Bitter Medicine (8 page)

“It’s V. I. Warshawski, reporting as commanded, clean in thought, word, and deed.”

I felt someone come up behind me and braced myself against an expected touch; I couldn’t afford to follow my reflexes and kick. Hands patted me down clumsily.

“She’s clean, man,” the youth behind me twanged. “I didn’t see no one wit’ her.”

The door shut while the chain was removed, then reopened. I walked into a dark room. The doorman took my arm and guided me across bare floors that echoed our footsteps against empty walls. We went through some heavy drapery concealing a door. My escort tapped a complicated tattoo and more chains were scraped back.

Sergio Rodriguez sat in splendor on the other side. Wearing a blue silk shirt opened to the fourth button and a quantity of gold chains around his neck, he leaned back in a large leather desk chair behind a slab of mahogany. The carpet was thick underfoot, the air, cooled by a window unit, redolent of reefer. A large box in one corner was tuned loudly to a Hispanic station. When I came in, someone turned down the volume.

Three young men were with Sergio. One wore a T-shirt, revealing tattoos all the way up his arms. On the left forearm was a peacock, whose elaborate tail feathers probably covered track marks. The second had
on a long-sleeved pink shirt that clung to his slender body like a leotard. He and Tattoo both ostentatiously carried guns. The third was Fabiano. As far as I could see he was unarmed.

“Bet you didn’t expect to see me here, bitch.” He smirked importantly.

“What’d you do—run straight to Daddy after talking to me?” I asked. “You really must be scared of Sergio asking too many questions about that Caddy.”

Fabiano lunged toward me. “You bitch! You wait! I show you what fear is! I show you—”

“Okay!” Sergio said in his husky voice. “You be quiet. I handle the talk tonight…. So, Warshawski. It’s been a long time. A long time since you worked for me, huh?”

Fabiano retreated to the back of the room. Pink Shirt moved with him, guarding him a little. So the gang didn’t trust Fabiano, either.

“You’ve done very well, Sergio—meetings with aldermen, meetings with the Office of Community Development—your mother is very proud of you.” I kept my voice level, expressing neither contempt nor admiration.

“I’m doing okay. But you—you’re not any better off than when I saw you last, Warshawski. I hear you’re still driving a beater, still living by yourself. You should get married, Warshawski. Settle down.”

“Sergio! I’m touched—after all these years. And I thought you didn’t care.”

He smiled, the same breathtaking, angelic smile that had dazzled me ten years ago. It was how we’d gotten the sentence reduced.

“Oh, I’m a married man now, Warshawski. Got me a nice wife, a little baby, good home, good cars. What you got?”

“At least I don’t have Fabiano. He one of yours?”

Sergio waved a negligent arm. “He runs a few errands from time to time. What’s your beef with him, anyway?”

“I don’t have a beef with him. I’m overcome with admiration for his style, and empathy for his grief.” I turned to pick up a folding chair—only Sergio got to sit in comfort—and saw Fabiano make an angry gesture, while Pink Shirt laid a calming hand on him. I pulled the chair up next to the desk and sat.

“I would like to know for sure that his grief didn’t take the regrettable form of beating Malcolm Tregiere’s brains out.”

“Malcolm Tregiere? The name is vaguely familiar… .” Sergio rolled it around his tongue like a sommelier trying to recall an elusive vintage.

“A doctor. Killed in Uptown a couple of days ago. He treated Fabiano’s girlfriend and her baby last Tuesday before they died.”

“Doctor! Oh, yeah, now I remember. Black dude. Someone broke into his apartment, right?”

“Right. You wouldn’t happen to know who that was, would you?”

He shook his head. “Not me, Warshawski. I don’t know nothing about it. Black doctor, minding his own business, got nothing to do with my business.”

That sounded final. I turned and looked at the other three. Tattoo was rubbing the tail feathers on his left arm. Pink Shirt was staring vacantly into space. Fabiano was smirking.

I turned my chair sideways so I could see all four of them at once. “Fabiano doesn’t agree. He thinks you know a lot about it—isn’t that right, Fabiano?”

He sprang away from the wall. “You fucking bitch! I didn’t say nothing to her, Sergio, nothing at all.”

“Didn’t say nothing about what?” I asked.

Sergio shrugged. “About nothing, Warshawski. You gotta learn to mind your own business. Ten years ago I had to spill my guts to you. I don’t need to do that no more. I got a real lawyer, one who don’t act like I was a worm or something when I need help, not a broad who gotta earn a living because she can’t get a husband.”

He shook me momentarily—not about the husband, but about the worm. Had I treated my clients that way? Or just Sergio, who had badly beaten an old man and whined when I wanted to talk to him about it instead of flirting with him.

I was mentally off-balance and saw Tattoo coming only a second before he hit me. I rolled low off the chair onto his legs, upending him in a crash against the desk. I kept rolling and bounced to my feet. Pink Shirt was on me, trying to pin my arms. I kicked hard against
his shin. He grunted, dropped back, and tried to slug me this time. I took the blow on my forearm, came in close, and kneed him in the abdomen.

Tattoo was behind me, grabbing my shoulders. I relaxed in his hands, turned sideways, and slammed my elbow into his rib cage. He loosened his hold enough that I could wriggle free, but Sergio had joined the fight. He yelled orders to Pink Shirt, who seized my left wrist. Sergio tackled me around the waist and I fell ungracefully, with him landing on top of me.

Fabiano, who had done nothing during the brief struggle, kicked me in the head. It was merely a gesture; he couldn’t kick too hard without landing his foot on Sergio. Sergio tied my hands behind me and stood up.

“Turn her over.”

I got a close-up of the tattoos, then looked up into Sergio’s dazzling smile.

“You thought you did me such a good deed, back in that courtroom, getting me off a ten-year stretch to two? Well, you were never inside, Warshawski. If you’d been inside, you would have worked a little harder for me. Now you can see what it’s like—what it feels like to be in pain, to have someone you hate telling you what to do.”

My heart was beating so fast I thought I might suffocate. I shut my eyes for a count of ten and tried to speak calmly, keeping my voice steady with an effort. “You remember Bobby Mallory, Sergio? I left a letter for him with this address, and your name. So if my body shows
up in the city dump tomorrow, not even your expensive mouthpiece will be able to buy you out of trouble.”

“I don’t want to kill you, Warshawski. I got no reason to kill you. I just want you to mind your own business, and leave mine to me…. Sit on her legs, Eddie.”

Tattoo obliged.

“I don’t want to ruin you in case you ever get a man, Warshawski, so I’m just going to leave a little reminder.”

He took out a knife. Smiling angelically, he knelt down and held it close to my eyes. My mouth felt like paper and my body was shaking with cold. Shock, I thought clinically, it’s shock. I willed myself to breathe carefully, deep breath in, hold for five, breathe out. And I forced myself to keep my eyes open, to stare at Sergio.

Through the haze of fear I saw he was looking petulant: I didn’t seem scared enough. The thought cheered me and helped keep my breathing steady. His hand moved away from my eyes, jerked below my line of vision. Then he stood again.

I could feel a stinging on my left jaw and neck, but the pain in my arms, tied underneath me, was such that it overrode any other feeling.

“Now, Warshawski.
You
stay out of
my
face.” Sergio was breathing heavily, sweating.

Tattoo jerked me to my feet. We went through the elaborate ritual of getting the inner door unlocked. My hands still tied, I was led through the outer room and out the front door onto Washtenaw.

It was well after midnight when I unlocked the lobby door in my building. The blood had clotted on my face and neck, which seemed reassuring. I knew I should get to a doctor, get the wounds treated properly so as not to scar, but a vast lethargy enveloped me. All I wanted to do was go to bed and never get up again. Never try again to—to do anything.

As I headed up the stairs, the ground-floor apartment door opened. Mr. Contreras came out.

“Oh, it’s you, cookie. I been thinking twenty times I should call the cops.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t think they could have done much for me.” I started climbing again.

“You got hurt! I didn’t see at first—what did they do?”

He hurried up the stairs behind me. I stopped and
waited for him, my hand reflexively touching the dried blood on my jaw.

“It’s nothing, really. They were pissed. It’s kind of complicated. The guy has been carrying a grudge against me all these years.” I gave a little laugh. “It’s
Rashomon.
Everyone sees it differently. I saw myself helping this goon get off a heavy sentence he deserved. I saw myself overcoming my hatred of his behavior and his attitude to help him. He saw me being contemptuous and forcing him to do time. That’s all.”

Mr. Contreras ignored me. “We’re getting you to a doctor. You can’t go around looking like this. You come back down here with me. This is no time for you to be going off by yourself. Oh, I should never have waited. I should have called them right away when I got worried.”

His strong, rough fingers pulled importunately on my arm. I followed him back downstairs into his apartment. His living room was crowded with old, sagging furniture. A large chest, draped in a blanket, stood in the middle of the floor. We walked around it to a mustard-colored overstuffed armchair. He sat me down, clucking softly to himself.

“How you even got home like this, doll! Why didn’t you at least call me—I would have come for you.” He bustled away for a few minutes and returned with a blanket and a mug of hot milk. “I used to see a lot of accidents when I was a machinist. You gotta keep warm,
and stay off booze…. Now, we gonna get you to a doctor. You want to go over to the hospital or you got someone to call?”

I felt as though I were far away. I couldn’t answer. Couldn’t think. Doctor or hospital? No choice. I didn’t want either. I held the mug of milk and sat silent.

“Listen, cookie.” A little desperation in his voice. I’m not as strong as I used to be. I can’t knock you out and carry you. You gotta get help. Come on, talk to me, doll. Or you want me just to call the cops? I should be doing that anyway—why am I asking you? I should just call them.”

That roused me a little. “No, wait. Don’t call. Not yet. I have a doctor. Call her. She’ll come.” I dialed Lotty’s number so often, I knew it better than my own. So why couldn’t I remember it? I frowned in effort, and my jaw twinged. Finally, helpless, I said, “You’ll have to look it up. She’s in the book. Lotty Herschel. Charlotte Herschel, I mean.”

I leaned back in the chair, carefully clutching the mug of milk. The heat felt good on my cold hands. Don’t drop this. It’s Daddy’s coffee. He likes to drink it while he’s shaving. Carry it carefully. He likes his little girl to bring it to him. His eyes crinkle up behind the white foam on his face. You know he’s smiling, smiling to see you.

Mother is telling Daddy to bring a lamp, shine it on her little girl’s face. Something happened. A fall. That’s right. She fell off her bicycle. Mother is worried. A
concussion. Bad fall, iodine burns where the skin was scraped.

I struggled awake. Lotty was swabbing my face, frowning in absorption. “I’m giving you a tetanus shot, Vic. And we’re going up to Beth Israel. This is not a dangerous cut, but it’s deep. I want a plastic surgeon to see it. Get it put together properly so it doesn’t scar.”

She took a syringe from her bag. Wet swab on the arm, sting. I stood up with her arm supporting the small of my back. Mr. Contreras was hovering at one side, holding a blue suede jacket that looked familiar.

“I took your keys and went up to your apartment,” he explained, holding out both jacket and keys for me.

My arms still ached. It hurt to move them into the jacket sleeves and I accepted his help gratefully. He shepherded me tenderly out of the building into Lotty’s Datsun. He stood watching on the curb until Lotty put the car into gear and squealed up the street. Her frantic speed was not a sign that my condition was dangerous—she always drives wildly.

“What happened to you? The old man says you went up against some punks?”

I made a nasty face in the dark, and got a stab of pain in response. “Fabiano. Or one of his pals. You wanted me to look into Malcolm’s death. I looked into Malcolm’s death.”

“Alone? Going off alone and leaving a heroic message for Lieutenant Mallory? What possessed you?”

“Thanks for the sympathy, Lotty. I can really use it.”
A torrent of images cascaded through my head—Sergio as a worm, me as the evil witch in
The Silver Chair
turning into a worm, my terror in that little back room, and a nagging fear that my face would be permanently scarred. An overwhelming fatigue made it hard for me to remember what I was talking about. I made myself speak. “I told you—police job.”

“So what were you trying to prove by going off alone instead of turning what you knew over to the police? Sometimes, Victoria, you are unbearable!” Lotty’s Viennese accent became noticeable, as always when she was upset.

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” The soreness in my face merged with the throbbing in my shoulders into one giant white tom-tom of pain. It pounded harder when the car hit a bump and then eased off a little. Up and down. Like the old Ferris wheel at Riverview.

For a moment I thought I was riding the Ferris wheel, but that wasn’t true. I was on my way to the hospital. My mother was sick. She might be dying but Dad and I were being brave for her sake. After winning the state high-school basketball championship, the other girls on the team and I had sneaked off with several pints of whiskey. The ten of us drank it all and were vilely sick. Now I had to go see my mother. She needed me alert and cheerful, not aching and hungover.