Pain Management

“Yeah. Thanks, Gordo.”

“De nada.”

As I guided the Corvette to where Ann said she’d be, I turned to one of the blues programs you can find on KBOO at odd hours. Slim Harpo’s “What’s Going On?” growled its way out of the speakers. The way I was going, I might make that one my Portland theme song.

The radio kept it going. Butterfield’s “Our Love Is Drifting.” Then Bo Diddley’s “Before You Accuse Me.” As if the DJ knew I was listening.

But before I could call Hong the other mule, what I had to figure out was . . . if it was really my stall.

Ann was waiting on me, her left biceps wrapped in a startlingly white bandage.

“Pretty sexy-looking, huh?” she greeted me.

Considering the bandage was all she was wearing, I decided not to guess what game she was playing and just nodded.

“What happened?” she asked, following me to the armchair.

“I took your signal, shadowed him back to where he was holed up. He went for his knife,” I lied, planting my self-defense seed just in case. “He ended up getting hurt.”

“Bad?”

“Yeah.”

“Dead?”

“No.”

“Think he’ll go to the cops?”

“Not a chance.”

“And he’s done putting the muscle on the girls?”

“He’s done with muscle, period.”

“So we can go to Kruger now.”

“We’d better give it a few days. No reason Kruger should take anyone’s word for anything. Besides,” I said, watching her closely, “that other one—the black guy—he’s still out there.”

“But he never cut—”

“Listen to me, Ann. I was there, okay?”

“So was I.”

“Not the same way I was. And you don’t come from the same place I do. The white guy, he liked doing what he did. But, the way I see it, the black guy, the whole shakedown thing was his idea. And he had a bigger plan in mind than these penny-ante payoffs.”

“What are you saying?”

“That it may not be over. And if it’s not, we’ve got nothing to trade to Kruger.”

“Damn! All this for . . .”

“Maybe not. But for the next few days, I think we have to play it out.”

“How?”

“You go back on the stroll. Or at least be visible. And I’ll be right with you. Only not.”

“Not . . . what?”

“Visible.”

“Like my bodyguard?”

“Not like tonight. If I even see him, I’m going to drop him.”

“But you don’t know what he looks like. And neither do I. Those descriptions, they aren’t worth the . . .”

“If it’s like I think, it won’t matter,” I told her, keeping my voice level.

“I don’t—”

I reached over, grabbed the fleshy pad at the inside of her thigh, squeezed it hard, pulling her closer to me.

“You’re—”

“I know I am,” I said. “But you are going to listen. And you are going to fucking ‘care,’ understand?”

“Yes! Now let me—”

I released my grip.

“You want to kiss it and make it better?” she half-snarled, flexing her thigh.

“You really are a stupid bitch, aren’t you? Fuck you, listen or don’t. The way I see it, the black guy can’t let this one go. He’s got a lot invested. Plus, he has to show his punk he’s stronger, understand?”

“No.”

“Stop pouting and pay attention. The black guy wasn’t the lackey; he was the leader. He’s been watching the street for a while. He probably knows you’re no hooker. He probably knows your car. And he’s probably going to try to take you out.”

“Kill me?”

“At the very least, hurt you. Real, real bad.”

She dropped into my lap. A bruise was blossoming on the inside of her thigh. It took me a minute to realize she was crying.

Gem wasn’t around when I got back to the loft. I realized how I felt about that when I let out the breath I was holding.

It didn’t take me long to throw everything I needed into my duffel. I found one of her cross-ruled pads; wrote:

I spent a minute trying to think of how to close it. Came up with nothing. So that’s how I signed it, too.

The penthouse topped a high-rise in downtown Portland. The woman who let us in looked to be in her early forties—impossible to tell when they’ve got unlimited money and are willing to spend it on their looks. The living room was overpowered by a condo-sized aquarium, densely packed with brilliantly colored fish. I didn’t recognize anything inside it except for what looked like a pair of miniature gray sharks near the bottom.

“It probably started with gays smuggling AZT,” the woman said. “That wasn’t even for pain, necessarily. But the pain of knowing there’s something out there that could maybe save you—or give you more of your life—and you can’t have it, that’s . . .”

“You’re sure about the Ultracept?” Ann interrupted.

The rich lady didn’t seem to mind. “Absolutely sure. Men just love to boast, don’t they?” she said, talking to Ann while giving me a piece-of-meat look. “It’s not information they’d guard zealously, like some hot stock tip. One thing about those dot-com parties, honey, they’re much more egalitarian than the kind you’d find at a country club. They’re all so very into mind, you know? Nerdy little biochemists who wouldn’t get listened to at a backyard cookout behind one of their tract houses, well, they get a lot of attention from people who just come at the prospect of a new IPO.”

“I’ll need some—”

“Whatever.” The rich lady waved her away. “Is this the man you’re going to use?” she asked.

“No,” Ann said smoothly.

“He doesn’t talk much. Is he yours?”

I didn’t rise to the bait.

“He’s not anybody’s,” Ann told her.

The football game filled the big-screen TV that dominated the glassed-in back porch of the little house set into the side of a hill. I figured it for European pro; it was too early for pre-season NFL.

“Hi, Pop,” Ann greeted the massive man in the recliner. She bent down to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Who’s winning?”

“Not the fans, that’s for damn sure,” the old man snorted.

“Pop used to play,” Ann told me.

“Is that right?”

“That’s right,” he answered. “Played for NYU when it was a national power.” Seeing my slightly raised