Good Lord, Deliver Us (22 page)

"OK."

The young man tearing himself from
lovely Susan's side, five steps took him behind a screen of white
wood lattice, Z hearing him chatter Arabic at the cook. The
restaurant had authentic personnel, at least.

Susan looked at her watch; seemed to
settle down a little.

"Busy?" Z asked, stifling a sudden
urge to cough.

"Craziness squared," Susan said,
shaking her head. "No one knows what the government's going to do
on health care. And until we do, we don't know where we stand."
Susan always spoke like she owned the company.

Z
knew where insurance companies, drug companies -- the lot --
stood on government health care. In the way!

While Z sympathized with
Susan, he had difficulty caring about insurance companies in
general, health insurers in particular. People needed health care
and those who provided it -- doctors, nurses, hospitals. Also new
pills for pale people. What benefits a "middleman"
insurance
company
provided was the mystery.

Z wished Susan had a more useful job.
It embarrassed him to have her using her skills to benefit
leeches.

Susan was staring at him, looking like
she did when about to accuse him of dropping his end of the
conversation.

"You look ... terrible."

"Thanks."

"I mean it. You look sick.
Have you got a fever?" She reached across the narrow table to put
her cool hand on his forehead. "You most certainly do! You're pale,
too. Bags under your eyes. Have you been getting
any
sleep?"

A topic Z
definitely
couldn't
share with Susan.

"Just a cold."

"Looks like more than a cold to me.
You look really sick." Susan took his big hand in both of hers.
"You've got to promise me you'll see a doctor. This very
afternoon."

"OK." Easy for Susan to say. At least
the bastards she worked for carried health care on their slaves.
Without insurance, Z had to pony up the full tab to see a
doctor.

The salad came.

A good salad.

The sandwiches came. Messy -- with
cucumber dressing dripping out of the pita bread pouch -- but hot
and tasty.

As for the check, Susan insisted they
go dutch.

There were a
lot
of things Z liked
about Susan, it just seemed they could never get together
anymore.

"Do you mind waiting on the change by
yourself?" The waiter had taken their money and disappeared. "I
hate to run, Z, but I've got to get back."

"OK."

Z
should
have said something else,
like, "I love you." And would have if he hadn't said the same thing
to Paula (The Poisonous) Perfect; words like "I love you" cheapened
by overuse.

"And remember your promise," Susan
said, uncoiling her legs, standing up. "To see your
doctor?"

"I'll remember it."

What Z meant was that, if he got
worse, he'd consider doing just that. A doctor couldn't do anything
for a cold, anyway.

The lunch was good.

Any time spent with gorgeous Susan was
good.

Why, then, didn't Z feel
better? (Maybe he
was
sicker than he thought.)

* * * * *

"Detective Newbold." Ted, using his
inspector's voice.

"Z." Back in the Ludlow, Z had finally
reached Ted at Ted's office.

"Just a second, Sir. My door's open
and it's a little noisy in here." Meaning that Ted didn't want to
take the chance that Captain Scherer might walk past the open door
and catch Ted talking to Z. Ted wasn't that bright, but he wasn't
that dumb, either.

"OK, Z," Ted said, returning to the
line, more relaxed now that he'd shut his coffin-of-an-office door.
While Z wouldn't put it past Scherer to bug the phones of his own
men, it was evident Ted didn't think Scherer had.

"Need a favor."

"Now that you're doing me a little
favor, you got to get ahead again, is that it?" Ted, on his high
horse. "But ... friends should help friends." Ted, stepping down
from the saddle. "So, what can I do you for?"

Z could picture Ted, leaning back now,
highly polished shoes on his brand new Formica desk in his sleazily
modern "orifice" in Gladstone's updated police building.
Suspiciously brown receding hair. Jellifyed middle.

"I need to know if a man filed custody
papers."

"Don't you have
any
other sources, but
me? Surely, there's a county clerk who could find that for
you?"

"Nobody but you." And that
was true. Z wasn't a
real
detective; hadn't taken any detective courses.
About all Z had for sources was Ted-with-the-Cops ... and
Johnny-with-the-Robbers.

Considered right, Z had only three
things going for him as a detective; big-and-ugly, a couple of
well-placed friends, and a lot of dumb-ass luck.

Ted sighed his overworked
detective sigh. "I guess I
could
make a call, in my official capacity." Ted loved
bludgeoning civilians with the baton of his
official capacity
. "Give me the
details."

Z did: about Mr. Smith claiming to
have filed for custody of his son.

Z left out the hitter part.

"Got it," Ted said, his voice a
flourish of officiousness. "But, Z, maybe you better let me call
you back on this one. The captain don't ... doesn't like you.
Doesn't want anyone here giving you the time of day."

"Right."

"So I got to do you this favor on the
sly."

"Thanks."

Z hung up the phone,
knowing that
when
Ted would get back to him depended on how eager Ted was for
the "homeless bum's" favor Z was doing for
him
.

On the other hand, a man who had the
right to insist on perfection in his friends -- needed to be
perfect himself.

* * * * *

It was almost two before Z got Ted's
callback. Figuring it might be Teddy, Z had launched himself out of
his chair at the first ring to pick up before sexy Susan's recorded
voice finished the spiel about leaving a message.

"Bob Zapolska."

"Detective Newbold, speaking." Ted
loved that title, a title they both knew was earned with tips Z fed
him. On his own, Teddy would still be in his blues, directing
traffic while the fire department untangled cats from trees. "On
that matter of information you wanted, I was able, through my
contacts at the county courthouse, to find out."

"Great."

Ted sighed. "OK. What you said was
true. It's confidential, but a Samuel Smith did file for custody of
his boy. Last week."

"Thanks."

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"You doing what I asked? About the
bums?"

"Yes." Z
had
stood out at the
overpass. Once. And once, was enough.

"Anything come of it?"

"No."

"Keep at it."

"Sure."

They hung up, Z uncrossing his
fingers.

So, where was he on the
Smith case, Z had to ask? For one thing, on the wrong side of it, Z
representing a client who was a proven liar, the
quarry
now seen as
having told the truth -- a firm rule of Z's code, that he didn't
work for double-dealing clients.

Z sighed. Quitting Mrs.
Smith would cost him a day's pay. (And whatever
else
the lady had to
offer.)

Fortunately, Z had this ghost house
business to keep him going, assuming he didn't "catch his death" by
being kept "up" half the night.

* * * * *

After troubling dreams, Z was
awake.

Dark.

Still the middle of the
night.

Though his dream was fading, he
remembered lightning flashes.

What had probably awakened him was
Jamie Stewart getting up to go to the bathroom. Cautiously, not
wanting to wake her if she was there beside him, Z reached to the
side, stretching out his hand to touch only the fleecy inside of
the sleeping bag on the other side of the old mattress
....

She'd soon be back. (After
that first night when he'd lost his way, even
he'd
been able to orient himself on
midnight jaunts down the hall of the ghost house.)

Widely spaced lightning flashes
........... all other impressions about the dream vanishing like
the men allegedly disappearing from the overpass.

Z heard a quiet noise outside the
bedroom door. Jamie, coming back.

Seeing the glow of her light under the
door edge, Z closed his eyes and willed his body to be still. It
had never been so true that what he needed most was
sleep.

For a moment, Z felt the furriness of
hibernation drift over him .....

"Z." ........ "Z, wake up." A hand was
shaking him.

Z groaned, but felt fortunate.
Sometimes, the only warning he got that Jamie felt "frolicsome" was
when she jumped on his stomach.

"What time is it?" he
muttered.

"Time for you to wake up. And be quiet
about it."

"What?"

"I said, 'Be quiet.'" Though shaking
his shoulder energetically, the girl was speaking in a
whisper.

"Something ... wrong?"

"Depends on how you look at
it."

"What ....?"

"Noises."

"What?"

"Noises, that's all."

"I ... don't hear
anything."

"That's because you're a deaf old man.
Now wake up."

Even half-asleep, Z didn't like her
calling him old.

Though Z could see nothing in the
total dark of the sealed bedroom, he rolled in her direction.
Moaned again.

Vindictively, Jamie snapped on her
pencil-thin light and glared it at his eyes, then switched off as
he threw up his arm to shut out the dazzle.

Lightning. He'd dreamed of lightning
......

"Z. Don't go back to
sleep."

"Not asleep. ... What's
wrong?"

"I was coming back down the hall when
I first heard it. Noises. But I can't tell where they're coming
from. Sounded like out back."

"An ... engine?" At last, Z's mind was
ticking over fast enough to remember the motor sound the neighbor
said came from the direction of the ghost house. A light truck, she
thought. In the night.

"No."

"What, then?"

"I don't know. Like a metal sound.
Like clicking. I got back to check the monitors, but they're not
picking up anything."

"Had to be outside."

"What do you think I've been trying to
tell you? I heard something outside. But it sounded to me as if
that 'something' was trying to get in."

Fully awake now, Z sat up in the dark
to listen. ...... Also thought he heard .... whatever that
was.

"There," she said, still whispering
with emphasis. "Now, it's on the monitors."

With a sharp click, the girl flooded
the cave-black room with the narrow beam of her tiny
light.

Turning away, swinging his legs over
the edge of the mattress, Z got up, too -- not an easy task when
the "bed" was flat on the floor.

For a moment, he stood there woozily,
looking over at the naked, blond-haired girl.

Adam and Eve -- alone in Eden. Until
now.

The familiar clutter of boxes looked
... normal, the battery-operated grill and coffee maker standing on
separate cartons on the other side of the room. Perched atop the
uppermost battery on the "parked" dolly was the unlit table lamp.
The big box in the far corner held the usual trash -- potato chip
sacks, soggy bags of "instant" coffee, wadded-up paper napkins,
wrappings from fast food hamburgers, and shriveled up (but
colorful) rubbers. The garbage needed to be taken out.

Though the tightly zipped room was too
warm to make it necessary, Jamie put down the small light to swirl
on the fetchingly transparent dressing gown she'd worn earlier,
stepping into sensible slippers while cinching the peignoir's
tie-belt, the belt molding the gauzy material to her breasts.
"Dressed," Jamie picked up the penlight and walked purposely to the
speakers by the wall, the robe's gauzy material floating behind
her.

At the wall, she squatted down; bend
over to put her ear to each speaker in turn.

Cloned by fifty, she was every man's
vision of a Turkish harem.