Ill Will (6 page)

“Probably,” Cordelia admitted.

“Can’t you do something?” he asked.

“It’s okay,” Andy cut in. “It’ll remind me to always cut away from anything living.”

“Like take out the stitches and do it again right?” Torbin said.

“The wound is healing. Undoing the stitches could open it up again.”

“No blood in your kitchen,” Torbin grumbled.

I started to say something, but Cordelia spoke first.

“Torbin, I can’t do surgery on our table.” Her voice was calm, reasonable, another professional side of her I rarely saw—she understood the pain and fear wasn’t about her, but about the cancer or the cut, the control disease or harm rips from us. “Andy is lucky, no cut tendon, the knife seems to have hit the fatty pad below the thumb. There will be a scar; even the best stitches probably wouldn’t prevent that.”

“I guess this is what we get for medical care when we can’t make someone money,” Tobin complained.

“How much are we charging you?” I retorted. He seemed to forget that he was getting free medical care right now, from someone who had already put in a long day.

“It’s okay, Micky,” Cordelia said. “I know what he means. The system isn’t perfect.”

“It’s designed to not be perfect,” Andy said quietly. “I’ve been doing a lot of work for one company, so I asked about a real job. The guy I talked to told me that they’re only using consultants now, independent contractors, to avoid the cost of benefits, like health insurance.”

“This is crazy,” Torbin said. “We make enough money to do okay, but we both have to look for full-time jobs we might not want just to have enough insurance not to be stuck in the gangland emergency room.”

“What if we didn’t know you?” Andy queried. “I’d be a home right now dousing my hand with hydrogen peroxide, hoping it would heal and I wouldn’t need any more medical care.”

“People die, don’t they?” Torbin asked Cordelia. “They die because they’re too poor, unlucky, or just stupid. They get health care only when they’re desperate and when it’s too late.”

“We try to have safety nets…” she started.

“Shredded here,” he cut in. “Maybe better in other parts of the country, but I think Katrina washed ours away.”

I could tell she was upset. Torbin had a point, a brutally sharp one. It was a flawed system, and Cordelia was a part of that system.

“Katrina did damage,” she admitted. “It destroyed a lot of the infrastructure. Doctors left and didn’t come back. We’re short hospital beds, especially mental health ones. Plus the stress and upheaval have had tremendous health costs.” She paused as if gathering her thoughts. “But as bad as this is, there are places where it’s worse. At least New Orleans is still an urban center. You don’t have to drive a hundred miles to get to a hospital, or forty for just a doctor’s visit.”

Before Torbin could add or argue, I cut in, “Medical care in America is screwed up, profit more important than health. But we can argue about that all night and I have slaved too hard over dinner to let the chicken burn while we wrestle about something that will take years of fighting on multiple levels to change. Now, dear cousin of mine, tell my girlfriend how much you appreciate her seeing Andy after her already long day. And you can thank me as well for arranging this free, personal health-care session for you—and for the time I’ve been deprived of her company.”

“You have my humble apologies,” he said. But he knew he needed more than just his usual Torbin banter to get through this one. He put his arms around Cordelia and hugged her. “Thank you,” he said to her. “It’s…it means a lot to have people like you in our lives.”

“You’re welcome.” Cordelia returned his hug.

“And as I tell my dear cousin almost daily, she has the best girlfriend in the world,” Torbin added. He can’t be serious long.

I invited them to stay for dinner, but they declined. Cordelia wrote Andy a prescription for antibiotics, but cautioned him to use it only if he developed signs of infection. Good doctor to the end, she explained if he did start taking them, to take the entire course to avoid helping to contribute to resistant bacteria.

And then we were alone.

I took the chicken out of the oven. It could rest while I threw the broccoli on to steam.

Cordelia got a beer out of the refrigerator.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think Torbin would go ballistic on you about health care.”

She took a deep pull of her beer, then said, “It’s okay. He and Andy spent a long night in the ER; they got adequate health care but not great health care. And it’s a warning sign. What happens next time? One of them could be in an auto accident tomorrow. It brings up a lot of complicated questions for them. Fear often comes out as anger.” She put her beer down on the counter, grabbed some knives and forks, and put them on the table.

“Yeah, but it shouldn’t come out as anger at you when you’re doing them a major favor.”

Cordelia came around behind me as I stood at the stove and put her arms around my waist. “It comes out at all times. It comes out when I’m about to stick a needle in their butt. You’d think that would make people play nice.”

“Maybe they’re into good doctor/bad patient.”

“Yuck. I don’t even want to think those kinds of thoughts.”

“More likely they’re just stupid.”

“Better thought.” She tightened her embrace. “I’m glad I could help. Damn, that sounds so Pollyanna, doesn’t it?”

“It sounds like you.”

“On my better days.” She quickly continued to avoid the weight of that, “Especially in this city everything is such a mess. At least I can make it less messy for my friends. And try to do what I can to make it better for everyone. It just feels like I’m part of a broken system. I earn decent money. Some days I wonder if it’s not literal blood money.”

At the risk of overcooking the broccoli, I turned to her. “It’s like racism and sexism and homophobia. We’re all part of it and we can all just do a little bit, like water against stone. I will not let you beat up on yourself because you can’t walk on water and fix a vastly dysfunctional medical system.”

“I am so lucky to have you.” She put her head on my shoulder.

And started crying as if the weight of the world was on her back and she could no longer carry it.

I discreetly turned off the water under the broccoli and just held her.

“I’m sorry,” she finally said. “Must be tired and hungry. So feed me.”

I did. We flopped in front of the TV, both had another beer, and mentioned nothing more serious than picking up cat food the rest of the night.

In the morning I remembered I’d meant to tell Cordelia to be on the lookout for gas can–wielding maniacs. By the time I’d remembered, she was already at work.

It wasn’t likely, I told myself as I got in my car. He might be able to find where my office was. The card I’d given him had only a P.O. box as the address—I have a variety of cards for a variety of situations. But I was listed in the phone book, so only the truly lazy and inept couldn’t find me. However, it would be much more difficult to ferret out my home address. Besides, Carl Prejean was a con, not a fighter.

It was still more a relief than I wanted to admit when my office building came into view and was just as I’d left it last night, slightly shabby, paint starting to peel where the southern sun hit it the hardest, perfect in its New Orleans decadent glory.

My relief went away when I noticed the outer security door was open.
Probably the space-cadet artist who rents the first floor
, I told myself as I stuck my head in, sniffing the air for anything that might scream “light me with a match and I’ll show you a hot time.” But the air had a bouquet of stale beer, overlaid with hints of mold and gardenia, infused with traces of cayenne and crab boil. It said New Orleans more than fire trap.

Unless I know someone is coming I tend to lock the downstairs door, as do the other tenants in the building. For the obvious reasons, I didn’t want just anyone—especially anyone with less-than-kind intent—to be able to easily find me. And for the not-so-obvious reason that about a week ago a flyer about a missing pet python had appeared on the street corner.

But the artist’s inner door was shut and no light appeared in the crack. He had taken over the entire first floor on promises to the landlord he would paint the building. Completion of the painting would mean that he’d have to pay rent, so I didn’t see that happening anytime soon.

Maybe someone was moving into the second floor, vacant since Katrina. But no one was around up there, all the doors closed, the floors still dusty at the end of the hall, indicating no footsteps had been there in months. Plus if they were moving in, there should have been something glaringly obvious like a huge van or at least a big truck near the open door.

You’re spooked because someone threatened you
, I told myself as I cautiously mounted the stairs to the third floor. Two days ago, I would have assumed it was the wind or humidity that had popped the door open—coupled with someone who forgot to securely lock it. Now I was about to pull my gun to start my workday.

The door to my office was closed. Everything was as it should be.

Okay, so I’m being paranoid
, I told myself as I fumbled with my keys.

Just as I was about to insert the key in the lock, the door opened.

Someone had broken in.

Tomorrow, I would start my day with coffee and gun in hand.

I just had to get through today.

In the split second before I either fled down my stairs or starting throwing kicks and punches, I took in a scene of jarring normality.

Two people were sitting in the usual client chairs before my desk. Mr. Charles Williams had opened my door to me.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded. My adrenaline was still poised for flight or fight. Or both.

“I’m a locksmith. It was looking like rain, so we decided to wait up here for you.”

“You decided to break into my office?” I was still standing out on the landing and he was holding open the door, as if welcoming me.

“Nothing harmed, nothing broken. We just wanted to be warm. We even made coffee.”

Still not moving, I said, “I told you yesterday I couldn’t help you. What made you think it was a smart idea to come back?”

“I brought a paying customer.”

For some reason it brought to mind when my cat presents me with a palmetto bug as a present. The cat is very proud, but I don’t want it.

“I have a phone. Calling first is always a good idea.”

“This is important. It couldn’t wait. Why don’t you come in and we can talk about this?”

“Yeah, why don’t I come into my own office,” I muttered and brushed by him.

It was clear Mr. Williams had been sitting at my desk. I ignored the coffee cup there and claimed my space. I moved his cup as far away as I could.

For the first time, I looked at the two people in front of me. They seemed to be a couple. She had dull brown hair with split ends crying for attention, clothing of equally dull colors, a brown skirt and beige blouse that buttoned up to her neck. She was petite, maybe five-two or three at most, and her hunched shoulders made her seem even smaller. Her mouth was a little small, her nose too large, her chin a point. She had never been pretty, never the cheerleader or the homecoming queen, too plain and mousy for a starring role, even one on as small a stage as high school. He had on a loud Hawaiian shirt, trendy cargo shorts, and man sandals. His hair was a streaked blond that said either surf or dye, and given the paunch around his waist and how little muscle there seemed in his arms and legs, my money wasn’t on the beach. He was tall, had once been good-looking, but those looks had faded as he got older, the chin no longer firm, the jowls starting to sag, the hair thinning and combed forward in an attempt to hide the elongating forehead.

If they were indeed a romantic couple of any kind, it proved that opposites attracted.

A friend of mine described situations like this by saying, “There is not enough vodka or aspirin in the world.” I could feel the headache starting.

“You got an extra chair?” Mr. Williams asked.

I pointed to a folding chair in the corner. He had made himself at home, he could continue by finding his own chair.

The blond dude stuck out his hand. “I’m Fletcher McConkle.”

I dutifully shook his hand. He was older than he first looked, harsh lines around his eyes and his skin a leathery tan.

“And you are?” I asked the woman.

She glanced up, but looked at me only briefly. It was hard to read the expression in her eyes, timidity or annoyance—or some combination of the two.

“I’m Mrs. McConkle. Mrs. Donna McConkle,” she said. Her voice was high and soft with almost a lisp to it. She was younger than she had first looked, her conservative clothes aging her. I guessed a fifteen- to twenty-year age gap between the two of them.

“And you know who I am,” Mr. Charles Williams added.

“Yes, I do,” I said with no smile. To hurry this along, I asked, “Tell me why you might need the services of a private investigator.”