.

“Not much,” I said. “Careful.”

“I have an air splint,” he said, “left over from a skiing sprain. I don't know if it'll work, but it might. You inflate it. Conforms to the contours of the ankle. Size shouldn't be a problem.”

“Why didn't my doctor give me one?” I asked, aware that I'd been staring into his eyes with far more intensity than the situation required.

“You in an HMO?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Crutches are good enough for the likes of you.”

“Thanks a heap.”

“I'll be right back.”

The door slammed. Roz shot me the evil eye.

It didn't take him more than five minutes. When he returned, he cradled a Gap bag.

“Roz,” he said, “could you bring me a clean towel?”

“There's one in the bathroom,” she snapped. “Right through the kitchen, Mother Teresa.”

“Roz, you're an angel,” I said. She stayed resentfully put while Keith ran his own errand.

He brought back two towels, one of which he knelt on after carefully hitching his trouser leg to preserve its perfect crease. With the other he dried my foot, wriggling it this way and that. His hands felt hot against my skin.