Native Affairs (16 page)

“What’s this?” she asked, surveying the food he had put out on the dresser. “What time did you get up? Don’t you ever sleep?”

“Not much,” he replied, exhaling a stream of smoke. “It’s a waste of time.”

“Did you make any of this?”

He shook his head. “No chance of that. I got it from the take-out place where I bought the picnic lunches. I’ve been keeping that deli in business for ten years.”

Cindy bit into half of an English muffin and took a sip of the juice provided in a plastic container. “Don’t you want any?” she asked him.

He nodded, stubbing out his cigarette and picking up a styrofoam cup of coffee. He regarded her thoughtfully over its rim, his eyes unreadable.

“Guess what I want to do after we eat?” she said, and he coughed.

“Please,” he said, setting the cup down and closing his eyes in a parody of strained endurance. “You’re going to put me in the intensive care ward.”

Cindy went to his side and lifted his hand to her face, studying it. The long brown fingers had broad, spatulate nails. The veins on the back were raised to prominence by long years of physical activity. She turned it over and kissed the hard palm.

“I doubt it,” she said, setting her teeth on the edge of his thumb.

“Okay,” he sighed, allowing her to tug him toward the bed. “But when you see me in an oxygen tent, hooked up to a heart monitor, with those tubes running out of my arms, remember that I warned you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she replied, proceeding to unbuckle his belt as she hummed under her breath.

He laughed, seizing her and kissing her hard. “You’re like a kid with a new toy.”

“And I need some further practice in using it,” she answered, with a sly upward glance.

He took his shirt by its hem and yanked it over her head. “Practice makes perfect,” he said piously, and tumbled her onto the sheets.

* * * *

They spent most of that day in bed. Fox answered the phone twice, disposing of the calls briefly. From the tenor of what she overheard Cindy gathered that they were business. He obviously didn’t want to talk about it in front of her. After the second call, he switched on his answering machine and turned off the bell.

Hunger drove them out that evening. Since his refrigerator yielded nothing but beer and lettuce, they decided on a restaurant and got ready to go. As they were leaving Cindy asked, in a casual tone that failed to disguise her true feelings, “Drew, who was that woman in the
Golden
Door
with you the other night?”

He shot her a sidelong glance. “I was wondering when you’d get around to asking me that.”

“It’s all right if you don’t want to tell me.”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her against him. “I’ll tell you. That was Rosalie, Walter’s wife. If you had hung around for another five minutes you would have seen him join us. It was her birthday.”

“Oh,” Cindy said in a small voice, feeling silly.

“I guess we both jumped to conclusions that night, huh?” he said, smiling down at her.

“I guess so,” she replied, thinking that there was still no explanation for the perfumed bubble bath. But she didn’t have the nerve to ask him about that. One thing at a time.

Fox had parked his car in the underground garage. He had found the back window jimmied the previous week and had taken this precaution against theft. They took the elevator to the basement, where they were very much alone, since it was an unusual time for a departure. The workers had already returned home and it was a little early for the evening traffic. Fox was walking a little ahead of her, and as he turned to put his arm around her, his expression changed from a slight smile to sudden alarm.

That was the last thing she saw before the world went black.

Chapter 8

Cindy woke to semi-darkness, with a throbbing pain in her head. It took her several seconds to determine that she was in a hospital. Antiseptic smells drifted in from the corridor, where she could make out the curved bar of a nurses’ station. There was a rustle of starched fabric and she realized she was not alone.

“I see you’re awake,” a man in a white lab coat said. “Just let me take a look at those eyes.” He took out a tiny light which looked like a fountain pen and shone it in her face.

“Drew,” Cindy said hoarsely.

“Pupils look good,” the doctor said, as if congratulating her on some achievement. “How’s the head?”

He put the light back in his pocket and made a note on a chart.

“Where’s Drew?” Cindy said louder, sitting up straight. Pain shot through her head like a bolt of lightning, and she dropped back to the pillow, trembling.

“I would advise against any sudden movements,” the doctor said cheerfully, too late. “That’s quite a concussion you have there.”

“Is Drew all right?” Cindy almost screamed. At least she tried to scream. It came out like a croak.

“Mr. Fox is fine,” the doctor said soothingly, answering the question at last. “Or he will be, once we get him patched up.”

‘‘Patched up?” Cindy repeated faintly.

He looked at her for the first time, as a person rather than a patient, and saw the depth of her anxiety.

“Mr. Fox was stabbed in the arm, and one of my colleagues is putting in the stitches right now.”

“Stabbed,” she whispered. “Oh, my God.”

The doctor replaced the chart at the foot of the bed and then came to stand next to her. He patted her hand awkwardly.

“Don’t be upset,” he said. “Mr. Fox is an old hand at this sort of thing.”

“Well I’m not,” she mumbled, and he smiled.

“No doubt. But you shouldn’t worry unduly about your friend. He’s been with us before, you know. He shows up every few months with something like this.”

Cindy was silent, trying to put it all together.

“Aren’t you interested in what happened to you?” the doctor asked.

She nodded, and discovered that it hurt to do so. “Yes.”

“Apparently one of the men Mr. Fox put back in jail got out on parole. He found out where your friend lived and waited for him in that garage area. When you passed he jumped both of you.”

Cindy listened, too appalled to comment.

“He chopped you on the back of the neck first,” the doctor continued equably, as if reading the weather report, “to get you out of the way, and then went after Mr. Fox with a knife, slicing his arm. Mr. Fox knocked him out and then brought you here in his car, violating every posted speed limit in the process. He picked up a police escort of two squad cars and they all roared into emergency at the same time. And I understand that the admitting nurse was your roommate, and she put on quite a scene. It was all very colorful, I assure you.”

“Paula,” Cindy murmured. Oh, no.

“And,” the doctor said, warming to his tale, “Mr. Fox punched out an orderly he thought wasn’t tending to you fast enough. I must say he was more concerned about your welfare than the pint of blood he had lost along the way.”

“You were there?” Cindy asked, glad that she had slept through it.

“Only for the last part. The punching out, I mean. I missed your dramatic arrival by a few minutes but I heard all about it.”

I’m sure you did, Cindy thought gloomily. “Is Paula still here?”

“The nurse? Oh, no, we sent her home with a prescription for tranquilizers. I’m sure she’ll be in to visit tomorrow.”

“What’s wrong with me? You said it was a concussion?”

“In simple terms, yes. You sustained a blow that might have caused damage to the spine or the head. We’ll be doing some tests for intracranial pressure and a few other things tomorrow. I’m Doctor Markel, by the way, and I’ll be back to check on you in the morning.”

“I want to see Drew. Can I see him?”

Dr. Markel shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not. You need your rest and so does he.”

“What about tomorrow? Can I see him tomorrow?”

“We’ll talk about it then. Now settle down and the ward nurse will be in shortly to take your vital signs.”

Whatever they are, Cindy thought. She watched as Dr. Markel bustled out the door, closing it behind him, eliminating her view of the hall.

She lay back and stared at the ceiling.

There didn’t seem to be anything else to do.

* * * *

In the morning Cindy was shuffled around for various tests,which ranged from the uncomfortable to the ridiculous. Apparently she passed them all because around noon they began making noises about discharging her.

She asked about Fox five times and was put off with a range of excuses. She was told that he was doing well, but that she still could not see him.

Paula arrived after lunch, carrying a plant bigger than she was. She took one look at Cindy and burst into tears.

“Stop crying, Paula, I’m all right. What is that, a baby tree?”

Paula put the bush down and pulled a wad of tissues from her pocket. “I couldn’t believe it when they brought you in,” she began. “You were out cold, white as a sheet, and Fox was covered with blood, yelling for us to take care of you. He looked like something out of a horror movie, even his hair was matted with gore. I thought that you were dead and he was dying.”

“It’s over, Paula. We’re both all right.”

“No thanks to him!” Paula said fiercely. “I knew he would be trouble. Didn’t I tell you he would be trouble? He’s dangerous, those people he chases are dangerous. That guy who attacked you really meant business, you know. When they brought him back to jail he said he didn’t want to hire someone to go after Fox, he wanted the pleasure of taking care of him personally. ‘Taking care of him.’ His exact words.” She shuddered.

“Calm down, Paula. You’re getting hysterical.”

“When I think,” Paula barrelled on, ignoring her, “of all the time I spent trying to get you out of those libraries and into a social life. And this is how you take my advice? By jumping from the reference stacks into knife brawls with hoods. By running around with Andrew freakin’ Fox, of all people! Even the cops are afraid of him.” She threw up her hands. “It’s like going from singing in a church choir to running guns for the mafia.”

A nurse came in from the hall, glancing at Paula’s offering. “I see that Birnam Wood has arrived,” she said dryly.
 

Paula threw her a dirty look.

“Time to take your pulse,” she said, picking up Cindy’s wrist.

“How is Andrew Fox?” Cindy asked her.

The nurse smiled. “You two should work up a routine. Every time I go in his room he asks about you.”

“He might well ask,” Paula sniffed. “He’s the reason she’s here in the first place.”

The nurse glanced curiously at Paula. “Don’t you work down in emergency?” she asked.

Paula nodded. “I was there when the two of them came in.”

The nurse grinned. “Some show, huh?”

Paula turned to Cindy. “Your mother called, and I had to make up a story about your absence. I didn’t dare tell her the truth or she would have been flying down here to see you on the next plane.”

“Thanks,” Cindy said. “I appreciate it.” By comparison with Cindy’s mother, Paula was a rock, a bastion of stability.

The nurse left, and Paula stayed until visiting hours were over, settling down enough to discuss her budding romance with the pharmacist and a few other mundane topics. As soon as she left Dr. Markel appeared, with his little light in his hand.

“Look at the ceiling,” he commanded, and Cindy did. “Look at the floor,” he said, and she complied.

He stepped back, satisfied.

“Well, young lady, I think you can go home.”

A different nurse came in and handed him something to sign.

“I want to see Andrew Fox,” Cindy said.

The doctor and the nurse exchanged glances.

“If you discharge me, I’ll just visit him tonight,” Cindy said reasonably.

“I don’t think so,” Dr. Markel said. “He doesn’t want to see you. We have direct instructions not to permit you in his room, and we have to follow the wishes of the patient in these cases.” He scribbled his signature and handed the clipboard back to the nurse.

“He won’t see me,” Cindy whispered, stunned. She couldn’t believe it.

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, as the nurse looked on sympathetically. “But that’s what Mr. Fox wants, and we can’t risk upsetting him while he’s still in our care.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Maybe he’ll change his mind when he’s feeling better.”

“But why?”

Dr. Markel shrugged. “I don’t know. He hasn’t said much of anything really, except to ask about you. I must say it seems odd that he is so interested in your condition and yet doesn’t want to see you for himself. But then, he’s an odd fellow.”

He nodded, dismissing the nurse, and she left the room.

“May I ask you a question?” the doctor said, startling Cindy out of her reverie.

“Yes.”

“What’s the story with Mr. Fox? You seem to know him better than most. He’s a good-looking guy. Smart too, from what I can see. Why does he have to make his living getting banged up like a boxer in a two bit smoker?”