“Damn, Connolly, I can’t take you anywhere. Let him go.”
When he did I crumpled to the floor and tried to find a way to breathe.
“Now look Jacobs, I guess you’ve watched too much TV and think that you’re supposed to protect your client’s identity at all costs. But I don’t think you were at that building for your head. Now I don’t like too much blood so I’m going to be a nice guy and suggest that, if you have a shrink appointment, you do it in the office. If I find out you’re around that place, and don’t have an appointment, I’m going to let Connolly have some real fun. You see how he likes to have fun, don’t you?”
I looked up from the floor to see an open toothy gap under the white man’s nose, his eyes lit with pleasure. The black guy was shaking his head at me with pity.
“We don’t see too many of your type, Jacobs, degree boy with no smarts.”
“It’s Jacob, without the s.”
This time the black man lifted me up. “Jacob, without the s. I’ll remember. And you remember this.”
He held me with one hand and pummeled me with the rock-hard other. I tried to move away but my body wouldn’t respond to my begging. I closed my eyes and waited for the beating to stop. He finally let go and I slumped back to the floor. I kept my eyes closed and hoped they’d think I passed out.
“Now you play ‘possum all you like, Jacobs, but listen good. Stay away from 290. Go to your shrink and go home. And tell whoever hired you that you’re off the case.”
I opened my eyes a slit and watched as four blurry feet walked out the door. At least, I thought it was the door. I could see a small pool of blood gather by my face and somehow knowing it was mine threw my stomach into overdrive and I began to dry-heave. I heard someone whisper my name and I was afraid they had changed their minds.
But the voice sounded familiar, so I forced myself to look. All I could see was a pair of purple Converse high-tops. I looked up to see Charles standing by the door in a plaid three-quarter-length nightshirt, looking horrified. The clash of green plaid and purple kept my stomach rolling but I managed not to throw up.
“God, Matthew, I thought you were dead.”
I couldn’t talk. Someone had stuffed a grapefruit in my mouth.
“I’m going to call an ambulance.”
I shook my head and brought tears to my eyes.
“Why not, Matthew?” Charles whispered.
I didn’t know why not so I tried to get up. Charles scurried over and tried to help but I was too much dead weight. He set me lightly back down on the floor and went into the bathroom and emerged with a washcloth. He sat down on the floor next to me, cradled my head, and began to gently wipe my face. I couldn’t stomach the plaid so I kept my eyes closed.
“I don’t know why you won’t let me call an ambulance. You might have internal bleeding. They may have broken your ribs.”
I shook my head again.
“I saw them, Matthew. They just trashed you.”
His shock was comforting. He was comforting. He opened my shirt and we both looked at angry red splotches on my belly and chest.
“This is outrageous. Two . . . two animals. Just trying to hurt you. I don’t understand it at all!”
His voice was getting shrill. I closed my eyes and prayed for the room to stop spinning.
“Damn it, Matthew, you can’t just lie there. At least let me call the police?”
I opened my eyes and stared into his face to stop the whirlies. I tried to speak around the grapefruit.
“Charles, they were the police.”
I don’t know how long we stayed there, Charles holding my head and me moaning, but from where I lay Mrs. Sullivan’s light grew more and more insistent until I tried to get up. Charles demanded a hospital visit, which I refused, though parts of my body cursed my attitude. I thought about my storehouse of pills but decided on a hot bath first. Charles helped and, other than a momentary flash of homophobia when he slipped my pants off, we negotiated the change from floor to tub without much additional pain. I asked him to go upstairs and reassure Mrs. Sullivan, and I promised to call if I changed my mind about the emergency room. Despite his tender care, I felt relieved to be alone and up to my chest in hot water. I didn’t want to look at his nightshirt anymore. I was starting to relax when I was hit with another wave of pain. It almost changed my mind about the hospital, but after a few moments the hurt subsided and left me lusting for a cigarette.
I crawled out of the tub and inched into the bedroom where I took the Kools, matches, and ashtray and returned to the bathroom. I needed more soaking so I added hot water, swallowed a couple of pills, and groaned my way back in. My cheeks were still smarting, and the crook between my shoulder and neck felt as if a knife had slit it apart. The blotches on my chest seemed to dance and I wondered whether I could see the bruises turn color. I couldn’t, but wasn’t sure if my blurred vision was brought on by the waves of pain or the overwhelming loneliness I suddenly felt while I lay there doing inventory on my body. I felt like crying.
I was onto my third cigarette, and the tub water was turning cool. I was beginning to become impatient for my chemical white knights when the anger finally hit. It was one thing to be beaten up, another to have the damn thing happen in my home. My fucking home.
I dragged my body from the bath and forced myself to look in the mirror. My cheeks were okay but my eyes looked like Hearns’ after the Hagler fight. They must have broken my nose but I couldn’t remember when. I could breathe, so the hell with it. I didn’t want doctors sticking Q-tips up anything. I went through the torture of pulling on my undershirt before I realized there was nowhere to go and no one to see. It was the middle of the night and I would have to wait until the morning before I could do anything. I stood there too sore to move, but frustrated, and reluctant to go to bed.
I spent the next hours smoking, dozing, and hurting. During the moments of awareness, images from the afternoon and night flashed across my throbbing eyes until I began to wonder where the dreams began. For a while I thought I was in a coffin, staring up into the hard, cold eyes of my black visitor and the sadistic face of his bloated friend. I would try to turn my head, and when I couldn’t, look back and gaze at the concerned faces of Simon and Fran. Seeing them was worse, but they refused to leave when I blinked. I almost prayed for the cop’s image to return. When I awoke from that one, I worried about having overdosed.
I hadn’t and, as long as I lay there and remembered that the beating wasn’t a punishment for what I saw in the afternoon, I was okay. More than okay; I was enraged. Two fucking cops had trashed me in my own home and I didn’t even know why.
The call to arms had lessened considerably by the time Charles found me late in the morning drinking coffee and eating toast. My body felt like it had been left in a washing machine stuck on agitate. My head was drugged-over and my mouth fuzzy—the usual down side of using chemical solutions to approximate normalcy. I must have appeared presentable in my sunglasses though, because he sat down and didn’t say a word about my face. He was probably being polite.
“Do you want some?” I pointed to my cup and plate.
“Just coffee. Have to watch my weight, you know.”
I began to get up when he reached over and put his hand on my shoulder. “You stay. I can get it myself.”
He stood and fixed himself a cup, his head turning like a pigeon’s. “Bakelite appliances, Depression-era cookware, 1940s toasters,” he swung his arm and followed it with the rest of his body. “You have a gay gene, Matthew.”
“You forgot to mention the radios.”
A look of exaggerated horror crossed his face. “How could I have forgotten the best part?”
I grinned, though it hurt. “Then I’ll take this all as a compliment, and thanks for last night. I appreciate the care, though the nightshirt should go to Goodwill.”
Charles stopped looking around the room. He hadn’t heard a word.
“What’s going on, Matthew? I made up some
crazy story to Mrs. Sullivan about you being drunk and fighting with yourself on the stairs, but she didn’t believe a word of it. I think she saw those animals come in, although she wouldn’t say.”
“Is she all right?”
“She’s okay. Same as me, scared but okay.”
“You haven’t anything to be afraid of. This has nothing to do with the building.”
“Well, I’m somewhat relieved to hear that, but it isn’t really the building that concerns me. Or Mrs. Sullivan.”
I felt embarrassed and looked away. “I don’t know what to tell you. I’m involved in something I don’t entirely understand. I am going to try to get some answers.”
“I spoke to Richard this morning and he wants to know whether you would like him to return early. Is there something you might need him for?”
My discomfort just grew worse. “Nah. But I could use your help around here while I find out what this is all about. I need someone to look after the building and Mrs. Sullivan.”
Charles looked at me quizzically. “Are you going to have to travel?”
I started to shake my head but stopped when it felt like something was going to break. “Nothing so drastic. I just want to focus my attention.”
I started to get up to refill my cup but it didn’t take more than a moment before I thought better of it. “Would you mind?”
Charles took my mug and turned toward the pot. I lit another cigarette. My ribs ached. I thought about taking more Demerol but decided on codeine instead. I didn’t want to be any more stupid than I already was. I thought about asking Charles to get it from the bathroom, but it was difficult to keep asking for help. Charles handed me the mug, steam rising from the black.
“You take it black, don’t you?”
I nodded. It surprised me that he knew my coffee habits; maybe he should do the detective work and I take care of the building.
“Matthew, I know that you’re a detective and all, but do you know what you’re doing?”
I couldn’t think of a rousing response. “How do you know that I’m a detective?”
“Matthew, really.” Charles sounded exasperated. “Everyone in the building knows about your detective license.” He looked at me slyly. “Before last night it was somewhat reassuring.”
“What else does everyone in the building know?” It was my turn to sound exasperated.
Charles looked at me and smiled. “You’re a strange man. Everyone is interested in a person with two first names.”
It was my turn to smile. “Not technically two.”
“Matthew, seriously, do you know what you’re doing? Last night you said it was the police who had done the, the …”
“Beating.”
“Yes, the beating. Are you sure? Why would the police do this? If they wanted they certainly could have arrested you. On drugs, if nothing else.”
“More common knowledge?”
Charles looked annoyed. “What does it matter? No one holds it against you.”
I liked that least of all. But he was right. What did it matter? Today wasn’t going to be the first day of the rest of my life. “You’re right, Charles. It doesn’t matter. I have a pretty good idea they were cops. If they weren’t, I don’t think they’d have left me in one piece.”
Charles seemed dubious. “I don’t know. Usually police just abuse blacks and gays.”
“That’s institutional. This was private.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not sure myself. That’s why I have to do some work.” Some of my anger returned. “I’ll find out what’s going on.”
“I suppose. But how can you do anything? I’m not even sure you should be moving.”
“I’ll be fine. I just have to loosen up.”
“Richard said you’re a stubborn fuck.”
“What else did Richard say?”
“To just let you do what you want.”
“Thank Richard for me. Will you keep an eye on things around here?”
“Of course.”
I started to get up again. Charles pointedly didn’t help. The prick. It took a while but I was finally vertical.
“I’ll go up and talk to Mrs. Sullivan.”
A look of horror crossed his face and he quickly stood up as if to block my way. He didn’t have to worry. I wasn’t ready to climb stairs.
“Don’t be silly. One look at you and she’ll have a seizure. I’ll make something up.” He started to let himself out the door, then turned and said in a neutral tone, “Also, Matthew, if you are going to go outside, please wear something other than mirrored glasses. You look like you work at McDonald’s.”
I took his advice and tried to loosen my body by wandering around the house until I found a pair of regular sunglasses. For my money they didn’t look much better. Upwardly mobile to Burger King. Despite moving around, my body felt no better and was going to refuse to twist into the car. It was a good time to organize my drugs. I pulled out the pills I could cover with scripts and put them into the medicine chest. The rest I sorted into different containers, then placed the entire stash into my hide-hole. If the police returned to arrest me they would have to work for it. I returned to the bathroom and took the codeine. Compared to the Demerol it was light but, after I home-brewed a taping job on my ribs, I felt a little better and somewhat more mobile. I went back into the kitchen and had more coffee. I wanted to stay awake.
It took about forty-five minutes for everything to kick in; finally I felt like I could get into my car. I got up to call Dr. James. Today I wasn’t going to wait outside.
The telephone conversation got me angry all over again. She was busy, couldn’t it wait until our regular appointment, why today, and a reluctant okay if I arrived in an hour. I steamed around the house and stormed to the car, then realized it was a helluva lot better feeling angry than awkward or anxious. Anger also helped reduce the fear I had of going anywhere near 290. When I pulled up in front of the building I thought I noticed the same cream Lincoln parked up the block. I couldn’t tell if anyone was inside, and wondered if my cold feet were making something out of nothing. There were plenty of luxury cars in this neighborhood and, frankly, that kid hadn’t looked like he worked for the police.
The drugs were keeping me reasonably loose, so I managed the steps without looking too much like an invalid. If my nocturnal visitors were watching I hoped they thought I had miraculous recovery powers, but I wasn’t going to linger outside to impress. I didn’t bother to look out the lobby window either, but went right to the inside stairway. If I kept moving it would take longer before my body began to tighten.
Dr. James’ waiting room was empty, so I sat down and fell into my client routine. Unfortunately The New York Review of Books was a Chomsky handout, so I put it down. I wasn’t interested in an etymological chronicle of the world’s plight: I had my own to worry about. Too late I heard the door to the inner sanctum open, and found myself caught off-guard as Dr. James called my name.
She sounded like she did every Thursday and, for a moment, my usual weekly nervousness and resentment reappeared. Until I began to walk. Then my body reminded me why I was here.
“Come in, Mr. Jacob.” She closed the door behind us.
“It was Matthew on Thursday.” I walked past the shelves of books that lined the walls. Over the course of visits I had grown familiar with most of the titles; you had to look pretty close to find fiction interspersed with the rows of books on psychology. Though Proust and Mann were hardly easy reading.
“I know,” she said, responding to my unspoken complaint. “Despite my initial reluctance to see you today, I’m rather glad you’re here. I want to talk about Thursday. Why don’t you sit down?” She finished her apology and suddenly saw me. “What happened to your face?” Some of her formality began to slip.
I creaked over the plain gray rug and wedged behind the muted floral couch by the window. I looked down at the street for what happened to my face, but as usual saw nothing. Even the L
incoln had been replaced by a silver Toyota van. I kept my eyes outside, but leaned on the back of the couch toward the center of the room. She seemed to understand that I wasn’t going to sit.
“What happened to you? Why do you keep staring out the window?”
“You talk about Thursday first.” I had trouble keeping the harshness out of my voice.
She walked to the rear of her desk as if to take her seat, changed her mind, and leaned up against the side. She was wearing a pair of white jeans and a bright pink corduroy shirt. It seemed a sharp contrast to her dull office and it was certainly different from what I was used to seeing her wear. I wondered whether she dressed in different styles according to her day’s clients; it bothered me to find her appealing.
She made up for her clothes with the chill in her voice. “Since we last met I’ve done a great deal of thinking and decided I was too impetuous in requesting your services. Especially without talking to Dr. Holmes.”
“And this time when Holmes reassured you, you believed him?”
“Exactly.”
“And now you want me to forget about it and resume our regular work.”
Her face relaxed and, for a moment, a look of genuine relief shone from her eyes. “Yes. That’s right. I know we’ll have to work through my visit to your home, but I’m sure we can do that.”
“Crap.” This time I didn’t try to disguise my tone.
A look of confusion crossed her face and her body yanked upright. “I don’t understand. You didn’t indicate that my visit would end our therapeutic relationship.”
“Right now I don’t care about our therapeutic relationship. I care about the case. You are the second person to warn me off the burglaries.” I stopped and pointed to my face. “Though you are more polite about it.”
She stood with her hand over her mouth. “You mean someone actually hit you?”
I just looked at her.
She started to walk toward me, but stopped. “Have you seen a doctor? Of course I’ll pay for whatever this costs you. I am completely responsible. I’m really sorry.”
The Complete Matt Jacob Series Page 7
