“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll fill you in when you get here.”
Forty minutes later, she walked in carrying a sack of deli sandwiches and a little white pharmacy bag.
“What happened to your door?”
“Nothing to worry about. The landlord says it’ll be fixed in a couple of days.”
“What’s wrong with you? What do you need this for?” she said, dropping the pharmacy sack beside me on the bed.
I still didn’t want to talk about it. I tore open the bag, wrestled the childproof cap off the vial, swallowed two Oxycodone tablets, and washed them down with Killian’s.
“You’re not supposed to take those with alcohol, baby.”
“So they say, but in my experience they work better this way.”
“Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”
“The Sox just fell behind four to one, and we’re coming to bat in the top of the sixth.”
“Mulligan!”
She snatched the remote and turned the TV off.
“I’ll tell you everything after the game,” I said.
“Tell me now.” She held the remote tantalizingly out of reach.
“Later. I can’t miss this.”
She pouted, surrendered the remote, and plopped down beside me as I switched the TV back on. She rolled over to hug me, and I yelped.
“Mulligan?”
“Soon as the game ends. Eat your sandwich.”
The Sox tied the score in the eighth, Ramirez hit a three-run shot in the top of the ninth, Papelbon did his thing, and it was over.
“I don’t suppose I’ll be enjoying the postgame show,” I said.
She answered by punching a button on the remote, and the screen went dark.
“Well?”
“Lester didn’t have his best stuff tonight, but the bullpen was great.”
“Enough already! Tell me what happened to you.”
So I did. I tried to put a good face on it, but it was no use. I’d been beaten up by a pygmy.
When I finished my sad tale, Veronica struggled to suppress a giggle.
“I thought you were going to kick his ass.”
“I was mistaken.”
Then she glanced at the broken door and furrowed her brow.
“Think he’ll come back again?”
“He won’t. He’s made his point. Besides, the manhole-covers story is running tomorrow, so he’s got nothing to gain by a return visit.”
Veronica cradled my face in her hands and touched her lips to my forehead, each cheek, my chin. I reached to pull her to me and yelped again.
“Maybe you could get on top,” I said. I’m nothing if not resourceful.
“Maybe we should give it a rest for a few days.”
A few days?
I swallowed another Oxycodone-Killian’s cocktail and chased it with Maalox. I looked at Veronica and wondered how I’d ever ended up with a woman that beautiful. I was still thinking about that when the drug kicked in and I nodded off.
In the morning, I woke to the sound of Veronica banging around in the kitchen. When she heard me turn on CNN, she came in with the paper and a tray laden with scrambled eggs, bacon, orange juice, and coffee. I used the juice to wash down a couple of painkillers, but they didn’t work as well without the beer chaser.
Mason’s story about the manhole covers was splashed across page one. There was no fire news. There hadn’t been any fires since Hell Night.
“Why do you think that is?” Veronica said.
“There are sixty-two pissed-off DiMaggios patrolling the streets now, looking to crack a head or two. Half the population of Mount Hope is popping NoDoz and lying in wait with firearms and nervous trigger fingers. Maybe our arsonist likes living even more than he likes burning things down.”
“Why doesn’t he just move on to another neighborhood?”
“He seems to have a special interest in Mount Hope.”
“Those lawyers you asked me about the other day? What was that all about?”
“Just some names I happened to run across.”
“They lead you anywhere?”
“A dead end,” I lied. Given what had happened to Gloria and to Cheryl Scibelli, the less Veronica knew, the better.
That afternoon, Veronica curled up beside me with another book by that sexy poet she’d discovered. I opened a
I’d spent the last eighteen years writing about the small-time thugs and liars who ran Rogue Island. Hersh had spent the last thirty-five writing about the big-time thugs and liars who ran the country. Maybe Veronica was right. Maybe it
I thought about that. Then I thought about it some more. My marriage was over. My parents were dead. My sister was in New Hampshire. My brother was in California, and we weren’t talking anyway. Veronica was heading for Washington, and I couldn’t bear losing her. What was holding me here?
That evening, Veronica brought up that thing called the future again.
“Mulligan?”
“Um?”
“Have you called Woodward yet?”
“This week. I promise.”
“You really will?”
“I really will,” I said. And this time, I meant it.
* * *
Wednesday morning Veronica tried to talk me into calling in sick again, then gave it up and helped me sponge off and get into my shirt. My ribs didn’t seem to hurt quite as much as they did yesterday, the Red Sox were on a winning streak, and I was on the verge of a decision about my future. If it weren’t for Gloria’s eye, Scibelli’s corpse, the cloud of suspicion over Jack, the humiliating beating I’d taken, and five consecutive nights without sex, I might have been in a good mood.
I couldn’t find a space on the street, so I paid ten bucks to park in a mob-owned lot and walked two blocks to the paper. A couple of prowl cars were double-parked out front. As I walked up the sidewalk, their doors flew open and four uniforms climbed out.
Two got behind me, the other two in front, blocking my way. One grabbed my arms, yanked them behind my back, and snapped handcuffs on tight. Then he shoved me against a prowl car, kicked my legs apart, patted me down, and turned my pockets inside out. My vial of painkillers clattered on the curb. The pain in my ribs felt like I’d been shotgunned.
“You’re under arrest.”
Yeah. I’d figured that part out.
The only words spoken on the short drive to police headquarters were: “What’s this all about?” “Can you guys tell me what’s going on?” “What the hell am I charged with?” Maybe the authorities had found out about my parking-ticket scam and didn’t think it was funny.
