Right To Die - Jeremiah Healy (16 page)

Bacall sighed. "There. Be all right in a
minute."

I left my hands on the wheel, where the cops could
see them. The one approaching me was female, the one coming around to
the rear of the passenger side a male. Bacall, eyes closed, was
breathing deeply. The leather case lay open on the dashboard.

"Alec?"

"Yes?"

"No sudden movements. We've got company. Leave
the works where they are."

Bacall opened his eyes but didn't turn his head.

The woman had her right hand on the butt of her
holstered weapon, using the left index knuckle to rap on my window. I
rolled it down slowly.

She had close-set eyes and the cratered cheeks bad
acne leaves behind. "What's the problem, boys?"

Her eyes left my face to see the paraphernalia on the
dash and Bacall's exposed left leg.

I said, "This man's a diabetic. He wasn't
feeling too well, so we pulled in and he took a shot."

Bacall said, "Of insulin."

"Want to step out of the car, please."

Bacall started to say something as I said, "We'll
step out of the car."

I came out slowly. Bacall fumbled with the unfamiliar
door handle. He locked himself in before floundering out to be caught
and steadied by the male partner.

I said, "I'm carrying a Chief's Special over my
right hip. I have some ID in my inside jacket pocket."

She motioned for the ID.

I took it out. Reading it, she said, "Heard of
you. Nancy Meagher, right?"

"I'm seeing her."

"Nance and I went to school together." She
arched her nose over a shoulder. "Gate of Heaven. Tell her
Sheilah Boyle, she'll remember."

"I will."

Boyle handed me back the ID. "They're okay,
Conn."

The male partner said, "Thank Christ, it's like
Siberia out here."

Then to Bacall, "You gonna be all right there,
pal?"

"Yes. Yes, fine. Thank you."

"Have a good night," said Boyle as she and
Conn trotted to their unit.

Back in my Prelude, Bacall had gotten his pant leg
down and was stowing the hypo case. "Thank you, John."

"For what?"

"This happened to me once before. The police . .
. well, as I said back in your office, I don't always bring out the
best in them."

I started the car and drove Bacall to his house in
Bay Village. On the way back to the condo I tried to convince myself
that things would have gone just as smoothly with Sheilah Boyle and
Conn if Bacall had spoken first.
 

=13=

I WOKE UP TUESDAY RELATIVELY FREE OF STIFFNESS
DESPITE THE punishing run the previous morning. The sky outside my
window was overcast, the radio quoting a temperature in the high
forties. I dressed for running and went downstairs.

No sign of the derelict, but I remembered his advice.
Some stretching exercises for the calves and hamstrings, not quite
breaking a sweat. I started out slowly, going over the ramp to the
river path in a gentle second gear. Then I began pushing off more,
using the thighs and the ball of the rear foot, gradually lengthening
my stride as he'd predicted. The pace didn't feel faster, but my
whole body seemed in tune with the rhythm my legs were setting. I
turned around at the Boston University bridge so the run would be
just about three miles.

As I approached the Fairfield Street ramp again, the
bum was sitting on the bench, a couple of layers of sweater off his
torso and knotted around his waist like a backward apron. Nodding and
smiling.

I slowed to a walk in front of him. "Didn't see
you this morning."

"Saw you."

"You did."

"Uh-huh. Wanted to check first."

"Check? On what?"

"On whether you were one of those know-it-alls,
couldn't take any coaching. There're a lot like that."

"And?"

"And you did just fine. The stretching, the
pushing off, cutting your distance back after a tough one the day
before."

I kept walking, my lungs settling down. "The run
yesterday took a lot out of me."

The derelict shrugged, glasses slipping down his
nose. "Wouldn't have known it. You looked pretty limber today."

"Thanks."

He thumbed the glasses back up. "Got to get some
new tape for the bridge here. They been sliding on me."

I extended my right hand. "John Cuddy."

"John." He shook, but tentatively, almost
mechanically, as though he hadn't done it for a while. "Just
call me Bo."

"Bo." I used the sleeve near my bicep to
blot some sweat off my forehead. "Bo, you really know anything
about this coaching stuff?"

A glitter behind the lenses. "I do."

"Feel like training me'?"

The lids lowered, and I thought he was going to get
up and leave when he fixed back onto me. "Two conditions."

"What are they?"

"First, don't want no money from you."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"I decide what's fair here. I got my life, you
got yours. I don't want no money."

"Okay. What's the other condition?"

"I don't want you turning me into some kind of
project."

"Project?"

"Rehabilitation. Or pity. Like bringing a
soldier home for Christmas dinner. Just me coaching, you listening
and doing."

"You've got a deal. Shake on it?"

"We already shook. You ready for some more
advice?"

"You bet."

"First thing, lose the sweat clothes and buy one
of those fancy Gore-Tex suits. I know, I know, you figure you'll feel
like some kind of dilettante. But you'll be able to wear just a
cotton turtleneck and shorts under it, and the fabric wicks the sweat
right off so you won't get chilled when the real weather comes in.
January, February, you'll be running far enough we can't always start
you into the wind. You sweat down into your jock, and penile
frostbite gets to be a real possibility, eh?"

"I understand."

"Second thing, go easy on the booze. Beer's okay
because it's got plenty of carbohydrates. But lay off the hard stuff,
dehydrates you too much."

"Right."

"Third thing, you got to drink water. Lots of
water. Half gallon a day isn't out of the question. Also, get used to
sugar-electrolyte drinks like Gatorade or Exceed. They'll have that
stuff along the course, and you don't want the tummy getting its
first taste of it at mile fourteen the day she counts."

"Anything else?"

"We have to put you on a program. You do any
lifting now?"

"Nautilus."

"Fine. Stick with that, but drop the weight on
your leg machines and increase the repetitions at the lower weight.
Want to build that redundant function endurance."

"Okay."

"Now, for the running itself, we'll do six days
on, one day off. Your body's all wrong for serious training, but we
got better than four months yet. You'll train at the pace you'll
maintain during the race. We'll do low mileage five days and give you
a long run the sixth day for your confidence."

"I think I can handle that."

"You won't ever do more than a twenty-miler
before the race herself."

"Why is that?"

"It's best to leave the last six or so as
unexplored territory till you have the crowd to help you through."

"Makes sense."

Bo thumbed his glasses again. "Mornings all
right?"

"That's what I'm used to anyway."

"See you here, then. Tomorrow, seven in the
A.M."

"Thanks again, Bo."

"Give it a couple months." He rose and
began walking upriver as he had the day before. "Then thank me,
you still feel like it."

After showering I made some phone calls while my hair
dried. A receptionist at Mass General told me Dr. Paul Eisenberg
would be unavailable all morning, but could squeeze me in that
afternoon if I promised not to take more than fifteen minutes. I
promised. I reached the Reverend Vonetta Givens directly. Nudging the
truth a little, I said I'd covered the debate the previous night and
wanted to ask some follow-up questions. Givens said she'd be happy to
see me at her church and gave crisp directions to it.

Directory assistance had Louis Doleman's number in
West Roxbury. He answered on the third ring. Without saying anything,
I cut the connection, an odd noise in the background just as I
depressed the plunger. It sounded like the birds from jungle movies
of the forties.

I shook my head and got
dressed.

* * *

"I'm here to see the Reverend Givens?"

A black kid sat behind a table inside the entrance of
All Hallowed Ground Church. He had a nose that almost touched both
ears and a haircut like the front view of an aircraft carrier.

"Your name, please?"

"John Cuddy."

"Just a minute."

The kid dialed two digits. He was probably a football
lineman in high school, going to fat at twenty.

Into the receiver he said, "Reverend, you
expecting John Cuddy?"

He nodded at the phone and replaced the receiver.
"Through the door behind me."

"Thanks."

Someone on the other side of the door threw some
bolts, and a near twin of the kid at the desk pulled it open,
gesturing with his head that I should enter. He wore a Boston Against
Drugs, or B.A.D., T-shirt and brushed against me as I went by him.
Then he caught my left wrist deftly, twisted it, and wedged me up
against the wall. The desk kid came up and patted me down, finding
the revolver and wrenching it from the holster.

The hammerlock was good, immobilizing me just at the
edge of pain. I didn't try to resist.

Desk said to Door, "Let's take him in."

Door kept the hold on me as I was ushered before the
reverend. She was already on her feet, one hand inside the center
drawer of the old desk between us. There were diplomas and prints and
photos framed on the walls, but no windows whatsoever. Door's grip
kept me from appreciating the ceiling, if any.

Givens looked past me, I assumed to Desk palming my
gun. She seemed to notice that I wasn't struggling. "Arthur, you
may release the man."

My arm came free.

She kept her hand in the drawer. "And who are
you, really, sir?"

"John Cuddy, like I told you on the phone."

"I made some calls. Brothers and sisters in the
media, print and broadcast. They never heard of you."

"I have some identification in my left breast
pocket."

"You may reach for it."

I opened my jacket and took out the ID, holding it up
for Arthur or his pal to take from behind me.

A voice that didn't belong to Desk said, "Private
investigator, Reverend. Want me to call 'round on him?"

"No, thank you, Arthur." She withdrew her
hand from inside the drawer. "Please return Mr. Cuddy's
identification but not his gun and leave us. Thanks to you both,
again."

I got back my ID, heard two "Yes, Reverends"
and a closing door.

Givens was in a raglan-sleeved sweater and bulging
jeans that I thought might have had to be hand cut and resewn. She
pointed to a chair. "Please."

We sat simultaneously as I said, "Arthur's the
guy on the door?"

"That is right."

"Not just another noseguard."

"No. Lionel — the boy at the desk — started
three years for Boston Latin, leading them in tackles. Arthur just
returned to us from two years in the military police."

I felt a little better. "They did a nice job,
suckering me in."

Givens seemed to relax a bit, dropping the formal
manner. "The folks they been facing up to for me, they learned
some."

"Security out front, some kind of piece in the
drawer, no windows. Who're you expecting'?"

"The first drug pusher decides it's time to
cross the line, kill him a preacher. So far the real bad ones just
been making fun of us, telling the kids, 'What makes you feel better,
what the fat woman say or what we sell you?' Sealed up the windows
account of that's the way we built the storm cellars back home."

"Oklahoma."

"That's right. You ever been there?"

"Uh — uh."

"Know much about it?"

"Enough. I'm allergic to tornadoes."

"The twisters, they ain't so bad once you get
used to seeing them coming. The whole sky goes green and yellow, and
the clouds start moving too fast. Then there's this little band of
blue sky at the horizon, and the funnel like to spinning along it, a
ballerina toe-dancing her own sweet way toward you.