Final Stroke (58 page)

When the light came on, he saw Jan. She sat astride her purple ten-speed bicycle smiling at him. Her hand was still out to the light switch, but it soon came down to her side. Except for the bandage on her neck and the cast on her ankle, she was naked.

“Howdy,” she said, kicking off and gliding into the room, jerking the handlebar back and forth to maintain her balance. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I’m up.”

“Wipe that smile off your face. I’m just learning. Relearning.”

“You need the exercise.”

She frowned at him as she circled the bed, the front wheel hitting the dresser and bringing her to an abrupt stop so that she had to lean the bike sideways and put her foot on the floor. “I don’t need exercise, not after last night. Or don’t you remember?”

“I remember.”

She swung her leg over the bike and put down the kickstand. She sat on the edge of the bed, folding her arms demurely over her breasts. She turned and stared at him. “Is that all you remember?” She smiled, but there was a seriousness to it that he understood all too well.

“No, that’s not all I remember.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I remember magazines on the third floor. And magazines strewn across the road. Collected them in my Lincoln.”

“Your rented Lincoln,” said Jan. “You sure did a number on it.”

“I remember the nurse … called 911 … got resident doors closed before they came back and killed her.”

Jan did not comment on this, but simply lowered her eyes.

He reached out and touched her shoulder. “I remember your note
book … between seat and console. And on the floor … balled-up funeral sticker. I remember you telling me about funeral home when you snuck in to get Tony Junior’s address.”

Jan looked up and smiled. “The people at the funeral home thought I worked at the Sanitary District with the poor guy who’d died.”

“Tonight, I remember more than at Hell in the Woods. Maybe because we’re home.”

“Do you remember another time I rode into the bedroom?” she asked, her smile taking on a familiar coyness.

“No. I remember me doing it. Not you telling me. I came awake to that clicking and …”

“Take your time.”

“I remember being in the doorway. The other apartment upstairs. Me on your bike. That damn skinny seat. Me turning on the light. You in bed. Beautiful it was … so beautiful.”

She hugged him and they lay down together, touching, recall
ing the softness of youth. But also recalling the not-so-distant past because of the feel of her bandages against his skin and the feel of his bandages against her skin.

“I thought I’d been shot in the head,” said Jan.

“You?”

“Yes. In the hospital, when I first came awake. I remember think
ing about something you came across in a rehab software program. The
Comparison
button misspelled into the
Comaprison
button.remember wondering if I’d been shot in the head and I was in coma
prison. I wondered if I would laugh at everything the way you did for a while.”

“I was a cheery son-of-a-bitch. Now I’m old self, a melancholy Gypsy who plays a lousy violin. The Gypsy was there, watching over me. After the stroke it was my father, or Sergeant Joe Friday, or San
dor Lakatos, or some other old man staring me in the eyes. Which old man do you prefer?”

“I like this old man with dark eyes. Which means, I want us to grow old together. In a way I was hopeful that if I’d been shot in the head instead of the neck, the distant past before we met would be wiped out. But it was a false hope. We have to live with what we have.”

“Couldn’t have said it better.”

“Steve?”

“Yes.”

“About being a Gypsy. I never told you about the nickname. I held it back to see if at some point you’d remember being called that.”

“That’s me, a Gypsy wandering naked on a bicycle with a skinny seat.”

She whispered into his ear. “Do you really remember that night?”

He whispered back. “Yes, I really remember.”

As he and Jan lay together in bed, Steve’s mind bubbled with details. It was the opposite of a stroke. Instead of the brain bullet taking out memories, this brain bullet filled his head with them.

Max Lamberti and Dino Justice dead. Other men working for Max indicted by the grand jury along with Phil Hogan from the Eighth District. Another Phil at Hell in the Woods expanding his vocabulary after being told about the shootings in the nursing home wing. Phil
saying, “Jesus Fuck, Steve” instead of his normal, “Jesus Fuck.” Ta mara wanting to know if there were things he hadn’t told her, things he had left out of the “report” he typed for her on his computer.

Of course there were things he left out. Not because he wanted to leave them out, but because he had to leave them out.

A nurse, two guards, a maintenance worker, and So-long Sue mur
dered. The nurse calling 911 before Max returns to kill her. Steve getting the drop on Max and Dino. Jan shot in the crossfire. These details he had not left out.

But two old men arriving before the police respond to the 911? Two old men carrying Sig Sauer semi-automatics with silencers? Two old men killing Max before the Hispanic old man asks his question about Jimmy Carter and Ronald Reagan and then kills his partner? These de
tails he had left out. The Hispanic old man who called Carter a modern day Don Quixote had offered closure. And that closure was to leave it be and let the mob take the blame. Obviously it was crucial to very pow
erful people that secrets told him by Marjorie be kept secret.

Not that Marjorie had spelled it out for him. All she’d been able to get out during their cryptic conversations had been that her husband hated Carter and desperately wanted Reagan to win. When Marjo
rie said, “Carter Smarter,” Steve now knew this was her private phrase for the deeper secret she may or may not have totally recalled after her stroke. Marjorie knew something, had become talkative about it, and had been killed. She might have been killed because she knew the secret code for locating the “drug money.” Or, she might have been killed because she knew a deeper political secret. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, his sketchy knowledge of the political secret was limited to a few words spoken by Marjorie and by the visit of two aging assassins whom no one else had seen. At least no one alive.

Jan lay on his left arm and turned to kiss his chest.

“Thought you were asleep,” he said.

“I was listening to you breathing,” she said. “And thinking.”

“Thinking?”

“Yes. Although your conversation has gotten better, I can still tell when you stop talking sometimes that you’re trying to work things out in your head.”

“What am I trying to work out?”

“Puzzles from the past.”

“What puzzles?”

“Like why Max would have Tony Gianetti Junior killed.”

Steve cupped Jan’s head with his left hand. “Max wanted the money for himself.”

“But he didn’t have to kill Tony Junior,” said Jan. “And he didn’t have to kill his aunt. I guess mostly I see it as such a waste.”

“Big money has its way,” said Steve.

“I know,” said Jan.

“Nothing we can do about it.”

“Maybe there is,” said Jan.

“What’s that?”

“Tony Junior’s legacy. The environment. You got interested in the environment after your stroke, didn’t you?”

“I thought the world had had a stroke.”

“So that’s it,” said Jan, putting her lips to Steve’s ear.

“What?” asked Steve.

“We become environmentalist detectives. We do what we can for future generations. That is, after all, the definition of legacy.”

Steve turned his face to Jan, feeling her lips slide first across his left cheek, then, although not as distinct, across his right cheek. He sent signals to his right arm and, slowly, it came across and encircled her. They kissed.

CHAPTER

THIRTY

This was not good. Instead of being part of the damn
system, and maybe sometimes taking advantage of it, he was stuck in it. He’d been stuck in it for three months now, the doc saying five more surgeries yet. Two on his gut, where he’d been punched about a thousand spaghetti-head punches, and three on his face so he’ll be able to breathe through his nose again. After each surgery he felt like he’d been beat up all over again. Like now, two days gone after the last bout with the surgeon’s knife and he still felt like shit.

Tyrone looked up and back where his name was scrawled in fat let
ters on a card hooked to a clip on the wall. His full name there so some damn nurse wouldn’t accidentally give him a shot meant for another Washington, or give another Washington a shot meant for him. Only good thing about this place was some of them shots in his IV port. Yeah, some of them shots did him just fine, for a little while anyway.

Most of the time this place was hell, making him think about the old days at Hell in the Woods as the good old days. He should’ve learned a lesson back when he had his first health care job down at
Cook County Hospital that a hospital was the last place he’d ever want to end up for three months. Sometimes he thought it would’ve been better to have spit in the spaghetti heads’ faces and taken a deep six in stead of this. But when he thought about the beating he’d gotten, he couldn’t have spit in their faces because, when his mouth wasn’t taped, his face and gut were so mashed in there was no way he could’ve spit.

So, here he was with enough internal injuries for every south side gang member, his face flattened so badly it needed to be rebuilt, his medical insurance company complaining—even though the same damn insurance company insured all the employees at this place— Medicaid just around the corner if he didn’t get out of here soon, no visitors, not even Latoya, and now … Now!

When he saw Flat Nose walk into the room, Tyrone turned to the side and spit in the spit cup. He hadn’t seen Flat Nose since that night on the loading dock at Hell in the Woods when the spaghetti heads were hauling him away and one of them flattened Flat Nose. Flat nose had grown a mustache and wore sunglasses. When Tyrone finished spitting, he turned and said, “Fuck ‘ou, F’at Nose.”

Flat Nose smiled, took off the White Sox cap he was wearing and smoothed back his hair with his hand. “Fuck you, too, Tyrone, my man.”

Flat Nose pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed, smiling and staring and shaking his head. “You look better, man. Last time I was here you were out like a fuckin’ light.”

“When was ‘ou here?”

“Oh, maybe a couple weeks back.”

” ‘onger then that.”

“Okay, maybe longer. Guess it was a little while after you got here. And after the fuckin’ legal eagles finally figured out they couldn’t hold me for nothin’. Anyway, you look much better now. But I guess you
still got some trouble talkin’.”

“Trou’le? Fuck … my mout’ need rebuildin’, my sinus need re
buildin’, my nose need rebuildin’, ain’t got no teet’. I’ll say I got fuck
in’ trou’le.”

Flat Nose held his Sox cap in his hands and leaned closer, no lon
ger smiling. “Yeah, you got it worse than me. I just got my nose broken, and got shot in the fuckin’ leg. They took care of it down at County. But you …”

Flat Nose leaned even closer and spoke more quietly. “Anyway, the reason I’m here is DeJesus knows that Babe guy’s been here to visit and he wants to make sure you ain’t said nothin’. You know how DeJesus is. I said I’d come on down and ask and you’d say, fuck no, you ain’t said nothin’ and that’d be the end of that.”

“Wha’ if I do say som’in?”

Flat Nose glanced toward the door. “Shit, man, you don’t want to do that. You’re just baggin’ me. Right?”

Tyrone reached out and grabbed Flat Nose by the shirt. “Fuck if I’m baggin’ ‘ou! Tell ‘eJesus he ‘an go fuck hisself, ‘cause I’ll say anythin’ I want!”

When Tyrone let go of Flat Nose’s shirt, Flat Nose leaned back in the chair and put on his cap. “Okay, man, I’ll tell DeJesus what you said. Is that what you want?”

“Yeah.”

“That mean you said somethin’ to Babe already?”

“May’e yes, may’e no.”

Flat Nose stood up and looked down at Tyrone. “Man, you better not say nothin’ else. Promise me you’ll say nothin’ else to Babe and I’ll do what I can about DeJesus. You know how he is about his busi ness and takin’ care of his sick ma. And he’s more powerful than ever now that his old boss is out of the picture. Promise you’ll say nothin’
else to Babe and I’ll see what I can do about gettin’ some combat pay, ‘cause I figure you got some comin’.”

Flat Nose pointed to his own nose. “I got a few bills for this get-tin’ busted again, and another few bills for gettin’ shot in the leg. If I can get that much, no tellin’ how much DeJesus’ll give you. What say, my man? Should I tell DeJesus you’re still on the team?”

When Tyrone tried to sit up in bed but couldn’t, he repeated him
self as loudly as he could and it came out in a gurgle of phlegm. “Tell ‘eJesus he ‘an go fuck hisself!”

After Flat Nose was gone, Tyrone settled back on his pillow and closed his eyes. In three months he hadn’t said jack shit to Babe and now the first thing out of Flat Nose’s mouth when he visits after all that time is a fuckin’ tip off.

The reason he hadn’t appreciated Flat Nose’s visit was probably because he’d been thinking about Latoya when the bastard came in. Latoya last week saying she was leaving him because he’d gotten in trouble again. “Trouble of his own making” were the exact words when she finally decided to visit him in this place. He’d wanted to tell her they could get married and have kids when he was better. He wanted to tell her he’d always wanted to have kids because he didn’t have any brothers and sisters he knew of, so he’d never even be able to be an uncle unless he got married. He’d wanted to tell her all that good stuff. But he couldn’t tell any of it because of his busted up face. If only Latoya knew about his refusal to cooperate with Flat Nose and DeJesus. If only she knew it had even crossed his mind to finger DeJe
sus and do his part to save the nation’s health care system. If only she knew that, maybe she’d come back.

As he lay with his eyes closed, he imagined Latoya visiting him again, only this time under different circumstances. This time she’d be visiting a hero. And because he was a hero, she’d treat him
accordingly. Maybe lay her head on his lap. Yeah, right there so he can put his hands on her head. Her saying he has such big hands and big somethin’ else when she comes up for air and looks at him and says she loves him.

As far back as Tyrone could remember he always had big hands. Not when he was a baby, but he did have big hands in his gang-bang days. Even when he was a shorty the other shorties called him “Hands.” According to Flat Nose, DeJesus supposedly had even bigger hands. Not that Tyrone had ever measured his against DeJesus’, but he did know DeJesus could palm a basketball. Like Tyrone, DeJesus could have been on the Chicago Bulls.

It was all a matter of circumstances. Him on the streets of Chi
cago so there was no chance of ever being in college ball and getting a chance in the pros, and DeJesus being in the military during his prime years so he never got his chance. According to Flat Nose, DeJesus got into the rackets he was in because of an old army buddy. Yeah, an old army buddy who was out of the picture now, based on what Flat Nose had just told him. And if the old buddy was out of the picture, then maybe DeJesus would be out of the picture pretty soon. Maybe he’d just fade away like they all do eventually.

Maybe the whole damn world would fade away the way it had during those first few days in the hospital when he was drugged-up. In some ways being drugged-up was a whole hell of a lot better than all that rehab after the first surgery. Back then, he figured rehab was a way to convince a guy to keep his nose clean. Pure torture is all it was. In fact, now that he thought about it, the occupational guy was here helping him learn how to eat one of the first times Babe paid him a visit. Babe coming into his room with a violin case under his arm and telling him he’d finally graduated from his own therapy at Hell in the Woods. Then, apparently to prove he’d graduated, Babe pulls the
violin out of its case and starts playing the damn thing. Sounded like alley cats thrown over the telephone wires with their tails duct-taped together.

Babe had visited quite a few times since then. Last time he left an article he said he’d gotten at the library. The article was about the hood, Max Lamberti, who got killed that night. Babe told him to read the article and let him know if anything in it rang a bell, if anything in the article sounded like something he’d heard before. So he read the article and the only thing that sounded familiar was that Lamberti served at Fort Bragg in the 82
^nd
Airborne. Of course the article did say something about Lamberti and another guy being questioned in the investigation of a murder of an officer and his fiancee, but that was none of his business. And so he told Babe he’d heard of Fort Bragg, but what’s the big deal in that? Everyone’s heard of Fort Bragg.

Tyrone hated to admit he liked Babe. He realized it the first time Babe visited and told him that So-long Sue had died in the hospital from her gunshot wound. Tyrone remembered So-long Sue and liked her and felt sad along with Babe that Sue was dead. He didn’t even pull his hand away when Babe touched him after that damn tear ran down into the bandage over the latest jaw surgery and burned like hell.

During one of Babe’s visits, even though he’d already told it to about twenty detectives earlier, Tyrone told Babe about the chicken
shit way the spaghetti heads killed the two cops in the van. When Babe asked how he happened to be grabbed by the spaghetti heads, Tyrone admitted he was in Babe’s room on the third floor when they showed up. He told Babe he was pissed about him grabbing him and trying to choke him earlier. He told Babe he was worried that Babe was trying to finger him for the old lady’s death. Of course he didn’t admit to anything, nothing about Flat Nose or DeJesus or lifting stuff from Hell in the Woods.

After pretty much leveling with Babe the way he did, Babe told him what else went down at Hell in the Woods that night. How he’d gotten Mrs. Babe away from the spaghetti heads. How they crashed into the building and came inside in his chair. How the bas
tards chased them to the lobby. Killed McGrath and that new guard. Killed old Russell when he made the mistake of pushing his cleaning cart into the lobby. Killed that nurse who called 911. Almost killed Babe and Mrs. Babe. Shot So-long Sue.

As Tyrone lay with his eyes closed thinking about Latoya, he heard a rattling at the side of the bed, the IV clips hitting against the meter
ing stand. Maybe it was the nurse again. Maybe she felt sorry for him and he’d get that Demerol he asked for.

Hands on this throat! Large hands pressing down! When he tried to reach out to push away the choker, one of the hands came off his throat and the choker pushed his arm down to the side, then twisted his arm up behind his back.

Even before he opened his eyes, Tyrone knew who it was. Al
though he’d seen him only a few times, he knew it was DeJesus with his big hands and arms as thick as telephone poles.

DeJesus’ eyebrows were thick and dark, connected above his nose. And Tyrone thought, such a petite nose for such a big fucker. Think
ing this despite the pain. Able to think this because after three months in the hospital and all the surgeries, he was used to pain.

But DeJesus wasn’t letting up and Tyrone began to think the spic might kill him here and now. No knife, no gun, just one big hand squeezing his neck, another pressing down into his gut, the two hands threatening to undo everything the surgeons had done to put him back together.

When it was over and Tyrone could do nothing more than take one breath after another through the hole that was his mouth, DeJesus
whispered harshly into his ear.

“You talk to Babe and you die, spook! With my business partner gone I ain’t got no one to answer to! It feels real good, like bein’ a gen
eral in boot camp!”

Before leaving, DeJesus rubbed Tyrone’s head with his palm like he was rubbing a kid’s head. Then he smiled and said, “We had a spook general when I was at Bragg! Bastard fucked me over a couple times. Nothin’ against you personally, but it’d be my pleasure to be able to even the score.”