Loving Time

been gray with grief. Treadwell had completely forgotten the man who’d died just minutes before. She was preoccupied, busy with what she had to do next. Bobbie laughed at the panic the bitch Treadwell must have felt when she saw that Dickey’s scotch bottle was missing from his office. Now the bitch would know she wasn’t safe. Bobbie had been there: He knew what she had done.

Monday Bobbie felt good. Tuesday he felt good. Wednesday he felt good enough to travel up to the third floor and pay a visit to the old bag. He wanted to see Gunn’s fat face get all red, wanted to hear her protest and complain, get all scared about what would happen, what would happen. And what the hell happened since the good doctor was just fine when I saw him and gave him the files on Friday? He wanted to hear her whine about all the trouble they’d get in. And ask again and again what had he done, what had he done, what had he done? Blah, blah, blah. Gunn didn’t know he was in control of this. For once he knew what was going on and Gunn didn’t. It made him feel good to think about it.

Bobbie arrived at Gunn’s office soon after five. She was sitting at her desk, still as a stone. He was disappointed that her face didn’t get red with embarrassment and fear when she saw him. She sat there staring straight ahead of her as if she’d been turned to stone. She looked beaten, looked old. He wondered how he’d gotten involved with such an old woman.

“Hi.” He pulled on the brim of his baseball cap.

She shook her head.

Malika, her dim-witted associate, walked by and didn’t even say hi. “I’m goin’ now” was all she said. Then she left.

“What’s up?” Bobbie asked Gunn. “You look funny.”

“Something’s wrong. Some guy from the FBI was here.”

“Huh?” Bobbie was startled. “What’d he want?”

“Take a guess, Bobbie.”

“Don’t fuck with me, woman. What’d the asshole want?”

“He wanted to know why friends of Dr. Treadwell’s were suddenly dying here.”

Bobbie almost laughed. A bubble of air rose from his gut. He belched loudly, tasted the meatball from his meatball-hero lunch. “What friends?” he asked innocently. “I didn’t know the bitch had any friends.”

“Oh, come on, Bobbie. You know what I mean. Two people died. Not only poor Dr. Dickey—but a patient, too. Another patient died.”

“Another one since last week?”

“No, the same one from last week. Isn’t one enough?”

Bobbie shrugged. “Is the FBI here to nail the bitch for her crimes?”

Gunn shook her head. “Bobbie, you worry me to death. You really do.”

“Why should I worry you to death?” He almost laughed in her fat face.

“Because you don’t always think about the consequences of doing things … of people dying.”

“The shit I don’t.” Now he was getting angry. He didn’t have anything to do with anybody’s dying. Gunn had no idea what was going on. She was pissing in the wind again, going off on some crazy suspicions that were as far from the truth as falseness could get.

“I don’t even work here,” he protested. “I don’t even know the guy. You told me it was a private patient I don’t even know the guy’s name. How could I have anything to do with it?”

“Well, you know Dr. Dickey’s name, Bobbie,” she said haughtily. “And the police were here, too. The police and the FBI. What am I supposed to tell them?”

“Right, the fucking FBI. Let me tell you something—when the fucking FBI investigate things, they don’t tell you they’re fucking FBI. So you’re imagining things. You’re in cuckoo-land. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She nodded. “Oh, yes, they do. I told this guy to go away if he didn’t have proper authority to ask me questions, so he showed me this FBI thing.” So there.

“So what do you want me to do about it? I haven’t done anything wrong. I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Dickey had a heart attack and croaked. I don’t know about the other guy. I never even heard of him.”

Now she got agitated. She started crying. “Poor Dr. Dickey. And now they won’t release my files. I’m just so upset, Bobbie.”

“Don’t worry. I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I didn’t even know the guy.”

Gunn blew her nose. “That’s what you say. But you’re not supposed to be here. What are you doing here? You knew the police were here, didn’t you?”

She was crazy. He made a noise with his mouth. Who said he couldn’t be there? No one said he couldn’t be there. Only she said he couldn’t be there. It pissed him off. He had to be smart about this, couldn’t fly off the handle at her. He shook his head.

“No, I didn’t know nothing. I just stopped by to see you. Don’t try to make something of it.”

“Let’s go, Bobbie.” Gunn’s face was mad. “After everything I’ve done for you,” she muttered. “I don’t know why I put up with this. I don’t want you ever coming over here again, you hear me?”

“What do you want me to do, leave town?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea. Then you’d be safe.” She waved her short, fat arms at him, shooing him away. “You go first. I don’t want us seen together.”

She was nuts. Bobbie made another noise and walked out.

forty-five

“How’s it going with us, Jason?”

Emma leaned against the back of her green and black bistro wicker chair and tapped the end of her fork on the white tablecloth soundlessly. In the soft light, her smile was wistful. Wistful and sad always made Jason feel guilty. Guilty made him defensive. He didn’t want to be defensive.

They were dining in a restaurant Emma thought was engaging enough to unite them against their private, ever-absorbing preoccupations. Emma was still waiting for word about her play and Jason had been sucked into the black hole of hospital politics and was never off the phone. The restaurant Emma had chosen to divert him to her own interests, however, was opposite the museum, around the corner from the Twentieth Precinct. From their table at the window, Jason was able to watch the street and wonder if April Woo was on duty. And if so, what she was doing.

“How’s it going with us, Jason?” Emma repeated.

At the question, he hastily focused on Emma. In the old days Emma would never have asked such a thing. How was it going with them? What kind of question was that? How did he feel? Did he love her, miss her? Before six months ago she would never have demanded that he talk to her about these things. She used to know better than to try to swim in such tricky currents. But that was then. Now she felt she had the upper hand. The tables had turned. Suddenly she was a person of substance, an earner. She wore expensive clothes, had her hair colored, and dropped names of Hollywood people he was pretty sure he didn’t ever want to know. So now Emma figured she had the right to ask any question she wanted.

Well, it just so happened one couldn’t answer questions like that no matter how the tables were placed. Love was not an “ever-fixed mark that looks on tempests and is never shaken,” as proclaimed by Shakespeare in a once favorite sonnet of Jason’s. In fact, love was as chaotic, unpredictable, and dangerous as the weather.

How did he feel? How many times did the winds shift in a day, pick up and ease off? How many degrees did the temperature vary? Pressure built up and storm clouds gathered. Then, just as they accepted the inevitability of a real set-to with the elements, the winds died down without warning and the sun broke through.

Emma began twisting her wedding ring around on her finger, impatient for his answer. After a second Jason smiled and covered her hand with his own. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Yeah, what is it?”

“We’re catching up. We’re just trying to catch up and work it out.”

It must have been the right answer for once because she nodded. “Fair enough.” Her fingers curled around his.