Kill and Be Killed Page 12

  —

  On the dot of six, I was at Jeanette’s bedside. Her sister, a smaller and thin version of Jeanette in a gray wool coat with a black velvet collar, was already there. Not having met her before, I introduced myself.

  The nurse has gone to look for the doctor, she told me. Is she like that all the time, lying there, eyes shut, just breathing?

  She began to cry.

  That’s how it’s been so far, I said, but she’ll get better. You’ll see, that’s what the doctor says. Why don’t you try to talk to her, Mrs. Bidwell? Maybe caress her. She might respond to your voice better than to anyone else’s.

  The sister wiped her eyes and nose and spoke, very distinctly, holding Jeanette’s hand. The response was like a rumble at the end of which Jeanette’s features moved, composing themselves into something that we thought might have been a smile. Or it could have been a grimace of pain.

  This is better than anything I’ve seen until now, I told her.

  But it’s so bad, Captain Dana, the sister said. Bad. Her face…

  The hospitalist arrived with the nurse, checked the chart and the vital-signs monitor, did his best to calm the sister, and asked whether she and I had time to discuss Mrs. Truman’s case. We both nodded.

  All right then, he said, sitting down. Look, this is still early, but here is the picture, roughly speaking, so that you can get prepared for what will need to be done. I stress: this is all preliminary. As you see, her nose is taped. That’s because the plastic surgeon has set it. Apart from the cranial bleeding, there are no internal injuries, her heart is good, her blood pressure is about where you would expect, so all that part is positive. We’re treating the broken ribs with analgesics. They hurt, but we try to avoid stronger painkillers. The situation is less positive with regard to cranial bleeding. There are lesions. It’s likely that they will affect her motion. In all probability not very seriously, not after physical therapy, but the neurologist thinks there will be some effect, whether in terms of strength of limbs or mobility or both. Time will tell. We don’t yet know whether there will be any cognitive impairment—you know, speech, memory, reasoning. The neurologist is optimistic, but I stress that this is preliminary. He will be doing rounds tomorrow at eleven if either of you wants to meet him. However, he’s asked me to tell you that probably he won’t have more definitive advice until next week. Midweek. Any questions so far?

  I’ll see him here tomorrow, I answered. Mrs. Bidwell, would you like to spend the night at my apartment and join me?

  I can’t, Captain Dana, I’ve left my two kitties alone at home with no one to feed them or give the old one her pills. Doctor, will Jeanette be all right?

  She will be all right, Mrs. Bidwell, subject to the concerns I’ve mentioned. Please don’t forget that human brains are amazing. They recover in ways that surprise everybody. So please be patient, be hopeful. Can we talk about some practical issues?

  I nodded.

  We need to keep Mrs. Truman here probably through next week. I understand that she isn’t on Medicare or Medicaid and that you, Mr. Dana, have guaranteed the costs. Will this be a problem?

  No, it won’t. She should stay as long as needed and get all the care she needs. I’ll be glad to pay.

  The Lord bless you, Captain Dana! the sister broke in, sobbing.

  Please, Mrs. Bidwell, I said. Don’t worry about it. It’s what my uncle Harry would have wanted me to do, and it’s what I want to do.

  At the same time, I must confess, I wondered what had possessed Harry, why he hadn’t made sure she was on Medicare or had some other sort of health insurance. How could such a thing have slipped through the fine mesh of that old fox’s mind?

  That’s very helpful, Dr. Stein continued. You will want to consider also the following issues, which are not immediate. Assuming that Mrs. Truman goes from here to a rehab facility, where should we look for it? In Manhattan? In Westchester, where I understand you live, Mrs. Bidwell? We’ll give you a menu of choices. After that, the next issue to face will be getting Mrs. Truman nursing help for some period of time, whether she goes back to live with you, Mr. Dana, or with you, Mrs. Bidwell, or with her daughters.

  The girls live in California! the sister cried out. I’ll want her with me! That’s what she’d want.

  That’s very understandable. You and Mr. Dana will want to discuss the details. I should warn you that it is unlikely that Mrs. Truman will be able to resume work—anyway not in the foreseeable future.

  Look, Mrs. Bidwell, I said after we’d taken leave of the doctor and the nurse, would you like to come to a diner just a few blocks from here that’s quite good? You could have an early supper. I won’t join you in that, because I have a dinner date at nine, but I’ll have a drink that I badly need. Perhaps you’ll have one too! Then I’ll get a car service to take you back to White Plains. It will be late by then, and I don’t want you wandering around alone in the dark.

  Where were my brains, I was asking myself while I waited for her answer, why didn’t I send Jeanette out there in a livery car? There was no good answer to that question. All I could do was console myself again with the thought that they would have gotten her soon anyway, at some other place—that’s all.

  The sister agreed. We walked in silence to the diner on Madison Avenue where I’d had breakfast the day before. She allowed me to order a substantial meal for her but, in the end, refused a drink. Another time she’d accept one, she told me. Not having entire confidence in the Greek waitress’s skill with a gin martini, I asked for a double bourbon, took a healthy slug, and began the conversation that couldn’t be ducked.

  We know so little about each other, I said, so I have to ask you some personal questions. You said you’d like Jeanette to come to be with you after rehab. Do you have an extra bedroom? Will that work out?

  Oh yes, Captain Dana, she cried out, there is a nice second bedroom, just as nice as mine. That’s where Jeanette always sleeps. It’s an apartment we own together. Your uncle, God bless his soul, helped us buy it, and we’ve always planned that Jeanette would come there to live with me when she retired.

  That’s great, I said, good for Uncle Harry. Another question: it’s possible that at least for some time Jeanette will be using a walker or something like it. Will that be a problem?

  No sir, it won’t. Your uncle made sure we bought the apartment in a building with handicapped access, including the elevator and bathrooms.

  What a huge relief! I said. I look forward to visiting once we’ve gotten Jeanette there. There is another subject. As the doctor said, Jeanette may not be able to go on working. Anyway, I’ve thought for some time that it’s sort of silly for you to be alone in White Plains and for her to be looking after a bachelor like me who doesn’t entertain, is away a good deal, and is nothing but trouble when he’s here. I’m sure Jeanette has told you about some of that. There will be no money problem if she retires, which is what I think she should do. I will guarantee a pension for her that should be more than adequate once she’s well—I was thinking of simply continuing what I pay her now—and, of course, I’ll pay for all the medical and nursing expenses until she gets well. I’ll make sure that the pension gets paid no matter what happens to me and gets adjusted if inflation gets out of hand. Last thing, we’ll get her on Medicare with all the bells and whistles. I can’t imagine how it happened that it wasn’t taken care of.

  It’s her fault, Captain Dana; she didn’t want it. She said she never got sick. And that’s the honest truth.

  Yup, I said, and then you get something like this, that no one could foresee. Does the rest seem all right to you?

  It did. She ate her dinner with a beatific look of relief on her face. I called the car service and ordered another bourbon for myself. No, Mrs. Bidwell didn’t take coffee. Just like Jeanette. Before we parted, I assured her that as soon as Jeanette’s condition was sufficiently improved, I’d make arrangements to bring the girls from California on a visit.

  Feng, I said to m
yself, for better or worse, your hour has come. I’ll call Martin and get him to bring you over. I’ll be damned if I want to start washing my own underpants. I’ve got enough other troubles.

  —

  I’d gone to the hospital in jeans. By the time Mrs. Bidwell was in the car, I had just enough time to go home and clean up and change. Lee, I noticed, was sitting on a bench on the other side of the avenue. He saw me, and I returned a sign of recognition that I hoped was discreet enough not to be recognized as such by any sentry—if there was one—sent by Abner or, for that matter, my own doorman. The Montenegrin elevator man was on duty, a man with a deep interest in meteorology. I couldn’t help wondering as we reviewed the likelihood of rain over the weekend whether he was trying to ascertain my plans. Was there anyone working in the building I was still willing to trust? The Irish guys, on the theory that they were unlikely to go bowling or drinking with Jovan’s friends and associates? It was a slur to think so. The building’s manager, a solid County Cork man, had a Mexican wife and three small Irish Mexican children. Perhaps the whole crew, Mr. Duffy included, tippled slivovitz in joyous congress with Jovan, dissecting my comings and goings. Mistrust and body armor: the keys to survival in Iraq and Afghanistan. Is that how I was going to live in Abner Land?

  Out of habit, I picked up the telephone to check on messages. Sure enough, there was one, recorded at 7:08 p.m., which must be when I left the hospital. Jovan’s voice. The fellow who’d told me Jeanette had been attacked. Like what you saw, roadkill? he said this time. We’re not finished.

  I was at the point of erasing the message and stopped myself. Perhaps the thing to do was to forward it to Scott or a number Scott would give me. I couldn’t believe the voice could help identify this prick, but perhaps storing it would be useful if we ever took him alive. That was tomorrow’s work, I decided. Right then, I couldn’t bear the thought of calling Scott and telling him about Jeanette and this call. Two more days and I would see him in New York. I got dressed and slipped the Colt in the waistband of my trousers. The party had gotten too rough to rely on my switchblade alone. Feeling stupid—but this was what Martin and I had agreed on—I buzzed for the doorman to hail a taxi and had myself driven six city blocks to the restaurant. I’ve a sprained ankle, I told the driver. Not allowed to walk more than a few steps. The five-dollar tip may have lifted his mood, but gratification did not express itself through speech. Where had the Jewish and Italian taxi drivers gone, those guys who actually talked to you? The table I’d reserved was ready. I positioned myself once again where I would see Heidi as soon as she walked in, and ordered a martini. It doesn’t take much to jog a bartender’s memory. Gordon’s gin and a twist of lemon peel, he crowed. The question now was how late Heidi would be.

  She surprised me, arriving before the waitress brought the drink. I pushed the martini in front of her and ordered another one just like it for myself.

  You’re a miracle of good manners, Captain, she said, but your memory is shoddy. I take them with an olive!

  Ouch, I said, intercepted the waitress, and specified the olive. Actually, it’s your fault, I told Heidi. You rattled me by not being late.

  That’s just one of the many tricks I use to keep you off-balance, she replied. Stay alert! I’m starved. Let’s order dinner and talk.

  There seemed to be no reason to choose other dishes or another wine. We stuck to the now-established menu but asked the waitress to give us time to finish the drinks we already had and another round to come before bringing the food.

  I’ve got a lot to tell you, I said, not much of it being good.

  She nodded, and I went on to relate in sufficient detail for the import to sink in the events that had transpired since she left my apartment after the previous evening’s dinner. The telephone call from Jovan or one of his colleagues boasting about the attack on Jeanette, her injuries, the visit to the hospital I’d just made, the same voice calling the moment I’d left Jeanette’s bedside, the tentative decision—for such I realized it had to be—that Jeanette would retire and would be living with her sister.

  That sweet, gentle lady! Heidi exclaimed. Whoever decided to do this is really sick.

  Yes, I answered, it’s unforgivable, and I’m convinced that the psychopath behind it also orchestrated Kerry’s overdose.

  Could I have my second martini now? On an accelerated schedule?

  Heidi remained silent until the waitress brought it, and for a moment I wondered whether she was going to down it in one swallow and ask for a refill. Apparently, she thought better of it. I think you’re right, she said finally. So that’s the end of Jeanette’s culinary reign. Let’s face it, I’m glad I got to eat at least one meal she cooked.

  Don’t despair on account of the cuisine, I told her. Provided you like Chinese food, there is a possible successor waiting in the wings.

  Then I decided that I would disregard Martin’s advice and told her about kicking my running mate down the flight of subway stairs and about the bizarre interview with Detective Walker.

  This isn’t good, she said. Walker belongs to the Tannenbaums! They’re bad news. I’m aware of them from my days as an assistant U.S. attorney. You’re lucky this Goran is bad news too—otherwise, Captain, I fear they’d think with some justification they had you by the balls. Guess what, I wouldn’t be totally surprised if there were some sort of Abner Brown connection here. Strictly political connection. Much as I hate fascist cops, I don’t think they work hand in hand with the bosses of the likes of Jovan or Goran, although like all other cops they may use hit men like that as informers. Doing favors for like-minded troglodytes is another matter. By the way, your former special agent Martin Sweeney seems to be first-rate.

  He is, I replied. That brings me to a related subject. I’ve got him working for me to make sure I don’t have a tail who might lead them to you. On some other matters too. So far neither he nor his partner has seen anybody tailing me, but I’m shaken by Jovan’s most recent call. He is too well informed. The related subject is whether I shouldn’t engage Martin or one of his colleagues to look after you. I may be radioactive. I don’t want you to be hurt.

  For the third time since I met her she put her hand over mine, and said, Thank you! That’s what you did for Kerry. She could have used protection even after she broke with you and you left the country. Of course, she wouldn’t have accepted it. It would have been a waste of time to propose it. I’m a not-so-nice Jewish girl, so I might accept if I didn’t have another solution. But I do. The Krohn businesses have a security organization. You know, we have problems going from espionage—competitors trying to steal our designs—all the way to pretty crude attempted burglaries when our goods are in the warehouse or the showroom or are being transported. I think I’ll explain the situation to Father without giving details, maybe I’ll lead him to think it’s something to do with my past activities as a prosecutor, and ask him to assign however many guys it takes to look after me. There’s an advantage: it won’t cost you! If for any reason Father can’t or won’t do it, we’ll talk. All right?

  She’d withdrawn her hand. I risked taking it back and giving it a brief squeeze. I like doing business with you, I said.

  That’s just as well, because we’ll be in business together—partners. OK? Until this gets done, she said, giving my hand a slightly longer squeeze and promptly taking her hand away, so let’s talk about other partnership matters. Might as well make this meal fully tax deductible. Can Moses get at Kerry’s email?

  I told her what I’d learned.

  That’s too bad. I’ll think of passwords and you try to think too. We should coordinate so that we don’t get her account—I think she only had one—shut down by both of us typing in the wrong password. What about looking for the guy who killed Kerry?

  That’s sort of in the works.

  I explained what Martin’s partner had begun to do and said I hoped to get down to that club very soon. Perhaps next week.

  I may want to go with you, she m
used. Let’s think about that. Depends on how you decide to play it. There is something I can throw into the mix. I know the name of Kerry’s pusher. A guy who testified at trial when she was prosecuting the kingpin who was perhaps the biggest heroin dealer in the New York area. She’d flipped him to Team America, and after he finished cooperating helped him get off with a very light sentence and no probation. Then she became a client. For cocaine, which is not what he’s really into. Your Martin or his partner might be able to find him. They might even know him. Pierrot the Cat is his street name. The real name—I was able to find it—is Pierre-Jean Lecat. I don’t have his cell number. Anyway those guys change them all the time.