Finders Keepers (12 page)

Raybould said, “I did you a favor here, Rodney. I showed you what you’ve been decorating and calling a wife.”

“How…long…” Hicks said, groaning against the pain in his wrist and in his heart. He’d genuinely believed that he and Sally had turned a corner, that they’d grow old together, retire in Florida someday like his folks. What a chump.

“Couple months,” Raybould said, “give or take. That’s part of your problem, chum. You don’t pay attention.”

Then Raybould’s fist had come down and put his lights out. When he awoke Raybould and his wife were gone. He found a scrawled note on the kitchen table.

I love him, Rodney. Goodbye…

* * *

Bryan could see the tears on his partner’s face, silver streaks of pain in the street light. He wanted to say something, touch him maybe, but he couldn’t.

“I haven’t seen or spoken to her since,” Hicks said, facing him now, beyond shame or embarrassment. “Christ, Bryan, Sal and I’ve known each other since our teens. She didn’t even drink back then.” He shook his head. “I got her started on the coke. Took some off a snitch one time and decided, what the hell, give it a try, see what the attraction is. It didn’t do shit for me, just froze up my face and made me more fucking hyper. But Sal, she couldn’t get enough of it. And she was so much fun on the shit, I just kept…bringing it home. I didn’t realize she had a problem until it was way past too late.” Bryan had to look away, Hicks’ features so distorted now he scarcely recognized the man. “I was her fucking
pusher
, Bryan. Her fucking pusher…”

Hicks leaned over his knees, sobbing, letting it come. Mayer reached out and held the back of his neck.

“Okay, partner,” he said. “We’ll stay as long as you want. And if this fucker’s dirty, I’ll help you nail him to the cross.”

* * *

Cool fingers touched Kate’s shoulder, snapping her awake, a voice behind her saying, “There’s a family room, you know. With a bed and a TV and a fridge.”

Kate squinted up at the nurse, disappointed the touch wasn’t Steve’s. Her back was killing her. She said, “What time is it?”

“Midnight,” the nurse said, smiling in the low light. “We’ve been making bets, how long before you’d fall out of this chair.”

Kate looked at her dad, still sleeping with the oxygen tubes in his nose.

“He’s fine,” the nurse said, “sleeping like a baby. Come on, I’ll get you fixed up.” Kate didn’t move. “If anything changes or he wakes up and asks for you, we know where to find you.”

“You’ll come get me?”

“You have my word.”

Kate rose stiffly from the chair, leaned over the bedrail and kissed her father on the forehead, his skin cold against her lips. “Sleep well,” she whispered, then followed the nurse out of the unit, down the hall to the family room.

It was small and chilly, the walls paper thin, but it had a bed and Kate found
Miracle On Thirty-Fourth Street
, the original, playing on the twenty-inch color TV with a plaque on top that said: Donated by the Ladies’ Auxiliary. She watched until her eyes got heavy and she fell asleep that way, fully dressed under the thin blankets, images in blue light playing over her face.

Marty Small came awake all of a sudden, morning light piercing his eyes like heated needles. He had no idea where he was. Then he felt Earlene’s warm ass spooned into the small of his back and he remembered. He should’ve been delighted, but his head hurt too much for anything else to really much matter. He glanced at the bedside digital: 6:22 AM.
Shit.
He’d finally passed out around three with a gut full of pretzels and cheap wine; he could feel it sitting in there now like a sauna rock.

He sat up a little at a time, getting his feet to the carpeted floor. He gave it a moment, aware of a tense bladder now, then stood, his entire being suddenly seething with need. Standing, getting his head up in the air like that, seemed to bring the feeling on like a cold sweat. He needed something…

He shuffled into the living room and began sifting through the detritus of the night before. He found an open cigarette package and something inside him sighed, but the sucker was empty. He tossed it into a drift of shredded gift wrap and swirled a couple of the wine bottles that lay on the coffee table like slain soldiers, hoping for a little hair of the dog. No such luck. Even the coke was gone, the glass table top they’d cut it on bearing only the smeared sweeps of Earlene’s spit-wet fingertips.

Marty dragged himself into the john, avoiding the mirror. He swayed in front of the bowl for a minute, trying to get his plumbing started, then gave up and sat on the seat. He propped his elbows on his knees, lowered his head into his hands and cursed his mother for bringing him into the world. God damn, what had he been thinking? He hadn’t partied like this since his teens: thirty-six non-stop hours of  booze, balling and drugs.

But Jesus, didn’t they have fun? Staying stoned, Earlene up for anything. “It’s your dime, sweetie, you call the shots.” He’d kept her naked or nearly naked the whole time, not that it took much coaxing, and managed to convince himself that at least part of the proceedings were spontaneous, just a guy and his gal hangin’ loose.

While he dribbled Marty replayed different scenes in his head: Earlene standing in the bathroom doorway that first night, naked as a jaybird and giving him that smile, most of it just a working girl’s pleasure at an easy score, but a hint of the woman underneath shining through. Using his first name like that, a part of her warming to the idea of playing house for a couple days, being fussed over and spoiled, Marty a willing spoiler. Late champagne breakfast in bed. An hour-long foot massage that seemed to please her more than the sex. Keeping the coke mirror stocked and her wine glass full. And at one point, while the sun was still high in the sky, doing a stand-up routine in his skivvies, getting her so giddy she almost wet the bed. “Marty, you make me laugh…”

Last night she’d heated up some leftover spaghetti, and while she was in the kitchen Marty snuck a peek in her closet. When he saw some of the outfits she had in there he hollered out to her from the bedroom. He couldn’t help himself.

“Jesus, Earlene, lookit this shit. Where do you shop?”

Earlene hollered back, “See anything you like, try it on.”

“Yeah, right.”

He couldn’t believe some of the get-ups she had. For the sick-fuck regulars, he supposed. He wondered how they’d feel dropping by with him sitting in the La-Z-Boy watching
All in the Family
re-runs. The fuckers.

He pulled out a scant leather and vinyl number, studded with what looked like tiny light bulbs or maybe LEDs. He found the battery pack on the belt and switched it on. Colored lights began to flash over the length of the outfit in random sequences. He held it up and shook his head. “Hey, Earlene, I wouldn’t mind seeing you in this little number. Fuckin’ Elvis meets Elvira.”

Earlene stuck her head in to see what he was talking about. “I can do that. No water sports, though.”

See? Making jokes. Warming up to him.

Marty said, “Got any inflatable dolls?”

“No, Marty. I work alone.”

“I got a friend has an inflatable doll. Calls it Toni. Know what he does with it when it turns white?”

“I give up.”

“He empties it,” Marty said, and heard Earlene giggle in the kitchen.

“You are fucked up, Marty small. Now come and eat…”

Now, with his head aching, Marty got off the john, not bothering to flush. He walked naked into the living room and raised the blinds, shading his eyes against the winter glare. An errant breeze swirled snow off the roof, the motion teetering something inside him, and for a long moment Marty was sure he was going to spew his guts into Earlene’s Yucca plant.

He closed his eyes until the feeling passed, leaning on the sill. When he looked outside again he noticed a corner confectionery across the street. Yaghi’s Market.

He shuddered and went to look for his clothes.

* * *

Kate opened her eyes to the shrill of an alarm followed by an atonal voice over the PA system: “Code Blue, ICU, Code Blue, ICU.”
Dad
, she thought, panic slapping her awake. She whipped off the covers and burst out of the family room in her socks, startling an elderly volunteer, skidded across the hall to the unit and plowed through the automatic doors, heading for her father’s cubicle at a dead tear. “Ms. Whipple,” a nurse said, Kate darting past her into the cubicle now to find an empty bed. She turned and saw a guy pushing a defibrillator cart toward a cubicle on the other side of the unit.

The nurse who tried to intercept her came into the room. “Your father was transferred out this morning before change of shift,” she said. “He’s in Stepdown now, back through the main doors and down the hall to your right.” She put her hand on Kate’s shoulder. “Now I’m sorry, Ms. Whipple, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

A couple more staff members headed for the action across the unit.

“Of course,” Kate said. “I’m sorry. I was asleep, I heard the alarm…”

“No problem,” the nurse said, “I understand.” She nudged Kate toward the door. “Now please…”

“Of course. Excuse me.”

Kate left in her sock feet, glancing into the cubicle over there, seeing a man’s bare chest, barrel-shaped and hairy, and a set of black defibrillator paddles, somebody threading a tube down the man’s throat. She looked away, thinking,
Thank God, thank God…

She didn’t breathe again until she was out of the unit. Her headache was back with a vengeance. The elderly volunteer was still in the hallway, waiting by the elevators now, and Kate saw what she had in her hands: a gold chalice balanced on a red satin pillow. Kate turned toward Stepdown, then remembered her shoes and changed directions. As she passed the elevators the old woman in the yellow volunteer’s jacket said, “Is everything all right?”

Hiding in her hair, Kate said, “Yes, thanks,” and went back to the family room for her shoes. While she was there she washed her face and brushed her teeth with her finger, then sat on the john and peed. She got the Tylenol out of her bag and washed one down with some apple juice she found in the counter-top fridge. Then she went out to find her dad.

* * *

When the racket began at the front of the store Tarek Yaghi was hunched in the back of the display cooler, arranging bags of milk so that those closest to their expiry date were stacked at the front. He looked through the cooler’s glass panels and saw some crazy guy standing outside the door, yanking on the handle like he couldn’t believe the place wasn’t open yet. His boots were unlaced and his overcoat unbuttoned, clutched across his chest in one frost-reddened hand. His dark hair looked like rodents had nested in it.

Yaghi came out of the cooler shaking his head. He went to the door and pointed at his watch. “Not open yet,” he said through the glass. “Fifteen minutes.”

“Come on, man,” the guy said, stamping his feet. “It’s freezin’ out here. A deck of smokes and I’m outa your hair.”

He looked at Yaghi with such need, such desperation, Yaghi found himself unlocking the door. In spite of the expensive overcoat, the guy looked the way Yaghi felt these days—worn out, ready to say fuck it and walk—and the sight opened a vein of pity in him.

Marty Small hustled inside, trailing a wake of cold air. “Thanks a million,” he said through chattering teeth. “You’re a life saver.”

Yaghi locked the door and scooted behind the counter, wishing now he’d made the guy wait. “You better not be thief,” he said in his thick Middle-Eastern accent. The guy had those quick, sneaky eyes, taking everything in. Just like his wife. “Three times this year I get robbed,” Yahgi said. “God damn cops, good for nothing.”

“Hell, no,” Marty said. “Just gimme a deck of Players mild.” He took out Keith’s still-fat wallet. “Wait. Make that a carton.”

Yaghi put the merchandise on the counter and punched it in. Instead of paying, Marty wandered off down an aisle and came back with a bottle of extra strength aspirin. He bit off the childproof cap, shook a few tablets into his mouth and started chewing.

Yaghi punched in the aspirin. “That’ll be…”

But Marty was gone again, this time to the candy rack. He returned with a couple of chocolate bars, chewing gum and a jumbo bag of ketchup-flavored potato chips.

Getting annoyed now, Yaghi said, “Will that be all?”

“That’ll do her,” Marty said. He fished a couple of twenties out of the wallet and slid them across the counter. He noticed the lottery ticket in there and slid it over, too. “Be a sport and check this puppy out for me while you’re at it.”

As Yaghi made change the guy wandered off again, this time to the drink cooler. He grinned as he brought a six-pack of pop to the cash.

Yaghi punched it in, then counted out Marty’s change.

Marty said, “You’re Lebanese, right?”

Yaghi nodded, thinking,
No, jackass, I’m Japanese
.

“Know why they don’t let Lebanese guys play hockey?”

Yaghi shook his head.

“’Cause every time one of ’em gets in a corner, he opens a fucking
store
.”

Marty brayed laughter. Bagging the purchases, Yaghi remained poker faced. He slid the bag across the counter.

“Anything else?”

Marty said, “Hey, man, nothing personal.” He hefted the bag and started for the door. Yaghi got there ahead of him and unlocked it.

Marty said, “Thanks for letting me in,” and stepped out into the cold. Yaghi closed the door behind him, gooseflesh rashing his arms. Before he had a chance to lock it, Marty was pushing the door open again. “I almost forgot,” he said. “You check that ticket for me?”

Yaghi muttered something unpleasant in his native tongue and stalked back to the cash. Marty returned to the counter and set the bag down. Yaghi fed the ticket into the machine, which immediately began to bleep and hoot like a pinball machine. Yaghi’s face seemed to actually fall open.

“What,” Marty said, “I got a free ticket?”

“Holy-fuck-me-jesus.”

“What?”

Yaghi plucked the ticket from the machine, gaping at it with excitement. “Ten million dollars,” he said, gasping for air. “Ten
million
dollars.”