"Well, hell-"
"They have a lousy success rate. But there's a guy in Houston thinks he can do partials, give her just enough to let her get by."
"Still, that's better than—"
"It'll cost a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. At least."
"She has insurance. Won't—"
"Blue Cross, Scott? Gimme a break."
They passed the exercise area. Twist was doing pushups. He had hung his clothes on the jungle gym and was dressed in nothing but powder-blue briefs. Whenever he had five minutes to himself. Twist exercised. He did push-ups or sit-ups or squat-jumps or he ran in place. Vanity or self-preservation—whatever it was, it worked. Twist was built like Herschel Walker; he reminded Preston of Michelangelo's David.
There was something to be said for heroin addiction. It screwed up your head but left your body intact. Until you OD'd.
Marcia called, "Put on some pants, Twist/'
Twist didn't stop his push-ups. "Lawrence ain't no threat to nobody," he said between puffs. "He's retired. Temporarily."
Marcia let him be. They walked on.
Preston said, "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Lewis has a lot of money and a lot of friends who like to help people."
"You want me to . . ." This whole walk is a fundraiser! Now he felt angry, used. "Why don't yow—"
"I can't. It's unethical ... or illegal."
"So Tm supposed to put the arm on him."
"You won't have to. Not if you tell him all the facts. That's why I'm telling you."
"What about the joint here? This is a twenty-million-dollar facility. Banner's got friends . . . every movie star in the . . . Christ, his board could put up that kind of money out of pocket change."
"They won't."
"Why not?"
"Because Stone Banner won't ask them to, and they don't pay attention to what goes on here, they're all off playing celebrity golf, and if one of them did get wind of Cheryl's problem and offered money. Stone would turn him down. Because Stone has been lying in wait for a case like Cheryl."
"To do what?"
"He wants a poster child, wants to pull the public's chain like with one of those pathetic kids who make the evening news begging for a kidney. He wants the public to start funding The Banner Clinic. Somebody told him about the Cousteau Society, about all those people who kick in fifteen or twenty bucks a year, which adds up to millions, so Cousteau can run his fleet and make his movies that nobody ever sees because they only run on cable. Stone thought, Hey, if the public'11 throw money at that old frog they're sure to have enough left over for the Great American Hero.
"He wants the public to pay him to become the King of the Drunks, the Emperor of Addiction. And Cheryl's just the ticket.
"He wants to turn her into a freak. For publicity. For money."
They had stopped walking. Preston looked at Marcia and said, "Unless Lewis can raise enough money so Cheryl can pay for it herself."
"Right."
"That stinks."
"Yes." She took his arm again and started back toward Chaparral. "It certainly does."
Preston felt a bond with Marcia. Her hand in the crook of his arm made him feel they were in league, at least on this one issue. He was almost her equal. He said, casually, "What about Priscilla? Talk about money. You want me to—"
"No."
"All right. You talk to her, then."
"Nobody talks to her. People've hit on her for money all her life. She thinks that's all she is. Money. She's still too fragile. She's just beginning to feel safe, and if I so much as hint at anything to do with money, I could wreck her." She paused. "I think I'd rather let Cheryl die than do that."
When they reached Chaparral and Preston pulled open the glass door, he said, "I never could figure why Lewis picked me."
"Lewis sees things, Scott. He loves kindness and gentleness more than anything else. You know who he thinks of himself as? Blanche DuBois. He told me. You know: 'I have always depended on the kindness of strangers.' He saw something in you he could trust. Somewhere behind the ice-cold homophobic elitist he saw something"—she grinned at him—"Lord knows, I don't see it—something kind and gentle."
When he had filled a tray with Swiss steak, cooked tomatoes, cottage cheese and iced tea, Preston headed for his usual table. There was nothing special about that table, no reason for him to feel mild resentment whenever he found it occupied by strangers. Funny how quickly people became routinized. It was the same at Mason & Storrow; he always used the same urinal in the men's room. It made no sense. He guessed it was an instinctual reflex, to reduce the number of decisions in a life packed with petty but unavoidable decisions.
Lupone and Duke were already seated. Preston didn't say hello—what was the point of greeting people you spent every waking moment with? He unloaded his tray and sat down.
"Puff' and I were talking," Duke said. "We didn't realize you're in such tough shape."
"What?"
Lupone said, "I told that broad there isn't a member of the whole fuckin' human race who can't use a few extra bucks. But would she listen?"
Preston said ''What?" again.
Duke said, "How're the wife and kid making out? We could take up a collection."
Lupone said, "I'd kick in ... if they'd give me my money back."
Preston saw that Lupone was having trouble controlling his fat face, so all he said was "Okay."
"No, seriously," Duke said. "Maybe we oughta engrave your name on that piece of—what is it you're eating? meat?—so nobody'll steal it from you."
"The hell are you talking about?"
Duke gave up. With a laugh, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. It was full, but opened, and inside the cellophane wrapper was an inch-square piece of paper with Preston's name on it in ink.
"Where'd you get that?" Preston asked.
"Table in the common room."
"I didn't write that."
"Sure," said Duke. "It's okay, Scott. You don't have to be ashamed."
"Talkin' about shame," Lupone said, "we oughta take a pool on what line of bullshit Banner's gonna feed us tonight." As if he had suddenly remembered why he was at the table, Lupone attacked his plate, heaped his fork with mashed potatoes and stuffed it in his mouth.
Preston stripped the wrapper from the cigarette pack. The piece of paper fell on the table. Preston stared at his name. He didn't recognize the writing.
Lupone said, "I bet Stone's gonna say he don't know nothin' about nothin'."
“I doubt he'll be defensive," Duke said. "I bet he'll spout a lot of crap about what a great lady she was."
"Ten bucks," Lupone said. "My marker's good."
Preston picked up the piece of paper and turned it over. On the back the same hand had written:
Meet me. P.
XII
"We got a right!" screamed a man in a shiny jacket and string tie. "You ever hear of the First Amendment?" He made the mistake of trying to bull past Chuck, to shoulder him aside with the battering ram of moral authority.
"The only right you got," said Chuck, and he grabbed the man by the lapels and lifted him off the floor and threw him like a shot put back through the open doors, "is the right to sing the blues."
The man skittered across the sidewalk, tripped on the curb and sprawled on his back on the roundabout. His notebook fluttered into the air and landed on top of a van.
Chuck spread his legs and folded his arms and stood astride the entrance like a colossus.
"You 'spose Connie Chung is out there?" Duke mused as he watched the throng of reporters, correspondents, cameramen, field producers and drivers milling in frustrated anger, like hungry wolves before a guarded cattle pen. "Connie Chung lights my fire."
“Not yet," Preston said. “So far, Natasha's just dead. Front page, but a wire-service story and a bunch of film clips of her movies. If it turns out she killed herself, then the networks'11 send some heavy hitters out to do in-depth piece
s. Who they'll get to talk to them from here I have no idea. Probably good old Guy: 'Natasha Grant was a warm and loving human being. We did our best to put her in touch with her higher power, but I guess there were depths of despair in her tortured soul that even we couldn't reach. By the way, that's L-A-R-K-I-N.' But if the police think somebody pushed her, then you'll get the varsity. Connie Chung. Diane Sawyer. Diane Sawyer's better-looking than Connie Chung."
"For you, maybe. I like exotic." Duke paused. "Who pushed her?"
"I said 'if.' " Preston smiled. "Maybe you did it."
Duke nodded. "I did. I confess. I begged her to run away with me to Sunnybrook Farm, but she said her heart belonged to Don Ameche."
They heard a siren and saw the sherififs car pull into the roundabout and stop. Its flashing lights reflected off the glass doors and turned the lobby into a silent discotheque. The sheriff" and a young deputy as big as Chuck got out of the car and gesticulated at the gaggle of reporters, a few of whom shouted their protests, most of whom grumbled, but all of whom moved grudgingly away from the doors and to their vehicles.
As Chuck relaxed, abandoning his imitation of the classic mesomorphic Mae West stud, a small man-slight, harried and rumpled, probably in his early fifties—came scurrying up the corridor that led to the empty administrative offices.
Chuck spun on him, and the look on Chuck's face said. Why do you make me hurt you?
The man braked, stopped, held up his hands. "I'm no reporter!" he said. "I've got aproblem!”
“Nothin' like the problem you're gonna have." Chuck advanced on the man.
"No! I mean, I'm a patient."
"How'd you get in? There's security guards all over the place."
"I couldn't get near the front door, so I went around back. The guard was busy with a camera crew trying to sneak in a window."
"Yeah?" Chuck stepped to the reception desk and reached down for a looseleaf notebook. "What's your name?"
"Parkinson. But I wouldn't be in there. Not yet. See, I was in jail on a DWI till this afternoon, and I had my court hearing, and the judge said if I didn't check into a rehab by tonight he'd put me back in jail and make me serve the whole thirty. I can't serve any thirty days! I'm a . . . a CPA!"
"Right." Chuck replaced the notebook. He looked at Duke and Preston and raised his eyebrows. They looked at each other. Duke shrugged.
Preston stepped forward, held out his hand and said, "Mr. Parkinson, my name's Scott. I'm a counselor-tech here at Banner." He glanced at Chuck, who frowned but didn't interfere. "What's your poison?"
"Poison?" Parkinson shook hands. "Oh, you mean . . . Anything. As long as it comes in a bottle."
"What makes you think you have a problem?"
Parkinson smiled and shook his head. He didn't hesitate. "My wife and I . . . well, when we got married, she didn't drink, but pretty soon she started, just to keep me company, and before long we were tying one on pretty regularly. Terrible." He grimaced at the recollected pain. "Her father ran a greenhouse, and one night we got smashed and wrecked it, broke every pane in the place. After a while, I stopped, actually joined A.A., but she never did. Couldn't, I guess. I don't know where she is now. Anyway, I stayed sober for a couple of years, but then . . . Well, you know how it is."
"I sure do." Preston put a sympathetic hand on Parkinson's shoulder. Then he turned to Chuck and shook his head.
Chuck grinned.
"Chuck'll take care of you," Preston said, and he turned Parkinson toward Chuck.
"Thank—" was as far as Parkinson got before Chuck, in a single magical motion, ripped off his shirt and jacket, leaving him standing there in a sleeveless undershirt, with the two ends of his necktie flapped back over his shoulders . . . and a tiny remote microphone taped to the pocket of skin between his clavicles.
Chuck leaned down and shouted into the microphone, "Say hey, motherfuck!"
Parkinson tried to smile. "Can't blame a fella for trying."
"Hell, no," Chuck said.
Parkinson reached down for his shirt. "I guess I'll be on my—"
"Don't tell me you're leaving already?" Chuck grabbed Parkinson by the hair and straightened him up like a Marine recruit. "You said you want to check in. Shucks, a fella as resourceful as you oughta get his wish." He looked at Preston and Duke. "Right, gentlemen?"
"Absolutely," said Duke.
"By all means," said Preston.
"Joke's over," Parkinson said, suddenly a tough guy. "You won. Now let me the hell out of here, or—"
"No way, Mr. Parkinson," said Chuck, and he marched Parkinson to the door of Nurse Bridget's office.
Nurse Bridget sat at her desk, interpreting EKG results and making notes in patients' files.
“Nurse Bridget, this here's Mr. Parkinson."
"Hello, dearie." Bridget smiled until she saw the fear on Parkinson's face and the grip Chuck had on his hair.
"Nurse Bronsky here?" Chuck asked.
"Nurse Bronsky's always here."
"Get him," Chuck said, shoving Parkinson toward the door at the back of the office. "Mr. Parkinson wants to see Nurse Bronsky something fierce."
Preston and Duke peeked around the door as Nurse Bridget punched a number into the telephone intercom.
Just before the door at the rear of the office closed, they heard Chuck say, "You'll like Nurse Bronsky. Some patients actually fall in love with him . . . damnedest thing.''
Preston and Duke started down the corridor toward the assembly hall, where Guy Larkin was waving his arms and scurrying about like a den mother shepherding her Cubs and Brownies into chapel.
"How did you know?" Duke asked.
Preston smiled. "Stupid bastard tried to sell me the plot of Days of Wine and Roses.''
* * *
Their names were checked against a list as they entered. The hall was already packed, for all sixty patients were there, as well as every counselor and counselor-tech, the doctor, the shrink, the chaplain, the rabbi and assorted maintenance personnel.
From their place standing in the rear of the room, Preston tried to find Priscilla, but spotting one blond head in a kaleidoscope of moving, bobbing colors was impossible.
''Meet me," her note had said. But where?
Outside. Of course.
Tonight? Of course. Even though tonight, of all nights, was not exactly the smartest night to meet, since every security guard in the county would be patrolling the grounds.
Never mind.
“Meet me," she had said. And meet her he would.
He felt like Romeo plotting to spirit Juliet away from her parents.
Remember how that romance turned out?
Shut up!
Lupone squeezed past several standees along the wall and forced open a space beside Preston. "This's gonna be a gas," he said.
Larkin made sure there were no stragglers in the corridor, then closed the doors and walked to the podium. The room fell silent.
“This is a sad night for all of us," he said. He turned to the side door. "Ladies and gentlemen . . . Stone Banner.''
Banner entered slowly, his pace barely faster than a pallbearer's. He wore black boots, black jeans and a buff buckskin jacket with a black armband wrapped around the left sleeve. His hair was perfect, but his face—even under the obvious makeup—was puffy.
There was scattered applause, which Banner cut off with an irritable wave.
''The guy's got balls!” Lupone whispered.
"What d'you mean?" Preston asked.
"Watch. . . . I'll be goddamned!"
Banner reached the podium and stood for a moment, looking down. Then he raised his eyes to the audience. His hands seemed to have lives of their own. They gripped the podium, touched his pockets, smoothed his hair, straightened his belt buckle, moved the little light on the podium, clasped one another.
Lupone grinned. "Is he gonna do it? Is he gonna go for it?"
Preston shushed him. He was sure Lupone's hoarse whisper would carry to the front of the room. But th
ere was so much ambient noise—throats being cleared, feet shuffling, chairs squeaking—that no one noticed.
Banner sniffled and touched his nose.
"Yes!" said Lupone. "He did it! Now ... the excuse."
"I'm sorry." Banner sniffed again. "This has been a terrible, terrible day." He touched his nose.
"Five points!" Lupone nudged Preston. ''Much better'n blaming it on the flu."
"What's this about?" Duke said, leaning across Preston.
"He's wasted," said Lupone. "Coked right up to the fuckin' ozone."
"Bullshit."
"Yeah? You the expert on blow alluva sudden? I been to that party, man. A thousand times."
Preston said, "He's upset."
"He's blasted, what he is. Ten bucks says this is how it goes: He cries, he sniffles, he touches his nose, he gets all emotional, he sniffles, he goes to his nose, he calls us all his best friends, he cries s'more, sniffles, back to his nose again." He pointed at Banner. "A gas. Guy's a fuckin' riot."
Banner looked their way, so Lupone wiped the mask of mirth off his face and shut up.
"America has lost its leading lady," Banner said. "I have lost my dearest friend." He sniffled and squeezed his nostrils. "You've seen the vultures outside. They will not get in here." He slammed his hand on the podium, knocking the light loose, and he lurched against the podium and grabbed it before it could crash to the floor. "But some of you will be graduating tomorrow or the next day or next week, and people'll ask you what went on here, what really happened to Natasha G., so I want you to know the truth. Or at least everything I know.''
"Sure, Stone ..." Lupone whispered.
"You don't know,'" said Preston. "You just want him to be coked up."
"Right." Lupone glanced at Preston. "Asshole."
Banner took a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. "As far as I knew, she was doing great." His hand made three attempts to stuff the handkerchief back in his pocket, but he kept missing, so he clutched it in his fist and continued. "She'd really gotten with the Program. I hadn't seen her since she left, till last night she showed up—just showed up—at Xanadu. Something was wrong. She looked awful. There was pain in her eyes . . ." He paused for effect, and touched the handkerchief to his eyes and nose. ". . . the pain of guilt and failure. We've all seen it. I knew right then she was on something."
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