Precious Blood

by Jonathan Hayes

  “You guys go for it. I’ve got to get back to the door before someone undesirable sneaks past Winston. We’ll catch up.”

  Ana blew her a kiss, then started leading Jenner toward the archway. Behind her back, Katie nodded at Jenner and mouthed, “Thank you.”

  It was hot and dark inside; it took Jenner a few moments to orient himself. The dance floor was packed and the music was roaring, impossibly fast beats skittering through the air, wind-up monkey drumming, buzzing snare rolls, and whomping bass that sounded like a hovercraft colliding with a Mack truck.

  The banquettes against the walls were piled with coats and bags and the occasional person too intoxicated to dance.

  At the far end there were three table booths, a little elevated above the dance floor, with a DJ podium and bar along the wall to Jenner’s right.

  Ana, still tugging on his wrist, led Jenner through the 208

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  club, scanning the room for friends.

  Jenner spotted Perry immediately. He was holding court in the largest booth, wedged snugly between two pretty blondes and a pale redhead. He was sallow and wiry, with flushed cheeks and expensively unkempt lank black hair, his gaze casual and amused. It was obvious to Jenner that Ana and Perry had been lovers—how could they not have been?

  They seemed almost crafted for one another. He was maybe twenty-five—pretty much perfect for her.

  Jenner watched as a boy in a black hoodie with red hook across the back approached the table and tried to engage Perry in conversation; Perry just kept watching the crowd, as if looking for someone more interesting, eventually dismissing the kid with a glance and a flick of his wrist.

  Jenner saw him catch sight of Ana, then Ana saw Perry, and looked away a little too quickly. When she looked back, their eyes met, and this time she didn’t look away.

  She turned to Jenner abruptly and said, “Hey, why don’t you hang out here, maybe get me a ginger ale. Maybe you can find somewhere for us to sit.”

  When Perry saw Ana walking toward him, he said something to his retinue, and by the time Ana reached his table, the last girl had slipped sullenly off the banquette and disappeared onto the dance floor. Ana leaned over, kissed Perry, then slid in next to him.

  Waiting at the bar for her ginger ale, Jenner couldn’t see the booth through all the dancers. Occasionally, the flashing lights and the bodies on the dance floor would align, and he’d catch a glimpse of her leaning in against him. Perry was nonchalant, his arms draped over the back of the banquette.

  She was the one making all the effort, lips pressed almost against his ear.

  Perry didn’t seem to be buying it. His eyes were on the dance floor, watching the two blondes dance together.

  Ana stood and took off her overcoat, and Jenner felt his Precious Blood

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  heart lurch. Underneath she was wearing a tight Bathing Ape T-shirt she’d borrowed from Jun, and some kind of industrial pants in a shiny fabric, tight around the ass, looser in the leg. She looked beautiful and sexy, and Jenner fought the urge to leave when she sat back down next to Perry.

  The ginger ale was taking forever.

  She kept talking to Perry, pressuring him about something, but he wasn’t budging. Jenner realized that she now had her hand under the table—she was touching him.

  The drink came, and Jenner paid, leaving a too generous tip in his hurry to get back to her. He had to do something, had to intervene—Katie had said so. But it all seemed absurd—she obviously still had intense feelings for the guy.

  And why wouldn’t she?

  He made his way around the perimeter of the dance floor, back toward them. When he got close, Ana saw him and stood. She grabbed her coat and walked to him without saying another word to Perry. Perry looked him over indifferently, then returned to watching his blondes.

  Everything was all right. He wasn’t interested in either of them, apparently.

  Ana followed Jenner’s line of sight and said, “An ex.”

  She looked at his face, then, smiling, touched his hip.

  “Relax, you’ve got nothing to worry about. He’s a prick.”

  Jenner smiled back. “I wasn’t worried.”

  “Yeah, right! You should have seen your expression when I sat down with him!”

  “Here’s your ginger ale.” He gave her the plastic cup. “I wasn’t spying.”

  “Oh, sure!” She took a sip. “Whatever. I have to go to the bathroom, then let’s dance.”

  He waited there at the edge of the dance floor, holding her coat and her drink.

  He had nothing to worry about.

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  The man’s testosterone arrived at the FedEx office in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, in the middle of every third month. He bought the ampoules of piss-yellow syrup from a gray-mar-ket supplier in Laredo, Texas, a front operation for a Mexican outfit across the border in Nuevo Laredo. He had to pay for it himself, since the HMO doctor insisted it was unnecessary and refused to authorize reimbursement. He wondered what Dr. Zenker would say if he knew, particularly after he’d carefully explained that the man’s liver cancer was probably caused by the testosterone replacement therapy after the accident. Well, he already had the cancer, and the injections kept him feeling right, so screw Zenker.

  The day before he’d felt too ill to pick up the package.

  Guts knotting inside him, he had lain curled on his mattress unable to stand for much of the day, clutching his belly in agony; he couldn’t afford the Oxycontin anymore. He found Saint Elmo in the tattered copy of Lives of the Saints he kept in his sleep hole, and lay, hand pressing his throbbing stomach, looking at an old woodcut of the martyrdom of the saint, who had his innards drawn out on a windlass.

  Today the pain had eased and he felt almost human again.

  When the sun was fully up, he’d walk into Greenpoint and pick up the package.

  Ana was still asleep. Jenner gently freed his arm, careful not to wake her. In the dark, he pulled a T-shirt from the dresser drawer. His neck was stiff.

  At the other end of the loft, he opened the blinds on the kitchen side. He put two Weetabix biscuits into his mug, sprinkled them with sugar, opened a bottle of milk, and poured it into the mug. He sat down at the table, tilted his chair back, and began to eat the cereal. He took time to savor the change from crisp to soggy, the sweet, granular crunch of the raw sugar. The coldness of the fresh milk.

  He set the empty mug back on the table. Julie had given Precious Blood

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  it to him, when things had been really bad for him. A hefty mug-shaped mug, the color of cream, with a Goethe quote in black type: Nothing is more important than this day.

  It wasn’t just his neck—his sides ached, too, and he felt his knee creak when he straightened it. He was getting too old to be going out dancing all night.

  Not that he’d danced that much. By around 2:00 a.m., he’d had enough, and sat on a banquette with Simone, one of Ana’s friends, listening to her yammer on about how she’d broken up with Jamie or Lesley or someone; it had been loud, and Simone was drunk, and Jenner couldn’t tell whether she was talking about a girlfriend or a boyfriend, but she kept on talking, pulling herself close to him and yelling in his ear, smelling of alcohol and pot.

  Ana stayed out on the dance floor, where everyone seemed to be dancing with everyone.

  He loved watching her dance, her movements liquid and electric, the way her stomach flashed when she raised her arms above her head, her eyes closed, an ecstatic smile on her face, her body moving as just one more wave of sound.

  Every so often, she’d catch his eye, and her eyes and smile would widen, and he didn’t care who danced with her, he knew she was going home with him.

  By 4:00 a.m., she was the only person still dancing, spinning and dropping, always in the half shadow, cutting rhythmically into the light beam with a tan arm or
a swirl of hair.

  He watched her dance with the light, enchanted and proud.

  In the cab home, she pressed up against him, held her bare arm to his mouth to have him taste her sweat. Later she looked up at him and urgently whispered to him to do it harder, her eyelids fluttering, her skin hot and flushed.

  Jenner showered, kept the water hot, trying to melt the knots in his neck. He toweled dry and dressed, then reached Garcia on his cell; coming in from Queens, the detective 212

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  was stuck in bridge traffic. They agreed to meet at the pharmacy at 9:15 a.m.

  He looked around his apartment. The place was becoming a wreck—clothes everywhere, magazines and books all over the place, empty pizza boxes and Chinese food containers on the tables and by the daybed. Ana’s early efforts at housekeeping had fallen by the wayside. He wasn’t a great housekeeper, but at least he threw boxes in the trash, and stuck his clothes in the hamper.

  He started to clean the place up. When he opened the stainless steel trash bin in the kitchen, he saw she’d been throwing garbage out, but hadn’t separated the recyclables.

  He tapped damp coffee grounds off the empty viognier bottle and an empty can of Italian tuna. Reaching deeper, he found two more wine bottles; he couldn’t remember drinking them with her. But maybe he had—he’d been drinking more since she’d moved in. One of the bottles still had wine in it; he rinsed it out, then placed it carefully into the blue plastic bag for glass, feeling slightly virtuous.

  Recycling had been Julie’s thing. It seemed like there used to be a lot more concern about the environment. Maybe after 9/11 everyone felt that all bets were off, that what might or might not happen to the planet fifty or a hundred years down the road really just wasn’t that big a deal.

  Nothing is more important than this day.

  He looked over at Ana. She was sleeping on her side, a pillow clutched against her thighs. Her breathing was fast, and the one leg outside of the sheets twitched. It was like watching a cat dream.

  God, what an asshole he was! Ana had lost her parents, she’d been there when her best friend was tortured and killed, and yet he lived every hour feeling sorry for himself.

  Boo fucking hoo. Poor Edward Jenner.

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  Luba Andreyev, the day pharmacist at Astor Place Pharmacy and Drug Rx, found irritating Rad Garcia an entertaining break from the routine of torturing her assistant. A bleached blonde dressed for a cocktail party in a tight red top and black miniskirt under her white coat, she affected bored dis-interest, but Jenner could see she was enjoying herself.

  The detective explained it one more time: they had a vial of Lupron dispensed by the pharmacy. They needed to find out if the decedent and two other Hutchins students had received Lupron from the pharmacy, and the name of the prescribing physician.

  “I am telling you that I cannot tell you. This is confidential. Like doctor and patient.”

  “As I said, the girl—all three—are dead. Confidentiality no longer exists.”

  The dispensing area was elevated on a platform; she leaned over them, like a presiding judge, and said, “I do not think so. I cannot provide you with this information.”

  “Is there a manager we could speak with?”

  “No manager. I am the senior person in charge.”

  “We’d like to speak to the owner.”

  “Mr. Hussaini.”

  “If he’s the owner.”

  “You may speak to him.” She paused, looked at her French tips, then down to Rad. “He usually comes in around three p.m.”

  “Do you have a home phone number for him?”

  “He’s not at home. He is at Home Depot in Queens.”

  “Does he have a cell phone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could you give me his cell phone number?”

  “His cell phone isn’t working.”

  The detective sighed, squared his shoulders, and said,

  “Ms. Andreyev, is there some reason you don’t want to help us?”

  She yelped a laugh. “Detective! I would do anything to 214

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  help the police! Anything! ” She breathed sharply, as if pulling on a cigarette, and then gave a weary smile of helplessness. “But I cannot do what you’re asking me to do. It is illegal. And unethical. Both.”

  “Hussaini arrives at what hour?”

  “Usually three p.m. Although maybe later today—I don’t know how long he will be at Home Depot.”

  Rad looked at Jenner, then back at her. He pulled out his notebook and made a show of writing her name.

  “We’ll be back, Miss Andreyev.”

  “Good-bye!” she said, cheerily.

  She turned to face Jenner. He caught her attention; her eyes narrowed for a second, and she looked down at the counter in front of her, then back at him. She broke into a wide smile.

  “I think you are very much in love!”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You are in love, with the murder girl in East Village.”

  She looked benignly on his confusion for a moment, then said, “Here.” She folded the morning’s New York Post over and handed it down to him. “Lower part of page.”

  Below the fold, laid out like frames from a movie, was a series of photographs of Ana in front of the Lightbulb Factory. Ana in his sweatshirt and Jun’s sneakers coming out of his lobby. Ana running along the sidewalk to him.

  Ana on tiptoe, kissing him. Behind his head, the banner for Khatchaturian Vintage Lighting was clearly visible. There was a small headline, inquisitor survivor ! casanova coroner, and the caption began, “Moment of Happiness for Tragic Co-ed.”

  Spirits sinking, he walked toward the back of the store, reading the story. Richie Parsons must have had someone staking out his apartment, waiting for her. He cursed himself for forgetting that murders have vibrant lives beyond the narrow parameters of personal tragedy and forensic investigation. It wasn’t his first time in the main ring of a media Precious Blood

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  circus; he should have been more careful, for Ana’s sake.

  He folded the newspaper and brought it back to Andreyev, who gave him another exaggeratedly tender smile.

  He walked back down the main aisle. Ana needed her own razor. He stood in front of the display, a little surprised at the number of options; for no particular reason, he decided on the Gillette Sensor Excel for Women.

  “Can I get you some blades for that, sir?”

  He turned to find a young Indian boy in a black vest, pinned to which was a red-and-white name tag that read de-bashish and junior pharmacist.

  He squatted next to Jenner and rummaged through the cabinet under the razor display stand.

  His back to Jenner, he muttered, “Is she watching?”

  Jenner looked around, casually, at the rest of the store.

  “Yeah.”

  “She’s a real bitch!”

  Jenner grinned. “Really?”

  “You’re with the detective?”

  “Yes.”

  The boy looked up and said, “I read about this in the paper.

  I want to help.”

  Jenner thanked him.

  “I fill the bottles for Luba—she pretends she doesn’t know how to work the label printer. I don’t know the patient names, but all the fertility drug prescriptions filled here come from the New Hope Clinic. Dr. David Green. I think it’s very close. All of his patients are students at the university.”

  “Thanks, Debashish—you’ve saved us a lot of time.”

  Jenner heard the rapid click of heels, and looked up to see Luba Andreyev bearing down on them, a large metal clipboard in her hands, her caring smile replaced by a suspicious scowl. As she reached their aisle, the boy straightened up and said, “There. Ten replacement blades. Sorry about that, Mister—we carry so many different razors, and the guy who
does the restocking can be a real mess.”

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  “No problem. I’m just glad you had them. Thanks again.”

  He needed to find a phone and let Jun know about the photographs in the Post. He nodded at Debashish, and gave a brief nod in Luba Andreyev’s direction before heading to the cash register.

  He hoped he’d irritated her.

  Green’s offices were in a red brick Greek Revival town house on MacDougal Street, just off Washington Square Park. The waiting room was all taste and money—Danish modern furniture in a neutral palette, the Oxygen network muted on a wall-mounted plasma TV behind the receptionist. It was like something out of a movie. Jenner wondered for a moment what his life would have been like had he gone into clinical medicine. Plusher, at least.

  There were a couple of young women filling out forms; they barely glanced up as the two men entered. Each had attached a color photo to the front sheet. Both were college age and attractive, and the blonde wore a sweatshirt in the Hutchins blue and green.

  The door to Green’s office opened, and the man himself appeared in the doorway. He hesitated, unaccustomed to seeing men in the waiting room. He was handsome, well built and too tan for winter. The buttons on his immaculate white coat were tight knots of white silk, and his shirt was clearly bespoke, his initials neatly exposed on the left French cuff. The effect was so carefully composed that Jenner wondered if the lab coat, too, was custom-tailored.

  The receptionist slipped over to Green and spoke to him in a hushed tone. With a decisive nod and a concerned expression, Green ushered them into his large office. The white desk and brown leather and chrome chairs seemed to float above the thick butterscotch shag carpet. Green sat and motioned to the chairs, but Rad remained standing; Jenner followed his lead.

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  “I understand you have some questions that might involve my patients.” Green leaned back in his chair and placed the palms of his hands together, tapping the tips of his slender fingers together one by one, the picture of a contemplative man. “You must understand that there are confidentiality issues, particularly in this type of practice.”