* * *
Dominick tried to resist the noise. He curled his knees up to his chest and willed himself to drift back into his dream, his favorite dream.
He buried his head under the thin pillow, again tried to empty his mind.
But the ebb and flow of noise, whether it was the loud beating of his heart or the buzz of street traffic, kept invading his favorite baseball fantasy − the one where he made the winning catch that brought the opposing team down.
The ump was waving the batter out. Out! Man, he’s out! Double play!
I did it!
It was his time! His time! And now the Yankees were sure to pull him out of their Triple A team and bring him up to the Big Apple. Oh, yeah, they’d been watching him all right. He was having one helluva season. The buzz said that he was in.
Man, I love this.
But the dream kept slipping away. No matter how hard he tried to recapture it, no matter how hard he tried to ignore the racket outside, no matter how hard he fought against it, the noise bored into his brain, getting louder and louder, until his lids snapped open.
Two dudes were in the street cursing each other; fighting over some slut named Beverly.
“You fuck her one more time and you’ll be fucking with me.”
“Ain’t done nuttin’, you dickhead.”
“Jerks,” Dominick muttered.
He closed his eyes again and drifted off.
He floated in and out, in and out.
“Take-a Gina. Take-a the girl out.” Ma keeps naggin’ at me; Pa gives me that “she’s right” look. What do they want from me? Gina, me, we don’t even like each other. Besides, I have a future. A real future in baseball. I’m gonna be with the big leagues. Why bother with some dumb nurse when I can have a really hot chick hangin’ on my arm?
The men in the street were at it again.
“Ya hear me? Keep your paws offa her.”
“Well, fuck you!”
Dominick sat up. “Always some dumb woman messing up things.” Even with the racket outside, the sound of his own voice startled him. And then his stomach did a sudden flip-flop.
Disgusting greasy burgers I’ve been eating. At least back home, and even in the joint, the food was okay.
He reached out for his watch. Last night he’d plopped it down next to his cell and almost overturned the rickety bedside table. Now, fumbling with the beat-up timepiece, he tried to focus his blurry eyes. Pain stabbed from the neck up.
“Shit!” He quickly pulled up to a sitting position, pressed his hands to the sides of his head, and squeezed.
He’d gotten into the habit of getting up early, trying to find out what time Gina started to work. And each day he’d felt crappy. He kept telling himself it was jet lag, but he knew drinking at the seedy local bars until closing time wasn’t helping. Since he’d left prison with its strict do-this, do-that schedule, he’d been at loose ends. Not that he liked the slammer, but it was what it was, and in there you didn’t have to think about what to do next. All he’d had to do was stay out of trouble – with both inmates and ex-mates.
Even now, thinking of the guards and the warden as ex-mates made him grunt with satisfaction. It was a private joke that he never shared with anyone, even the drunks at the bars − he knew it wasn’t really very funny, even if he did like it.
He’d hope this morning would be better now that he’d found where the bitch worked and lived.
But it wasn’t.
He got up and walked to the window, looked down. It had to be the same two bums still standing in the middle of the sidewalk, foot traffic forced to edge around them while they tossed bullshit at each other. They were saying the same thing, over and over. Dominick watched them sway, fists in the air.
At that moment, he caught the stale smell of beer coming off him. That, along with the stink of his sweaty armpits, gave him an unexpected sense of kinship with the two drunks. He didn’t like it.
* * *
Dominick walked down the street and eyed the crowd. He knew he looked okay in his green tee-shirt and jeans, even if everything was new, stiff, and scratchy.
More slant-eyes here in Frisco; nobody talkin’ Italian and not one Jew accent. Sure as hell not like the Bronx.
It wasn’t just the different mix of people, but for some reason, probably his imagination, everything seemed a little classier, even the panhandlers and the homeless were cleaner, wearing clothes in better condition. There were only a few suits in view, but he guessed this part of town was not where they would want to tuck in to have their two-martini lunches.
The street people, instead of working the lunch-time crowd for small change, or disappearing from sight, many sat out in the open, even in doorways. Store owners came and yelled at them, pretty much saying the same thing: “For crissakes, get the hell out of here! Can’t you see you’re killing my business?”
Most of the squatters looked up and nodded; it would even look like they were going to leave, but then they’d shift their butts and stay put.
Dominick decided he’d seen and heard enough of these lowlifes for one day. He entered a small café that was squashed between crappy hotels, slid onto a worn leather stool.
The counter waitress kept wiping her nose on her sleeve as she served people their orders. Dominick considered moving to a booth, but that waitress was moving like sludge and her uniform looked like it hadn’t been washed in a week or more. Besides, none of the booths was empty.
“What can I get ya?”
“Gimme a burger with some fries … and I like the spuds soft in the middle.”
“Something to drink?”
“A large Coke, with plenty of ice.”
The counter was a good vantage point in the hole-in-the-wall café; it wasn’t exactly seedy, more like a sit-down-and-run eating spot – Formica table tops, banged-up chairs. The only color in the place was red and white checkered curtains. The café was on the edge of being almost clean.
He was feeling mighty fine, thinking about how he was going to get to Gina, squash her once and for all, when a sudden sense of doom raced down his back and t he icy chill of goose bumps climbed up his arms. Like clockwork, these panic attacks hit whenever he thought of about his bitch ex-wife.
She’s the reason I didn’t make the Yankees; she’s the one who ruined my life, put me in the slammer.
Now he was sitting in a puddle of cold sweat.
God damn it! Not now.
But his right arm began to tremble; he tried to force it to be still by holding it down. He felt like he’d been tossed into an ice bath; his skin and extremities were freezing. At the same time, his insides were on fire. His heart felt bunched up like a lava-filled volcano.
“Here ya go.” The waitress placed his order in front of him.
His mouth was dry like the desert – he reached for the Coke and drank half of it in one gulp.
This is not prison. I will not be scared. I will eat my food and when I finish I will leave. Not one minute before. But when I walk out of here I will find a way to make Gina pay for tossing me into that slammer. I’ll put down that bitch for good.
He pictured her face smashed up and bloody. Her body limp and cold. His heart stopped racing, his hands stop shaking. The vision calmed him. It always did.
Chapter 22
Marvin Karsh was late. Amory looked at his watch again. He needed a ride to the Planned Parenthood site, and he needed it now. He didn’t like being late to those protests.
That idiot should have been here five minutes ago. Must have been out of my mind to trust that fool.
He paced on the sidewalk in front of his house, thought about the clinic in the heart of the city. He’d chosen that particular facility for their protest because it was centrally located and had a busy traffic pattern of both pedestrians and automobiles. It was a near-perfect spot to attract the news media, and gain more publicity for his Holy Eye group. Besides, his people needed a place that had a really active clientele, or they’d all be st
anding around talking to each other.
And, of course he was right. His research also revealed there’d been a news team standing by at the clinic for the past two days.
I need those news freaks waiting and watching for the perfect opportunity to pounce.
Amory focused again on the tardy Marvin Karsh. He stomped up and down the sidewalk, checking his watch every few seconds, disgusted that the fool was now six minutes late.
He pulled out his cell and started to call one of the other Holy Eye members to come pick him up, but before he could punch in the first number, Marvin pulled up in his dirty white pickup truck, the back loaded with placards.
Doesn’t he ever wash that thing?
Amory would rather ride in one of the BMWs that belonged to other members, but The Holy Eye attracted more blue collar than white collar people. If he didn’t want them to call him an elitist, which he secretly knew he was, Marvin’s truck was the answer.
Amory opened the passenger door, brushed the dirt and dust off the seat, and climbed into the truck. As he tugged at the creases of his carefully pressed slacks, he noticed that Marvin was wearing grease-stained jeans and a food-stained tee shirt. Again!
The man never wears a fresh shirt. His clothes probably rot off of him before he ever thinks about changing.
“Didn’t you say you were picking me up at eleven o’ clock sharp?”
Marvin’s mouth turned into a hangdog droop. “Sorry, sir.”
The Holy Eye leader nodded and sat with his arms pulled close to his body to avoid getting any dirt on his white, starched, open-necked, Hong Kong-tailored shirt or, his freshly dry-cleaned tan pants.
Still, sitting in this unseemly truck, ready to go out and mingle with his adherents, was like thumbing his nose at every one of the above-it-all financial executives he’d left behind when he’d taken his early retirement.
“What time are we supposed to be there?”
“Just drive, Marvin.”
“But the traffic may—”
“Drive!”
Amory looked out the window and sighed.
“Look, Marvin, I want you to control yourself when we march outside the clinic today. You’ve been getting more and more abusive. We want people to pay attention to The Holy Eye and our message, but we also want to be seen as upstanding citizens trying to protect the unborn. Do you understand?”
“But me and Thelma want those murderers to pay for their crimes,” Marvin said, taking his feral eyes off the road for a moment.
Amory finally found something to smile at. “And they will, Marvin. They certainly will.”
* * *
Frannie and Ryan Garrity held hands as they approached the large crowd outside the Planed Parenthood clinic.
Protesters walked in a tight circle on the sidewalk, carrying photographs of dead fetuses. Frannie’s stomach turned. Tears filled her eyes.
“Let’s go home Ryan.”
“We can’t.” He wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close to him. “We agreed to do this … both of us agreed. Let’s at least get some counseling. A third party might help us talk it out until we’re comfortable with our decision.”
Frannie’s hormones were out of whack and she burst into tears about everything and anything. At this moment, thinking about running the gauntlet through that screaming crowd started tears running down her cheeks.
She was more reassured and focused, knew what was best when she was with Ryan. But when she was alone, doubts plagued her, poked holes in their logic. She clung to his arm.
The crowd had spilled over onto the walkway in front of the clinic and a security guard was trying to push them back so clients could get to the entrance.
“I know you’re right, Ryan.” She nodded toward crowd. “But we’ll have to walk through all those people. Look at their faces. They frighten me.”
“Nothing scary about them, Frannie ... just trying to bully us … a nasty bunch of fanatics ... all bark … no bite.”
Three clinic-bound women squeezed past the guard to get inside the building as he continued to push back the protesters. When Frannie and Ryan also edged past the guard, a man broke away and grabbed onto Frannie’s arm.
“Murderer!” he screamed. “I hope you rot in hell!”
Ryan grabbed the man by the neck of his tee shirt, pulled until they were face-to-face. “Get your filthy hands off of my wife, you chicken shit piece of trash!”
The man’s mouth went slack as though he’d already been punched. Another protester stepped up, pulled him away, and said, “Marvin, this is just what I was talking about.”
The words were harsh, but Ryan caught the hint of a smile on the man’s face when the news people moved in around them.
* * *
Inside Planned Parenthood, the first thing the Garritys did was fill out a batch of papers dealing with Frannie’s medical history and their financial status. When it was time for an exam, Frannie went through the process in a daze.
Afterwards, she and Ryan sat in an office with a Nurse Practioner, who discussed the process in detail.
Frannie looked closely at the NP. She was kind and it was obvious she had empathy for their situation, but Frannie couldn’t control her emotions – she burst into tears.
Ryan squeezed her hand and said, “Is there a co-pay for the procedure?”
“We have a sliding scale for payment, Mr. Garrity. Your part is based on your income. I’ve gone through your financial statements and it seems a payment of four hundred dollars will cover your part for the procedure.
“I thought this was a free service,” Frannie said.
“Not in your case. Your income is too high for that.”
“You must be kidding me?” Ryan said. “We’re barely getting by.”
The NP was obviously distressed. “I know it seems unfair—”
“Hell!” Ryan said. “My private insurance co-pay is two hundred dollars for an abortion.” He grabbed Frannie’s hand and they both stood. “I never dreamed Planned Parenthood would be more expensive, or we never would have come here.”
The NP also stood. “I’m so sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Garrity, but it’s fortunate you have private insurance that will make the procedure less expensive for you.”
Neither Frannie nor Ryan said a word. They left.
* * *
Frannie was shouting. “I don’t give a damn about what the neighbors think. I’ll shout if I want to. I can’t believe it. Today was supposed to be the day we set up an appointment. I need to get this over with.”
“I know … I know.” Ryan looked up at her from his piano seat. His face was neutral, but she knew her husband. He was as agitated as she was. “But even with the large deductable, our health plan will still be cheaper than Planned Parenthood.”
“That was a sliding scale? Seems to me their scale only moves in one direction … up.” Exhaustion had finally forced Frannie to calm down. She dropped onto the sofa. “We waded through those screaming idiots with their signs and disgusting pictures … all for nothing. You know how they made me feel?”
“They’re against abortion and they’re trying to impose their beliefs on us ... and the rest of the world.”
“Well, you know what they can do.”
Ryan laughed. “Yeah. I have a pretty good idea.”
“I don’t need them to remind me that this is not something I want.” Frannie jumped up and paced the room. “What finally decided it for me? I’m sick and tired of listening to spoiled grown-ups complain about their parents not having enough time for them when they were little, because they were working. Working to put food on the table for them.” She looked at Ryan. “Is that what our girls are going to say?”
“Come on, baby.” Ryan stood and pulled her into his arms. “Let’s hope they’re smarter than that. After all, they’re our kids.”
Frannie felt better. She’d finally faced the fact they just had to do it. “Where’s the nearest clinic that’s on our health plan?”
> Ryan held up a booklet. “I think the nearest one is at Ridgewood Hospital.”
“I’ll call tomorrow.”
Chapter 23
Gina sat on the edge of her molded plastic chair. She intently watched the mosaic of doctors, nurses’ medical assistants, lab techs press through the cafeteria doorway. Most of them were there to treasure their last moments of freedom before signing onto the AM shift. Like zombies, they headed for the coffee as though it was some kind of life-saving elixir. Waiting to pay, they downed the hot liquid from king-sized cups; they all reacted the same way − that first sip brought a special moment of relief. Gina never tired of watching their expressions. She was sure it mirrored her own actions and reactions.
But on this morning, Gina was nervous. “Maybe they’re not coming here before work,” she said to Harry. She could feel her insides clutching with anxiety. Had something horrible happened to her brother while he was with Helen?
She had to see him.
“Vinnie did say they would meet us in the cafeteria before work, right?”
Harry turned to Gina, saw her face and took her hand. “They’ll be here.”
“I’m just worried about Vinnie … I don’t want him slipping away from me.”
“Hey, doll, look, there they are, and I’d say they certainly have just-got-laid expressions on their faces. I do think something is working out for them.”
Gina let out a deep sigh; the tension melted. Her gaze followed Helen and Vinnie in the line, looking for their caffeine fix. Watching them hold hands brought back those first incredible moments when she’d met Harry.
It was really strange how the universe could conspire against you one moment, and then in the next, everything fall nicely into place, like the key piece of a huge jigsaw puzzle.
When Gina first arrived in San Francisco, she'd told people that one day she simply had an urge to leave the Bronx and drive cross-country to the Golden Gate.
But there was a lot more to it than that.
* * *
Even before Gina had fully recovered from critical injuries, the result of a vicious attack by her then-husband, she knew she could no longer stay in the Bronx, or any place in or near New York City.
Bone of Contention: A Medical Thriller With Heart (The Gina Mazzio Series Book 4) Page 9
