Jailbait (4 page)

“I doubt that’s the case,” the woman said.

I appraised her. She was big enough to make good money selling shade at the beach.

“Jesus. How many kids you got in there? Twenty?”

“The Lord has blessed me with twins.”

“The Lord? He’s the one who shagged you?”

She gave me a look that was anything but holy, and then Tangi returned.

“I have to go pee in a cup. You’d better still be here when I get back.”

“Sure. Of course, babe. I’ll be right here. Scout’s honor.”

Tangi disappeared into the office, and I tripped over myself bolting for the exit.

“Not a good idea.”

I stopped. Yet another fatty was butting into my personal business. “Excuse me?”

“You leave right now, that woman will never speak to you again. And if that is your kid, you’re going to find that someday down the line, you’ll wish you hadn’t screwed this up.”

I wanted to argue. But the way she stared at me, with those big, pregnant eyes, I knew this wise fat woman was right. Rather than flee, I found myself plopping down in the seat next to her.

“So what’s your story?” I asked. “This another Virgin Birth like the nut job over there?”

The woman showed me the magazine she was reading.
Modern Parenthood
. The lead story, in block letters over some drooling baby’s grinning face, was “The Importance of Daddy.”

“Children in two-parent households have many more advantages than those of single parents. They wind up forming better social relationships in life, making more money in their careers, living longer, and actually being happier. Let me take a shot—you didn’t grow up with both parents in the picture, did you?”

I was an orphan. I didn’t grow up with any parents in the picture. I only found out Jack was my long-lost sister relatively recently. “What if the child is raised by a single, loving mother, and the single-loving father never visits but sends a buttload of money? Enough to pay for a nanny or a butler or some kind of cool baby-raising robot?”

The wizened preggo gave me a look. “I don’t think that’s the same thing. Do you?”

“What about you? I don’t see your guy sitting here and holding your hand while—”

A guy walked in, sat next to the woman, and held her hand. “Just parked, honey. You check in already?”

She nodded, turning away from me. I mulled over the fatty’s questions, but Tangi walked back into the waiting room with a nurse at her side before I could come up with any answers. “We can go in.”

Feeling a little like I was on my way to the gallows, I tagged behind them, weaving through a carpeted hallway, and winding up in a room with some Star Trekish machines tucked into the corners. It smelled like antiseptic and baby powder. Tangi selfishly took the only stool, leaving me the padded table with the stirrups. I elected to stand.

“So… how’s life?” I asked, mostly to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Every morning I throw up for twenty minutes, all the while cursing the day I met you. I have to sleep sitting up, and I pee my pants when I sneeze. How the fuck do you think my life is?”

I really needed to start using condoms.

I spent a few minutes playing with my cuticles, and then the doctor came in. She was short, thin, Indian. The 7-11 owner kind, not the casino owner kind.

“Hello, Tangi! How are you?” She had a high-pitched, musical voice, and the smile on her face seemed genuine. The smile fell away when she noticed me. “Is this the one who did this to you?”

“Yeah. That’s Harry McGlade.”

She gave me a curt nod. “Hello, Mr. McGlade. I’m Doctor Patel.”

“I notice that every other Indian I meet is named Patel. Is it because there are so many of you in India that you ran out of names? Or did Grandpappy Patel really get around, if you know what I mean? By that, I mean he pumped a lot of poon.”

“You are right,” Dr. Patel said to Tangi. “He is an asshole.”

Dr. Patel showed me her back and began asking Tangi rapid-fire questions about her health. After listening to her heartbeat and checking her temperature and blood pressure, the doctor motioned to the scale along the wall. “Now why don’t we see how much you’ve gained?”

“Is this the only scale you’ve got?” I asked. “I can grab one from another exam room, and we can push them together, one foot on each.”

A frown from Dr. Patel. “Mr. McGlade, if you’re having difficulty showing sympathy, I can give you a shot so your testicles swell up to the size of pumpkins.”

“That would make it tough to find pants.”

“Then perhaps you should restrict your comments to supportive ones.”

Tangi heaved herself off the stool. She waddled over to the scale and stepped on board. The level clanked to one side. Doc Patel slid weight after weight. Finally it evened off.

“About a pound in the last week. That makes for a thirty-four pound gain. Excellent.”

Excellent
wasn’t the word I’d use, unless the kid was going to be born weighing thirty-four pounds. But I managed to keep quiet.

“Now please hop up onto the table and we’ll check your cervix. No, not you, Mr. McGlade.”

The doctor handed Tangi a gown that looked as if it was made of paper. Then she pulled a curtain, partitioning off the room. Tangi shimmied out of her sweats and—good lord—gigantic granny panties, which was the unsexiest thing I’d ever seen. At least it was until she got up on the table and put her feet in the stirrups. I never imagined a naked woman in that position could look so… clinical. It was the first vagina I ever looked away from.

The doctor pulled back the curtain and rejoined us. She hunkered down between Tangi’s thighs and stuck a medieval-looking metal device up her hoo-ha. “No dilation yet. Have you had any Braxton Hicks contractions?”

“No.”

“I’m going to do a swab for fetal fibronectin, to check for preterm labor.”

“And I’m going to the men’s room, to check to make sure my penis hasn’t shrunk so small it’s now gone.”

“How would you know the difference?” Tangi asked.

She and Dr. Patel chuckled. However, I wasn’t entirely joking. I did a quick pat down to make sure I was still all there.

“Have you both decided yet on the sex?” Dr. Patel asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “And it was the wrong-ass decision. I may never have sex again.”

“The sex of the baby, Mr. McGlade. Would you like to know if it is a boy or a girl?”

The question pinned me there, and I wasn’t sure how to react. A moment ago, less than a moment ago, this baby was just a thing, a nameless, faceless problem that I didn’t want to deal with. But giving it a sex meant thinking about names, and thinking about names meant thinking about bigger things, like saving up for the right college.

“Uh… um… ah…”

“What do you want to do, Harry?” Tangi asked.

“Why don’t we wait until the kid is a teenager.”

“I think we should find out.”

The doctor slipped the speculum out of Tangi, which looked about as sexy as it sounds. “You can put your legs down.”

I raised my hand. “I’ll second that.”

Tangi took her feet out of the stirrups, and the doctor slid them into the table. Then she walked to one of the scary-looking machines and wheeled it over. After pulling up Tangi’s gown yet again, she grabbed a tube of something from a nearby cupboard. “This might feel a little cold.” She slathered jelly all over the beach ball that was Tangi’s stomach.

I watched, intrigued, as Dr. Patel moved a handheld whatchamacallit across Tangi’s abdomen. She pointed to the machine’s monitor.

I was shocked how clear the child’s features were. “Holy shit! That’s the face.”

“Looks like a little smile there, too,” Dr. Patel said.

Tangi’s hand somehow found mine. I squeezed it back.

The doctor moved the camera around, down the child’s body. “And there are the baby’s shoulders. And there are his hands. And—”

“Oh my God,” I said. “He’s a porn star.”

“That’s the leg, Mr. McGlade. But right there…” Dr. Patel adjusted a knob on the monitor. “That’s his penis.”

“It’s so small,” I said.

“That’s your son, all right,” Tangi said. She gripped my hand tighter.

“So… we’re having a boy?” My voice cracked a little.

Dr. Patel moved the camera again, and then asked, “Would you like to hear his heartbeat?”

A sound came on, a rapid WHOOSHTAPWHOOSHTAPWHOOSHTAP, so fast the beats all ran together.

“You hear that?” Tangi said. “That’s Harry McGlade Jr.”

And for the second time in my life, I had nothing flippant to say.

I left the doctor’s office with mixed feelings. Overwhelmed, by the responsibility I now had. Exhilarated, by the thought of actually being a father. Relieved, because I didn’t have some parasite growing inside
my
gut.

Tangi gave me a mean elbow in the ribs as we stepped out onto the sidewalk. “Next time we visit Dr. Patel, could you try your best to be less of an asshole?”

Add
annoyed
to the list, because out of all the women I could have knocked up, it had to be this piece of work.

“Are you going to act this way around our kid?” I said. “All ball-busting and bitchy?”

Her eyes became burning lasers. “You’re worried about
my
parenting skills? Seriously? You’re the most irresponsible man I’ve ever met.”

I folded my arms. “You dated a mobster and a killer.”

“He was a responsible mobster, and was very selective in the people he killed.”

“You can’t possibly think that some jackass wise guy would make a more responsible father than—”

I was so distracted by Tangi’s idiotic prattling, I didn’t notice the black sedan speeding toward us until I heard the tires squeal. The front end hopped the curb. It skidded to a stop a few feet in front of us on the sidewalk. I pushed Tangi behind me and reflexively reached for my Magnum. Just as my hand slapped leather, I saw the shotgun sticking out of the passenger side window.

“In the car,” Tony said. “Both of youse.”

Tangi made a whimpering sound.

“Hi, Tony,” I said, raising my hands. “You going to shoot us? Right in the middle of the street?”

He looked me dead in the eye. “Yes. I am.”

I could accept that. But I couldn’t accept getting into the car with him. I’ve done a lot of stupid things in my life, like betting $25,000 on midget wrestling and having sex with Tangi. But I wasn’t stupid enough to get into a car with a mobster, just so he could take me someplace private and spend a nice, long weekend torturing me to death.

“Run,” I told Tangi, shoving her away—

—right into the arms of the two smartly-dressed wise guys who had snuck up beside us on foot.

Oops.

Now I did reach for my gun, but the nearer and larger of the two hit me with a right cross that sent stars circling my head like something from a damn cartoon. Except there was no funny music in the background, and the side of my head didn’t take on any humorous shapes, at least not that I could tell.

I stumbled back and fell on my ass, catching the thug’s foot in my face, which hurt like getting kicked in the face. Somewhere among the clanging in my head, I heard Tangi scream. I finally managed to liberate my gun, and while debating which one of the nine blurry guys to shoot, the other nine blurry guys hustled nine Tangis into nine sedans. The other nine followed those first eighteen inside before my math deficiencies caught up with me. Finally the nine cars drove away, leaving me on the sidewalk alone, possibly with a concussion.

Or nine.

I sat there for a few minutes, waiting for the little birds to stop circling. Of course they didn’t, because they were city pigeons and no amount of shooing can ever make them go away. I had to wonder why they had taken Tangi and not me. After both a fist and a boot to the face, I wasn’t my usual lethal self, yet they’d left me littering the sidewalk like a giant candy wrapper that looked exactly like me. Sure I had a big gun. I also had a .44. But I was in no shape to use either.

Unless they assumed I wouldn’t follow them.

I thought about that for a minute. If I just left things alone and walked away, Sal would no doubt take his revenge out on her (responsibly, of course), and I would no longer have to worry about turning my home office into a nursery or bribing the University of Illinois to overlook Harry Jr.’s failing grades.

A normal guy would examine his conscience when deciding whether or not to leave his unborn child and the tyke’s nasty shrew of a mother to a terrible, mobster-induced fate. Since I don’t have a conscience, I did the next best thing.

“Jack,” I said into my cell phone, talking to my sister’s answering machine. “It’s Harry. Pick up.”

She didn’t.

“I’m nearby and I’ve got a box of chocolate Zingers.”

“How close are you?” Jack said, slightly breathless.

“I need your help. Sal Dovolanni just kidnapped the mother of my kid.”

“So call the police. But first, drop off those Zingers.”

“He’s going to kill her, Jack.”

“So what are you thinking? That you’re just going to march in there alone and rescue her?”

“Actually…” I let my voice trail off.

“Oh. You’re thinking of not doing a damn thing. Christ, McGlade, you’re a jerk.”

“Well, yeah. But it would sort of eliminate a lot of my problems at once. Does that make me a bad person?”

“You’re already a bad person. That would make you a monster. If you don’t call the police, I will. Wait… did you say this was Sal Dovolanni?”

“Yeah.”

“He lives in the thirteenth district.”

“So?”

“I’m not plugged into the gossip mill anymore, but blue rumor has it he owns some cops in that district.”

“So I could call, and they wouldn’t do anything. Would that let me off the hook?” Maybe I was over-thinking this.

“We need to save her,” Jack said.

“
We
?”

“Pregnant women have to support each other.”

“Don’t you have special bras for that? And those ugly belts that hold up your Buddha bellies?”

“That’s what I mean. We can’t count on assholes like you.”

I considered it. “Maybe Sal won’t kill her. Maybe he’ll just disfigure her with acid or cut off her feet.”