Loving Time

slowly. “Yes, I would say anything is possible.”

“So it’s muddy, my dear.”

“Yes. Because any investigation into Ray’s treatment will involve Harold. He was my supervisor. He studied my notes and determined the course of the therapy. I suspect he’s involved in Ray’s death because he was the first person the police questioned after they found the body.”

“Darlin’, is this a suicide?”

Clara closed her eyes. “It could be.”

“So you’re in a pickle.” Arch tapped his lips and thought for a while. “How does it stand with this Harold …?”

“Dickey. I, uh, told him he had to leave.”

“I thought it was practically impossible to fire people in these institutions.”

“It is, unless they’re in administration, I could be fired in a second,” she said bitterly. “But he’s a tenured professor. The committee will have to meet, determine he’s unfit to hold his position …”

Arch slapped his thigh. “I think you have to do what they did at the lab out West, put the surveillance in all over the place. If this guy does anything else, you’ll catch him in the act.”

“Oh, he’d know. He’d stop.”

“Fine, then he stops.”

“But that wouldn’t be the end of it. He’s insane. He wants me. He’ll think of some other way to get me. He has to be let go on the basis of his mental fitness.”

“Fine, then we’ll bring in the FBI. That’s what they’re there for. Leave this Harold alone, baby. In the end he’ll hang himself.”

“I’m counting on it.” Clara smiled. So Arch did have the FBI watching her.

He tossed her a towel. “Let’s go get some lunch, honey—and stick with me; there are ways of dealing with everything.”

Clara nodded solemnly. “I’ve always thought so,” she said.

thirty-one

Mike Sanchez and April Woo were due at work at four P.M. on Saturday. At exactly nine A.M. Mike took a calculated risk. He pulled his red Camaro into an empty spot in front of the neat brick house in Astoria where April lived with her parents. The house had green fiberglass awnings in the shape of fans over each window. April had once told him the awnings made every raindrop sound like thunder.

“What are they good for?” he’d asked.

“For show.”

She told him the decoration had been installed by the previous owners and the Woos had decided not to waste the cost of the improvement by removing it, even though they themselves did not like them. Mike had pondered their reasoning for a long time. He was beginning to understand how he might solve his problem.

His problem was the porcupine living inside him in the soft, vulnerable parts of his body. The porcupine was April Woo. He wasn’t exactly sure how she had moved from the outside of him to the inside of him. But there she was. When he wasn’t with her, he thought about her. When he was with her, he couldn’t stop looking at her. Sometimes he wanted to touch her so badly that holding back felt like too much steam in a turned-off radiator. This was one of the many kinds of Chinese torture.

April had told him in old China the death sentence was never only death. Sometimes the guilty party was pulled apart by four horses, then hacked into pieces, the cut-off head paraded around on a stick. Sometimes the condemned man was skinned alive. And people thought the violence in New York was bad. Mike had no doubt April was capable of a similar lack of forgiveness if he dared to touch her where she didn’t want to be touched. Which was everywhere.

Sometimes his desire for her took his breath away. It occurred to him that she was rendering him brain-dead and helpless by extracting his oxygen from the air. He’d had many women in his thirty-four years. Not one of them, not even the girl he’d married, had ever taken his breath away. Well, certainly not on a regular basis with no physical contact. And now he was too preoccupied with April to get relief from other women. He was concerned that her scorn was powerful enough to cause his dick to wither away and die. He worked out a lot, smelled other women’s perfume and their sweat, and was not interested. He figured this was the way homos felt about women and worried that April was making him gay.

From Mike’s point of view, wanting April Woo was stupid, wasteful, irritating, and dangerous. Dangerous because whenever he let her know, she raised the spines on her back and tore at his gut. But he was beginning to see a way out. April was a person of quality, of character. To get her he was going to have to get the approval of her mother, her father, and quite possibly her entire community. When he got that, he’d have her.

He got out of the car and stretched. Busy by the front door was a thin man of indeterminate age with his very little hair cut so short his head looked like an unadorned skull. The man wore a white shirt much too large for him and black trousers, black Chinese canvas shoes—the newest version with rubber soles. At the moment he was carefully trimming a dense, prickly bush with shiny dark green leaves and red berries on it, attaching the shoots to a trellis that curved up and over the front door, and peering at his work through black frames with thick lenses. There was a similar untamed bush on the other side he hadn’t gotten to yet. It would be a while before the two bushes met above the door.

Mike guessed the man was April’s father, Ja Fo Woo, making his own improvements to the house. The trellis had not been there the last time Mike had seen the house. Neither had the tiny apricot poodle sitting at attention at the top of the three steps that led to the front door, watching the thin man’s every move.

For a few seconds, Mike, too, watched the man’s every move. The man continued snipping and tying, but the dog jumped up and began barking excitedly. The sudden racket of yips and yaps brought two faces to the windows. Upstairs, between a parting of white curtains, April’s face appeared. At precisely the same position in the window below it, her mother’s head came into view.

The man spoke in Chinese to the dog, but he didn’t turn his head as Mike advanced up the path toward the house. This ignoring of him forced Mike to speak first.

“Morning, sir,” he said. “I’m Mike Sanchez.”

“Know who you are.” Now the man turned his head to look at him. On display between big teeth was suspended a slender gold toothpick. “Sergeant.”

“Yes, sir.” Mike was wearing cowboy boots and the leather jacket that made him look like a drug dealer. He’d combed his hair four or five times, trimmed his mustache, splashed his body with cologne, and gargled with Scope. “Very nice to meet you,” he offered.

Woo’s father shifted the toothpick to one side of his mouth and elaborately sniffed at Mike’s collection of strong odors. He himself smelled of shirt starch, garlic, and cigarettes. “Not here, went out.”

“Ahh … April?”

No, she hadn’t. She was in the house, now on the first floor conversing with her mother in Chinese, probably caught on the way out. It sounded as if the two women were in something of a dispute. In fact, if Mike had to interpret their noises, he’d have to conclude they were screaming at each other.

The dog became more excited, jumped up on him. Mike leaned over to pet it. “Hi, guy, uh, girl.”

“Dmsm!” Woo’s father barked.

“Ah, excuse me?”

“Dog name Dmsm.”

“Yes, April told me that. She’s very cute. The dog, that is.” Mike patted the dog, then straightened up as the front door swung open.

April came out in jeans and a sweatshirt. She didn’t look happy to see him.

He gave her a big smile. “April, you came back.”

She clashed eyes with her father. Ja Fo Woo coughed and spit into a patch of lilies. After a brief, awkward silence, April mumbled, “This is my father … Sergeant Sanchez.” End of introduction.

“We’ve already met,” Mike replied.

Two seconds later, April’s mother appeared at the door. Sai Woo wore a brown Chinese dress and a blue