'I do.'
Her brow furrowed. 'What?'
'Homer was a dentist,' I said.
'Yeah?' She blinked. Then blinked again. 'Oh, no. Oh, no.'
Homer strolled down the stairs, wearing a pink puffy bathrobe. His shaggy hair, when wet, touched his shoulders. The sash was stretched to its limit, barely holding the flaps in place across his distended belly.
Induma said, 'Fetching.'
Homer said, 'We do our best.'
'I need you to do something for me,' I said.
Induma said, 'Buddha wept.'
'This thing in my cheek is a bone fragment. I need it. And I can't go to a hospital. I know this isn't exactly your field, but I want you to cut it out of my face.'
Homer stared at me, then shrugged. 'Okay.'
I went to the kitchen and returned with a variety of kitchen knives. Fortunately, Induma had quite a selection. She said, 'I think there's an actual scalpel upstairs. Alejandro bought it for one of his sculptures.'
'Great. You have a digital camera, right? We should film the thing coming out of my face so we have proof of where it came from.'
Homer appraised the knives, then watched Induma lay down a sheet on the sofa.
I said, 'Listen, you can do this. I know it feels like you can't. But you can.'
He looked calm enough. I must have been reassuring him for my own benefit.
He said, 'Do you have any anesthetic?', 'For you or for me?' I said.
He didn't smile.
I looked at Induma. 'I don't think we have any.'
She said, 'One of Alejandro's club buddies left a gram or so of coke in the glove box of my Jag. I haven't flushed it yet.'
I said, 'You want to blow cocaine in my face?'
'No,' Induma said, 'you want me to blow cocaine in your face.'
She got the folded square of magazine page holding the coke, soaked the scalpel in alcohol, and we settled down, Homer standing over me in the Some Like It Hot bathrobe, eyes closed, no doubt trying to recall the principles of facial surgery. I lay on the sheet like a corpse, gripping Induma's hand in mine, waiting for the blade. The scalpel neared. His hand was trembling. He wiped his brow and stepped back.
'Do you have any scotch?' he asked. 'I need a highball to settle the shakes.'
As Induma started for the bar, I gazed up at his pale features.
'Better make it a double,' I said.
Chapter 33
Afternoon light roused me, streaming through the curved wall of glass at the back of the living room. Immediately pain pulsed to life in my cheek. On the coffee table, just below the level of my face, squares of gauze crimped around blackened knots of blood. Blades of various sizes with darkened tips. A salad bowl filled with pink water. A quarter page of Vanity Fair, unfolded, white flakes across Nicole Kidman's dress. Towels and more towels. And there, triumphantly resting in a metal Nambe candy dish, Charlie Jackman's bone fragment.
Pounding pain across my crown. Dirt-dry mouth. Numbness down my left side, like a dead weight. Two feet above my face, dangling from its arcing stainless-steel stem, the shade of a giant lamp swung over me like a dental light. I was on the couch. Raising my aching head in the limited space, I peered around. Induma was burrowed between me and the cushioned back, her face pressed to my bare chest so that her cheek shifted forward to crowd her mouth. Homer was sprawled in the corner, his hairy belly rising through the bathrobe like a breaching marine mammal. The scene looked like the aftermath of an S amp;M rave.
I slid out from under Induma, and she grumbled but immediately appropriated my space. The imprint of her body had reddened my left side. Some of the feeling prickled back into my skin. At least the numbness hadn't been from some surgical mishap.
I fought my way to my feet, light-headed, the makeshift implements spinning like cartoon recall. The silver and crimson blur brought back last night's endless probing, a memory as sharp as vomit in the throat. It had been horrible, and cocaine hadn't lived up to its reputation. Despite Homer's best efforts, the procedure had gone on and on, a bottomless splinter dig, steel tips scratching bone. It wasn't until first light competed with the lamp that the piece of Charlie had popped free and Induma had wept with exhausted relief.
The digital camera was still peering from its tripod, though the red light no longer glowed. At the end of a single, grueling take worthy of Hitchcock, Induma had held up the bloody chip of bone with tweezers before the lens to document that the fragment was the one that had been lodged in my cheek. She'd encoded and uploaded the MPEG, along with scanned copies of the ultrasound and paternity test, to a secure off-site server.
Eager for an update on Baby Everett, I checked my cell phone, but there was no message from Steve. I moved unsteadily past the tripod into the bathroom. The first glance was horrifying, but after a few swipes with a towel soaked in warm water, most of the black crust lifted. The wound was fearsome in its depth, but it remained relatively small, a little bigger than a bullet head. After popping two extra-strength Tylenol and four Advil, I found a first-aid kit in the cupboard. A circular Band-Aid covered the wound, rendering my face, aside from its expression of squinting agony, normal.
The noise of the sink must have awakened Induma and Homer, because by the time I got back out, they were sitting up, blinking at each other like hungover acquaintances unsure if they'd slept together the previous night. Beyond the tinted windows, surfers pedaled by with boards under their arms. Carefree L.A. in full Sunday swing.
'What time is it?' Induma croaked.
'Almost five.'
Homer shoved himself to his feet, stumbled to the bar, and refreshed his glass with Johnnie Walker Blue Label. He gulped it down, then rubbed his eyes and shook his head. The bathrobe was hanging open now, but no one seemed to notice.
'Gotta get dressed,' he said, then staggered into the other room to find his rags.
Induma and I just looked at each other. She wore a pert little smile that seemed to say, Can you believe what we did last night? We both held the stare, pleased at our shared secret-a blood oath and an inside joke all in one. It was more precious unspoken, just us in the imperfect stillness, like me and Callie on Frank's back deck with the moths and the gold smudge of the porch light, Callie with her Crystal Light and sticks of charcoal, me watching her work, blissfully unaware that I'd never feel so contented again.
Homer finally returned, the appropriated pink bathrobe peeking out among the layers of dirty clothes. I doubted that Induma would want it back anyway. I threw on a shirt to walk him out and grabbed Charlie's rucksack-I didn't want it out of my sight.
Homer downed another glass of scotch before bending to kiss Induma's hand. We walked out, and he tilted his face to the sun.
I said, 'I'd give you a ride, you know, but I should probably stay off the street. Take some money for the bus.' I reached into the rucksack, tugged five hundreds from beneath one of the purple bands, and held them out.
He exhaled, relieved, his shoulders dropping. 'I thought you were actually just gonna give me bus money.' He took the bills, rubbing them together like gold coins.
I felt a flood of affection for him, for what we'd been through, and I said, 'Listen, I feel like I ought to tell you I know. About your wife and kids, all that. And I'm sorry.'
He did a double take, his jowls bouncing beneath that scraggly beard. 'I was never married.'
'It's okay. I found out by accident. About how you were a dentist and then you started drinking, left everything behind.'
'A dentist? What are you talking about, Nick? I sold weatherproofmg.'
Shaking his head, he folded the bills into his pocket and walked off, leaving me poleaxed on Induma's front
