V.I. Warshawski 04 - Bitter Medicine (10 page)

He took out a knife. Smiling angelically, he knelt down and held it close to my eyes. My mouth felt like paper and my body was shaking with cold. Shock, I thought clinically, it’s shock. I willed myself to breathe carefully, deep breath in, hold for five, breathe out. And I forced myself to keep my eyes open, to stare at Sergio.

Through the haze of fear I saw he was looking petulant: I didn’t seem scared enough. The thought cheered me and helped keep my breathing steady. His hand moved away from my eyes, jerked below my line of vision. Then he stood again.

I could feel a stinging on my left jaw and neck, but the pain in my arms, tied underneath me, was such that it overrode any other feeling.

“Now, Warshawski. You stay out of my face.” Sergio was breathing heavily, sweating.

Tattoo jerked me to my feet. We went through the elaborate ritual of getting the inner door unlocked. My hands still tied, I was led through the outer room and out the front door onto Washtenaw.

It was well after midnight when I unlocked the lobby door in my building. The blood had clotted on my face and neck, which seemed reassuring. I knew I should get to a doctor, get the wounds treated properly so as not to scar, but a vast lethargy enveloped me. All I wanted to do was go to bed and never get up again. Never try again to-to do anything.

As I headed up the stairs, the ground-floor apartment door opened. Mr. Contreras came out.

“Oh, it’s you, cookie. I been thinking twenty times I should call the cops.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think they could have done much for me.” I started climbing again.

“You got hurt! I didn’t see at first-what did they do?”

He hurried up the stairs behind me. I stopped and waited for him, my hand reflexively touching the dried blood on my jaw.

“It’s nothing, really. They were pissed. It’s kind of complicated. The guy has been carrying a grudge against me all these years.” I gave a little laugh. “It’s Rashomon. Everyone sees it differently. I saw myself helping this goon get off a heavy sentence he deserved. I saw myself overcoming my hatred of his behavior and his attitude to help him. He saw me being contemptuous and forcing him to do time. That’s all.”

Mr. Contreras ignored me. “We’re getting you to a doctor. You can’t go around looking like this. You come back down here with me. This is no time for you to be going off by yourself. Oh, I should never have waited. I should have called them right away when I got worried.”

His strong, rough fingers pulled importunately on my arm. I followed him back downstairs into his apartment. His living room was crowded with old, sagging furniture. A large chest, draped in a blanket, stood in the middle of the floor. We walked around it to a mustard-colored overstuffed armchair. He sat me down, clucking softly to himself.

“How you even got home like this, doll! Why didn’t you at least call me-I would have come for you.” He bustled away for a few minutes and returned with a blanket and a mug of hot milk. “I used to see a lot of accidents when I was a machinist. You gotta keep warm, and stay off booze——-

Now, we gonna get you to a doctor. You want to go over to the hospital or you got someone to call?“

I felt as though I were far away. I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Doctor or hospital? No choice. I didn’t want either. I held the mug of milk and sat silent.

“Listen, cookie.” A little desperation in his voice. “I’m not as strong as I used to be. I can’t knock you out and carry you. You gotta help. Come on, talk to me, doll. Or you want me just to call the cops? I should be doing that anyway, why am I asking you? I should just call them.”

That roused me a little. “No, wait. Don’t call. Not yet. I have a doctor. Call her. She’ll come.” I dialed Lotty’s number so often, I knew it better than my own. So why couldn’t I remember it? I frowned in effort, and my jaw twinged.

Finally, helpless, I said, “You’ll have to look it up. She’s in the book. Lotty Herschel. Charlotte Herschel, I mean.”

I leaned back in the chair, carefully clutching the mug of milk. The heat felt good on my cold hands. Don’t drop this. It’s Daddy’s coffee. He likes to drink it while he’s shaving. Carry it carefully. He likes his little girl to bring it to him. His eyes crinkle up behind the white foam on his face. You know he’s smiling, smiling to see you.

Mother is telling Daddy to bring a lamp, shine it on her little girl’s face. Something happened. A fall, that’s right, she fell off her bicycle. Mother is worried. A concussion. Bad fall. Iodine burns where the skin was scraped.

I struggled awake. Lotty was swabbing my face, frowning in absorption. “I’m giving you a tetanus shot, Vic. And we’re going up to Beth Israel. This is not a dangerous cut, but it’s a bit deep. I want a plastic surgeon to see it. Get it put together properly so it doesn’t scar.”

She took a syringe from her bag. Wet swab on the arm, sting. I stood up with her arm supporting the small of my back. Mr. Contreras was hovering at one side, holding a blue suede jacket that looked familiar.

“I took your keys and went up to your apartment,” he explained, holding out both jacket and keys for me.

My arms still ached. It hurt to move them into the jacket sleeves and I accepted his help gratefully. He shepherded me tenderly out of the building into Lotty’s Datsun. He stood watching on the curb until Lotty put the car into gear and squealed up the street. Her frantic speed was not a sign that my condition was dangerous-she always drives wildly.

“What happened to you? The old man says you went up against some punks?”

I made a nasty face in the dark, and got a stab of pain in response. “Fabiano. Or one of his pals. You wanted me to look into Malcolm’s death. I looked into Malcolm’s death.”

“Alone? Going off alone and leaving a heroic message for Lieutenant Mallory? What possessed you?”

Thanks for the sympathy, Lotty. I can really use it.“ A torrent of images cascaded through my head-Sergio as a worm, me as the evil witch in The Silver Chair turning into a worm, my terror in that little back room, and a nagging fear that my face would be permanently scarred. An overwhelming fatigue made it hard for me to remember what I was talking about. I made myself speak. ”I told you-police job.“

“So what were you trying to prove by going off alone instead of turning what you knew over to the police? Sometimes, Victoria, you are unbearable!” Lotty’s Viennese accent became noticeable, as always when she was upset.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” The soreness in my face merged with the throbbing in my shoulders into one giant white tom-tom of pain. It pounded harder when the car hit a bump and then eased off a little. Up and down. Like the old Ferris wheel at Riverview.

For a moment I thought I was riding the Ferris wheel, but that wasn’t true. I was on my way to the hospital. My mother was sick. She might be dying but Dad and I were being brave for her sake. After winning the state high-school basketball championship, the other girls on the team and I had sneaked off with several pints of whiskey. The ten of us drank it all and were vilely sick. Now I had to go see my mother. She needed me alert and cheerful, not aching and hung over.

“I guess I’m pretty stupid sometimes, too.” The sharp voice cut through the fog. Lotty. Not Gabriella. It was me cut up and sore.

“You’re in terrible shape. Whatever prompted you to go off on your own, you don’t need quarreling tonight. Come on, Liebchen. On your feet. That’s right. Lean on me.”

I stood up slowly, shivering unbearably in the warm air. Lotty called out a command. A wheelchair appeared. I sank down into it and was pushed inside.

I quit trying to stay awake. White lights blurred behind my drugged lids. Pricks in my face-they were stitching me back together. Something cold on my back. The muscles eased down.

“Will I live, Doc?” I mumbled.

“Live?” A man’s voice echoed me loudly. I woke up a bit more and looked at him, an older man with a lined face and gray hair. “You were never in danger of dying, Miss Warshawski.”

“That’s not what I meant to ask. What I really want to know-my face-how bad will I look?”

He shook his head. “It won’t be noticeable. Provided you stay out of direct sunlight for several months and keep on a healthy diet. Your boyfriend may see a faint line when he kisses you, but if he’s that close he probably won’t be looking.”

Sexist asshole, I said, but to myself. No point in biting the hand that sews you.

“I’m admitting you for what’s left of the night. Just so you get some rest instead of jolting around in a car anymore. The police want to talk to you, but I’ve asked them to wait until tomorrow.”

Maybe he wasn’t so bad after all. I thanked him for patching me up. When I looked around for Lotty, he told me she had left after they decided to keep me overnight. I let myself be wheeled to an elevator, up several floors, and down a hallway to a patient room. A nurse undressed me, got a gown on me, and lifted me into bed as easily as if I were a baby, not a hundred-thirty-pound-plus detective.

“Just tell them not to wake me for morning blood pressure,” I mumbled, and fell down a hole into sleep.

With the help of some good dope I slept until two Sunday afternoon. I couldn’t believe it when I finally woke up: No one had roused me. The immutable hospital routine had let me be. It’s good to have friends in high places.

An intern came in at three to check on me. She moved my arms and legs and shone an ophthalmoscope into my eyes.

“Dr. Pirwitz left discharge orders saying you can go home this afternoon if you feel up to it.”

Dr. Pirwitz? I supposed he was the gray-haired surgeon. I’d never asked his name while he was putting me together.

“Good. I feel up to it.” My jaw ached horribly and my shoulders were stiff enough that I winced when I moved them. But they would heal faster in the comfort of my own home than in a hospital.

She scribbled on my chart. Even if the patient only says, yeah, I feel like leaving, you have to leave an indelible trail on the chart.

“Okay. You’re all set. Just take this paper with you to the nursing station and they’ll complete your discharge.” She gave a cheerful smile and left.

I staggered out of bed and moved zombielike to the bathroom. Dressing was a process that made me aware of the myriad muscles in my arms and legs. Who would have thought there were so many?

I was putting on my shoes when Mr. Contreras appeared, hesitant, in the doorway. He was clutching a sheaf of daisies. His face cleared when he saw I was dressed.

“I came at one, but they told me you were sleeping. Oh, my, doll, have you seen your face? You look like you been in a barroom brawl. Well, it’ll clear up. We’ll get you home, put some raw steak on it-worked wonders on my black eyes when I was young.”

I hadn’t looked at my face. In fact, I’d carefully avoided the mirror when I’d washed up in the little bathroom.

“I’ll take your word for it,” I said grumpily. Now I couldn’t resist going to the mirror above a sink on the side wall. I had not seen Sergio’s handiwork last night. A dark line ran from about an inch below my left eye to my jawline. Transparent plastic dips pulled it together. In itself it didn’t appear particularly terrible. It was the radiating swelling in purples and yellows and my bloodshot left eye that made me look like a wife-abuse casualty. I pulled the knit shirt away from my neck and saw a similar line, with some discoloring, running down to my collarbone.