Love Game (6 page)

I was wounded.

I had leapt for the bat, determined to stop it mid-stroke, but my foot landed on a rusty nail, making me scream louder than anything the flipper’s team of construction workers could produce. I fell to the ground and gripped my foot, which now had a nail sticking out of it. The flipper had easily dodged Ruth’s bat, and she swung all the way around. Strike one, I thought. It was my last rational thought.

I began to hallucinate, because out of nowhere, framed in the light, was Stevie Nicks from the rock
group Fleetwood Mac, her hair long and thick and wild and filled with colorful feathers, her clothes flowing in layers to the ground.

“I am Luanda,” Stevie Nicks announced. “And I see dead people.”

“Boy, do you,” I said, and passed out.

LUANDA PERSUADED
the EMTs to let her ride with Ruth and me in the ambulance, telling them she was my spiritual guide and had to realign my chakras to speed healing.

Ruth said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” and moved over to let Luanda take a seat next to me. Joe the paramedic put a needle in my arm. A warmth filled my body, and
suddenly I didn’t care a thing about Luanda, my chakras, or the nail poking out of my left foot.

“I am never going to get my dinner,” Ruth muttered.

I didn’t care. I wasn’t hungry. I was chasing the dragon in the best possible way, with pharmaceutical-grade narcotics. “Dragon,” I gurgled.

“She’s calling the mystic mother, Morgana’s dragon,” Luanda said, her voice all singsongy, which was appropriate since she was dressed like Stevie Nicks. “She’s communing with the goddess. She’s enlightened. She’s a fairy.”

“She’s stoned,” Ruth said. “She’s flying higher than the Goodyear blimp.”

“Who are you calling a blimp?” I said, affronted.

“She’s not stoned,” Luanda told Ruth. “She has the gift. She’s transcendental.”

“Sing ‘Landslide,’ ” I urged her.

Ruth presented her arm to Joe the paramedic. “Kevorkian me,” she said. “Light me up. Put me out of my misery.”

IT WASN’T
until we’d arrived at the hospital that I remembered I didn’t have health insurance. My COBRA had run out. I was tempted to make them leave the nail in my foot, but I knew I would change my mind once the morphine wore off.

Even if I matched the entire town, I wouldn’t be able to pay the hospital bill. I lay on the gurney in the ER, and a tear rolled down my cheek. Ruth figured my crying meant I was in pain and, much to her
credit, bullied a young intern into pushing another dose of happy juice into my IV.

With the narcotic running through my veins, I flew right to the ceiling and hovered there. I had a great view of the ER from my position overhead, which was a smallish room with only three beds, separated by light-blue curtains. Only one bed was occupied, by a woman who was surprisingly a dead ringer for me, except that her hair was a mess and a nail was stuck in her foot.

Oh.

I watched as Luanda waved feathers over me. Ruth stood with her arms crossed, tapping her sensible shoe on the linoleum.

“Can we hurry this up, people?” Ruth yelled. “It ain’t brain surgery.” She leaned over and whispered in my ear, “You want me to pull it out with pliers? I’ve done it before.”

I was half-tempted to let her yank it out with her teeth, if it would save me from a monster hospital bill, but I couldn’t get my mouth to work. Not from my position flying in the air. I tried to rejoin my body, flapping my arms like a bird.

Luanda studied her feathers, probably marveling at her own magical powers. A man in a polo shirt and fitted slacks approached the bed. He had an uncanny resemblance to The Rock except that he had a Bruno Mars haircut and big black square engineer glasses. He held a pad of paper in the palm of one hand, a pen poised over it with the other. He reminded me of Clark Kent, and I hoped he would pull his cape out and fly up to the ceiling and keep me company.

“Is she having seizures?” he asked. His voice was
deep and smooth, like thoroughly macho velvet. Just like that, I stopped flapping my arms and floated down until I rejoined my body. He looked even better from that angle.

“You got a pliers, kid?” Ruth asked him.

He shook his head. “I’m Detective Cumberbatch. I’m here to take Ms. Burger’s statement.”

“Nice to meet you,” I tried to say, but it came out like I was gargling mouthwash. He smiled at me, a slow, relaxed smile, like he never had to exert himself, like the world had a habit of coming to him.

Luanda handed the detective her business card. “I’m Luanda Laughing-Eagle. I could scrub your aura for you if you want.”

“Uh,” he said.

A doctor appeared and started to work on my foot, seemingly happy to ignore the people in the room. A moment later, my best friend, Bridget Donovan, stormed into the ER and pushed the detective out of her way. “There’s a nail in your foot!” she yelled.

Bridget hugged me and then hugged Ruth, Luanda, and the detective. She didn’t usually hug people. She usually just protested injustice. She was anti most everything, a strident feminist, and so far left of center that you couldn’t find her on a political map.

“I’m doing a hugging cleanse,” Bridget explained. “A full year of hugs.”

“Isn’t there an easier way to catch tuberculosis?” Ruth asked.

“I’m searching for inner peace,” Bridget said. She had recently gone through a crisis of faith and was trying to find her balance.

“I need to take Ms. Burger’s statement,” the detective tried again.

“Did you read her her rights?” Bridget asked. “Have you provided an attorney?” Bridget was a crusader for the little guy, and I was as little of a guy as you could get.

“There we go. All better,” the doctor announced. “Just have to dress it, and you can go home.”

“I need to take her statement,” the detective said again. He was the epitome of patience. He stood ramrod-straight, but he was so comfortable with himself that he looked like he was leaning back. He was cool. He was smooth jazz, Cary Grant, and expensive whiskey all rolled into a good-looking mass of masculinity.

“Perhaps I can be of help. I’m Michael Rellik.” The flipper had arrived and joined our little group. He was still smiling, but he gave the detective what I would call serious attention.

I pointed at the flipper. “He did this to me,” I said uncharitably and clear as day, my mouth working again. I was pleased to be able to speak but sorry the drugs were wearing off.

“An accident,” Rellik said. “But I’d be more than happy to pay the medical costs.”

I almost wept with relief. The flipper pulled out some legal papers, and I grabbed the detective’s pen to sign them.

“I wouldn’t recommend signing anything until you have an attorney read it,” the detective suggested.

“It’s fine, Detective Cabbagepatch,” I said. I was thrilled my bills would be paid. I would have signed anything.

“Cumberbatch,” he corrected. “Remington Cumberbatch.”

“That’s a mouthful,” Ruth said. The room fell into silence, as we were all thinking the same thing: Remington Cumberbatch was a mouthful, a yummy, tall, dark, and massive mouthful.

“You need to clean up your work site, Mr. Rellik,” he said.

“Indeed. Indeed. Already done. It’s going to be the nicest house on the block.”

Grandma would be so pleased. She took neighborhood beautification seriously. But I had doubts about the house across the street. Not that I believed it was cursed, but, yes, I believed the house was cursed.

Rellik clapped his hands. “I have an idea! Why don’t you all come tomorrow for a VIP tour of the house? Several other Cannes residents are coming, too. Then you can see for yourself the wonderful things we’re doing with the property.”

“And I can bless it!” Luanda was oozing excitement.

“Hallelujah,” Ruth said.

Bridget hugged Rellik. I wanted to hug him, too, when he pulled out his Gold Card and paid my bill.

It occurred to me that I had both Ruth and Luanda in the same room, and I could unmatch Uncle Harry right then and there and earn my money, but the drugs were wearing off, and even though I was not in pain, the reality of having a hole in my foot was gnawing at the edges of my awareness, and I was starting to freak out.

The doctor had wrapped my foot in layers of gauze and a nylon boot, with instructions on how to care
for it, and he gave me a vial of antibiotics to take three times a day for ten days. Then I was wheeled outside to the curb.

Bridget’s phone rang, and she took the call.

“Yes,” she answered. “Excuse me? I’m wearing a skirt, a top, and a cardigan. Who is this? What did you say you were holding?” She looked at her phone. “They hung up,” she told us. “That was an odd conversation. Why would they want to know what I’m wearing?”

“Goddamned telemarketers,” Ruth said.

The wind blew, and I shivered, which reminded me that my winter clothes were still in the broken trunk of my car, sheltering an army of breeding spiders. I felt a welcome wave of warmth as a heated blanket was placed over my shoulders. I turned around to see Remington Cumberbatch.

“I didn’t want you catching a chill,” he said through his suave smile. He was nerdy with his big glasses and wonky haircut, but he had piercing brown eyes that reached down into my soul. It struck me that he was very sure of himself but not in an egomaniacal way. He was sure of himself in an attractive, protector way. I wanted to crawl into his arms and let him rock me to sleep. I wanted to crawl into his arms and let him do whatever he wanted to do with me.

Maybe I needed therapy. It wasn’t normal to be attracted to so many men at once. But Holden was away, trying to fix his life. Spencer was detoxing from his gaggle of females. Maybe I was lonely. Maybe I was a whore. Maybe Remington Cumberbatch was a stud muffin.

“Hey, stud muffin, how about you give Gladie and
me a ride back to her grandma’s house?” Ruth asked him.

“Sure,” he replied.

“I think Bridget is taking us,” I said, but Bridget was on her phone again.

“What do you mean, am I coming? Coming where?” she asked into the phone.

“I think your friend is busy,” Remington noted.

“If I don’t eat, I’m going to bite someone’s head off,” Ruth warned.

“All right,” I said. “Please take us home.”

THE DETECTIVE
sat Ruth in the front seat, after she complained about claustrophobia. He helped me into the back, tenderly lifting my foot to rest on the seat.

“You doing all right?” he asked me.

I nodded. The morphine had pretty much worn off, but my foot was numb from the shot the doctor had given me. “Your boot is dope,” he said, grazing my nylon medical boot with his fingers.

A zing of electrical horniness shot from my foot up to my eyeballs. I blinked.

He winked and shut my door, then went around to the driver’s seat. “Let’s boldly go where no man has gone before,” he said, and turned the ignition with the key on his
Star Trek
key chain.

“You’re one of those nerdy fellas, aren’t you?” Ruth asked him.

“We nerdy fellows prefer the term ‘geek.’ ”

He drove slowly away from the hospital. I watched out the window as we got closer to the historic
district—and then spotted the colorful Cup O’Cake sign. It seemed to be calling my name.

“Stop!” I yelled. “Stop now!”

The car screeched to a halt. The detective turned to me and arched an eyebrow.

“I want coffee,” I said.

“She always wants coffee,” Ruth explained. It was true. I had a coffee problem.

“I might want a cupcake, too.”

“The most overrated pastry ever,” Ruth grumbled. “But get me a tea. Earl Grey. I’m in the mood for no-nonsense tea.”

“You’re not coming in?” I asked her.

“Are you kidding? I’m not going in there.” She shot the house a nasty look. Cup O’Cake was Ruth’s competition, and now her tea shop was out of commission and she was forced to get her Earl Grey fix from her kindly, coffee-sympathizer rivals. I felt for her.

“I’ll bring you a to-go cup,” I told her. The detective helped me out of the car and wrapped his arm around my waist to help support me.

“Thanks, Mr. Spock,” I told him. He raised an eyebrow.

“Ms. Burger, don’t hate,” he said, gently squeezing my waist. “Appreciate.” He smelled of soap and fresh air. Clean.