Black Alley Part 2

"Sure."

I took a sip of ice water from the gla.s.s beside my chair. Just one small sip, that's all I was allowed. "I think we're both in the same boat, doc."

"Which one is that?"

"The one going up c.r.a.p creek without a paddle."

"Oh?"

"We're both supposed to be dead. How do we go back?"

The first few weeks drifted by like some casual dream. The lethargy was chemically induced to make any physical action too difficult to bother with, and although my mind could register sight and sound and smells, it did it with an att.i.tude of mild complacency, hardly attempting to record it on a memory circuit.

Some of it made humorous impressions . . . the doctor speaking to someone in banking and arranging for a money transfer. His buddies, the drunks, would really enjoy that one. A little part of me wanted to ask him how he squirreled money away when he left home. Those things could be done, but how? One time there was the gibberish of medical talk I couldn't understand. A box of pharmaceutical supplies came in the mail.

I woke up before the sun rose, the salt air of the Gulf blowing in the window smelling warm and lazy, with a slight fishy touch. This wasn't one of those unreal days at all. This was alive and had a texture to it. Then there was another familiar smell that came with a special appreciation because there was more to it than an aroma.

Dr. Morgan came in with a pot of steaming coffee and a fat white mug. "How do you like it?"

"Two Sweet 'N Lows. No milk."

"I had you figured for straight black."

"That's only for tough guys," I told him.

He opened his hand and had a few pink packets of the sweetener, dirty and wrinkled lying there. They looked like they had come out of the garbage pail. "Know where I got them?" I didn't bother to answer him. "They were in your coat pocket."

"Why'd you figure me black then?"

"Bad diagnosis. You want them?"

"Certainly."

The paper might have been messy, but the coffee tasted just right. It was the first cup I had had in a long time and I thought I'd be able to finish the whole pot, but halfway through the mug I put it down and looked dubiously at Dr. Morgan.

"No sweat," he said. "Your body's talking to you. Don't force yourself to take more than you need. Hungry?"

"Not really. That half cup of coffee filled me up."

"Later I'll get you into some normal groceries."

"How come you're being so nice to me?" I asked him.

Once more I got one of his concerned doctor frowns and he said, "You've turned a corner. Now you're entering a new phase."

"I didn't mean it that way," I said.

The frown turned into an embarra.s.sed grin. "Well . . . no sense lying to you."

"So?"

"I need your expertise." He saw the expression on my face. "Your advice," he added.

"On what?"

"On how not to go to jail. I'm running around in the old jalopy with stolen New York plates and sure as h.e.l.l I'm going to get stopped because the wreck is smoking, the tires are bad and the m.u.f.fler is making a racket."

It was nice to be needed. I didn't even have to think hard on that one. "You got any money, doc?"

"Yeah, I was never that much of a dummy."

"Got your old papers?"

"Whatever was in my wallet. Driver's license, an old voter registration, medical ID from the hospital, stuff like that."

"Great. Then go buy a car, get it legally registered in your right name, then get licensed in the state. You can prove your ident.i.ty and just tell them that total retirement didn't suit you and you want back into the action if they ask you any questions."

"Mike, I am supposed to be legally dead!"

"Look, doc," I told him roughly, "who's going to remember a stupid action that took place so many years ago? Besides, you don't look dead at all. Believe me, n.o.body's going to bother you. Only first get yourself some decent clothes to make it all believable. Plaid pants, maybe, and a golf shirt with a lizard on it."

"I don't play golf."

"So get a fishing shirt."

He stood there looking down at me. Then he let out a big smile and said, "Man, I didn't enjoy being dead at all."

The phone rang. The doctor wasn't here to answer it. Whenever he did there was something of importance to be said, medical or household needs to be discussed.

I picked the receiver off the cradle and in as growling voice as I could put on, said, "Yes?"

When I heard his first word I felt a chill work its way across my shoulders. He said, "Hi, Mike, feeling better?" His tone was as pleasant as could be, as though there had been no break at all in our relationship, no firefight on the dockside.

For a second I paused, took a breath, then said normally, "How'd you know where to find me, Pat?"

"I'm a cop, remember. Captains have a little clout."

"Where you calling from?"

"A safe phone in a closed booth in a department store."

"Then how'd you locate me?"

"It wasn't easy," he told me.

"Since you found me, somebody else can."

"Not unless they have the manpower and electronics we have," Pat said.

I took another deep, easy breath. "Then tell me this, pal. Why?"

This time he paused a moment. "Somebody shot Marcos Dooley."

Softly, I muttered, "d.a.m.n."

Pat knew what I was thinking and let me take my time. Old buddy Marcos Dooley had brought Pat and me into the intelligence end of the military before the war ended and steered us to where we were today. Only Pat could still wear the uniform, an NYPD blue. I carried a New York State PI ticket and a permit to keep a concealed weapon on my person. Marcos Dooley had become a wild-a.s.s b.u.m, and now he was dead. But we had backed each other up during the raging times of hot shrapnel and bullets that sang high-pitched songs of destruction, and we had beaten the death game because we'd done it right and covered each other's tails until our hearts stopped pounding and breathing became easier.

"What happened, Pat?"

"Somebody broke into the house and shot him in the guts."

"You know who?"

"Not yet. We may have a suspect."

"Anyone I know?"

"Sure. You shot his brother. Ugo Ponti."

I said something unintelligible. "How is he?"

"Dying. Do you think you can make it up here? He wants to see you."

"I'll be there." Then I added, "How's Velda, Pat?"

I knew he was grinning into the phone. "Waiting," he told me. "She never could see you dying."

The doctor had gotten me an early flight into New York and had sprung for a first-cla.s.s ticket to give me plenty of room to stretch out and rest. I told the stewardess not to awaken me until we were in the traffic pattern, then kicked off my loafers and went to sleep. There were no narcotics this time. It was pure, natural sleep with unnatural dreams so disturbingly real they twisted me back to wakefulness just to get rid of them. Faces were distorted, yet ones I knew, and the dream sounds made banging noises that came out of a past I didn't want to remember. Somehow time compacted itself and before I could swing at the thing that had grabbed me I opened my eyes and saw the pretty stewardess shaking me awake very gently and made myself smile.

But she knew. "Bad dreams?"

"Terrible," I told her.

"You wanted to clobber me, didn't you?"

"Not you."

"Who then?"

"The bad guys," I said.

"You military?"

"A long time ago."

"Now you're a cop." The tiny frown between her eyes had a smile to it.

"Of a sort," I said.

The frown went away but the smile stayed. "Ohooo," she said, "one of those." She saw that I was wondering what she was getting at and added, "A terrorist, like."

This time I grinned and straightened up, bringing the seat back to an upright position as the PA directed. I said, "You might say that."

The smile I got back said she didn't believe me at all.

It was off season for the return of the s...o...b..rds to the big city so there weren't many there to meet the pa.s.sengers. I slung the single piece of luggage over my shoulder and ambled slowly down the corridor, walking too slowly to be a native New Yorker. Everybody else from the plane pa.s.sed me by before I reached the gate and that strange thrill of antic.i.p.ation ran up my spine before I ever spotted Pat Chambers and Velda watching me, not really knowing what to expect, a walking dead man, a ghost from the past, or somebody with a crazy, writhing anger bottled up, not knowing where to spill it.

But something came across that said everything was all right. I saw it in Pat's expression and in the sparkle of Velda's eyes. My buddy could read me the way old buddies can, but with Velda there was knowledge that saw other things on the inside and her eyes told me that the many past months were just that . . . past. There was no need for excuses, no need for stories to be told if I didn't want to tell them. Just that wonderful glad you're back look that said everything without saying anything at all.

If you didn't look closely, our greeting would have seemed perfunctory. When I shook hands with Pat, we both wanted to do it harder, but knew it wasn't time yet, and when Velda and I hugged, there was a gentle intensity we both felt. It was only a h.e.l.lo kiss to whoever saw it, but to us it was a silent explosion of flaming emotion that was almost frightening. Velda drew back modestly, and when she looked at my eyes, knew that I had felt it too.

There was a time when I would have questioned the feeling, wondering what it was. But not now. This time I knew. Very quietly, so that even Pat couldn't hear me, I said, "I love you, Velda."

And just as quickly she answered, "Yes, I know."

I waited. She smiled. Finally she said, "You know how I feel, don't you?" Then I waited, grinned a little bit and said, "Now I know, kitten."

2.

MY APARTMENT HAD CHANGED. There was a different smell to it. The furniture was the same, but seemed brighter. The window curtains weren't the same ones I had a girl from Third Avenue put up. Velda caught me looking at them and said, "They needed changing."

I nodded as if I knew what she meant.

No dishes were in the kitchen sink and in the bathroom there was fresh soap and new towels on the rack. "I cleaned up in here," Velda said. "Then I kept it clean."

"Yes," I told her. "I could tell."

"How?" she asked me with a verbal smirk.

"The toilet seat was down," I said.

She started to laugh and when she stopped her eyes did that thing that always unnerved me somehow. It was something only a woman could do and she seemed to know just when to do it.

Her voice was low and throaty, her words soft and inviting. She let the look linger a few seconds longer, knowing what it was doing to me, then she husked, "How are you going to thank me, Mike?"

I could time a reaction, too. I knew what she wanted and what she expected me to tell her, but this was my time now and she needed something so utterly unexpected it would rock her down to her socks. It was going to rock me just as well, and for a brief second, I hoped I wasn't hopping in over my head . . . but that moment pa.s.sed and the time was right now. I reached out and took both of her hands in mine. I could feel the strength and warmth and felt a little bit of a tremor too.

Very quietly I said to her, "You know what happened to me, doll. I'm all shot up and not worth a d.a.m.n thing. People are going to be looking for me to make sure I'm out of it for good. Economically I'm a bad risk, though that's not a totally hopeless situation as long as I can stay alive, and believe me, that last part's not going to be easy."

Her frown was back, bewilderment clouded her eyes like she was trying to solve some strange riddle, one that had no good answer.

I took one hand away from hers, then reached up to stroke that lovely auburn hair that still rolled under at her shoulders in a soft pageboy. I said, "I want to marry you, kitten. I think I've always wanted to since you walked into my office looking for a job."