Shoot the Moon (31 page)

“Thank you,” Goodman says, pulling himself to a standing position.

“Why don’t you come with me; we’ll go back and join your wife and daughter.”

Goodman’s about to correct her, but as he begins to move, he finds his foot has fallen asleep. He half-walks, half-hops down the hallway, causing the woman to turn around at one point.

“We don’t give group rates, you know,” she cautions him.

The side effects of an MRI with contrast fall somewhere in between those associated with a spinal tap and those with a simple MRI. So while Kelly’s head doesn’t have to be held rigid afterward, her head hurts, her back is sore, and she’s somewhat wobbly from the procedure.

Carmen takes one look at Goodman hopping into the room and says, “I guess I’ll have to carry
both
of you home!”

But they get a cab to carry all three of them, and by six o’clock, Kelly’s asleep on the couch, joined by Larus and Pop-Tart. She’s so exhausted, she doesn’t even think to ask for another chapter of the story.

“Thank you,” Goodman says to Carmen.

“Thank you for letting me be part of your family for a while,” she says.

He says nothing further, but the phrase “for a while” burns into his memory. Is she gone, then, this person who came into his life so suddenly, so unexpectedly? Is she history as soon as this business with her brother Vincent is finished? He can’t bring himself to ask her, so afraid is he that she will say yes.

Ray Abbruzzo sits in the plant alone. With things under control, he’s let Daniel Riley have the night off to go watch his kid play in a fourth-grade basketball game, though Abbruzzo has his doubts about the ability of fourth graders to reach the basket. What’s the final score going to be, anyway - four to two?

They know now that the Mole and Vinnie are going to do their deal Friday night. Abbruzzo and his team have got the building entrance under surveillance, the apartment bugged, the phone tapped, and the corner phone covered, as well. You just can’t do much more than that.

The way Ray Abbruzzo sees it, the good guys are sitting pretty.

The way Big Red sees it, he’s given No Neck too much time already.

“Remember that apartment we checked out last night?” he asks Hammer over a drink at the Homeboy Lounge on 127th Street?

“Yeah,” Hammer nods.

“Well, I think it’s about time we paid our respects to our little friend.”

“Tonight?” Hammer’s always ready. It’s one of the reasons Big Red knows he can rely on him.

Big Red thinks for a moment. “No,” he says. “We’ll wait till the Man’s gone home to the suburbs for the weekend. We’ll do it Friday night.”

First thing Wednesday morning, Goodman calls Dr. Gendel’s office to get the results of the MRI.

“Doctor isn’t
in
right now,” a receptionist tells him, as though she’s speaking to a small child. “But he left a message asking that you come in and see him this morning at eleven, if that’s convenient with you.”

“Does he want me to bring my daughter?” he asks.

“Well, she
is
the patient, isn’t she?”

He thanks her and hangs up the phone, his palms already slippery with sweat. What can this mean but bad news? he asks himself. Had the pictures shown nothing, surely they could have told him so on the phone. Leaving a message for him to come in is a truly ominous sign, a sure indication that things are so bad that whatever the news is, it has to be delivered
in person,
the way you tell someone that a loved one has
died.
“We’ve scheduled her for immediate brain surgery this afternoon,” he can hear Dr. Gendel saying.

He tries to avoid Carmen’s eyes, but there’s no hiding from them.

“The doctor wants to see us at eleven,” he tells them, trying to make it sound as matter-of-fact as he can. But he fools no one. Nothing else is said, but Carmen bites her lower lip and breaks off eye contact. Kelly walks to the corner of the room and picks up Larus. Even Pop-Tart sulks away.

It’s cold and gray outside, and they take a cab to Dr. Gendel’s office. No one questions Carmen’s coming along this time. Once or twice during the ride, Goodman tries for small talk, but he soon gives up. They stare out of the cab windows, as though the streets of the city have suddenly become so interesting as to demand their full attention. Goodman is reminded that he’s all but promised Kelly that there’ll be no more tests. How does he now tell her that he was wrong, that he
lied?
He’s afraid there’s only so much mileage you can get out of “Life isn’t always fair” with a six-year-old.

“Doctor still isn’t in,” they are told when they arrive, and they take seats in the waiting room. They are the only ones there. Goodman sits Kelly in his lap, and together they leaf through a copy of
National Geographic.
He’s determined to do his best to keep her occupied, fearful that she might otherwise ask him to fill the time with another chapter of their story. He doesn’t know precisely what lies ahead for the Ballerina Princess, but he’s so certain it isn’t good that he’s afraid even to think about it.

Carmen sits without so much as a magazine as pretext, her stare more or less aimed at the pattern of the wallpaper.

Goodman is explaining to Kelly what makes certain animals marsupials when the receptionist pokes her head into the room. “Doctor will see you now,” she says.

The three of them follow her. Goodman wonders when the doctor arrived, and through what side door. Or has he been there all along, stalling, trying to compose the words he’ll use to break the news to them?

They’re ushered into Dr. Gendel’s empty office and take seats. Goodman says one of his silent little prayers, asking for his own death if that will spare his daughter’s life.

“Good morning, folks,” Dr. Gendel says, walking into the room in a white lab coat. Goodman tries to read meaning into his casual air but finds it difficult to do so. Is it really casual, or is it an act, put on to disguise his anguish? Goodman wonders if they train doctors in medical school how to hide their emotions. Poker Face 101, three credits, pass/fail.

“I’m Dr. Gendel,” the doctor tells Carmen, and Goodman is forced to mumble an apology for having forgotten to introduce them.

“How are we feeling today, young lady?” Gendel asks Kelly, motioning her to join him behind his desk.

“Okay,” she replies in a small voice, circling the desk and ending up in front of him. He takes her hands in his.

“Okay, but
freezing!”
he says. “Cold hands, blue lips. Doesn’t your daddy bundle you up enough?”

“I dress myself,” Kelly tells him. “And my daddy takes very good care of me.”

So serious is her tone, so protective her words, that Goodman actually feels his chest inflate with such intense, aching love for his daughter that he has to concentrate on his breathing. He’s aware of Carmen’s hand on his arm, is happy to have it there.

Dr. Gendel opens a drawer and fishes out a device similar to the one he used last time to examine Kelly’s eyes. He fits the contraption around his head and flicks on a light that’s part of it. Then, spreading his knees apart, he draws Kelly closer to him, pinning her little body with his knees.

“See this funny-looking nose of mine?” Dr. Gendel asks Kelly.

“Yes.”

“Well, I want you to watch it as hard as you can, okay?”

“Okay.”

He examines one eye, then the other, pausing to make notes on a pad of paper. Then he snaps off the light and removes the contraption.

“Do you still see the spot?” he asks her.

“Only sometimes.”

“Which eye?”

She raises her hand to her right eye.

“Is it the same size as before?”

“No,” she says. “When I see it, it’s smaller.”

“What color is it when you see it?”

“Yucky color,” she says.

“What’s yucky color?”

“Yellowish brown.”

“Sounds yucky to me all right,” Dr. Gendel agrees. “Was it always that color?”

“I don’t remember.”

He looks through some notes in his file. “Last time, you told me it was brown. Is it different now?”

“I guess so.”

He opens his knees and releases Kelly from their grip. She seems happy to escape and retraces her route around the desk to join Goodman and Carmen.

Dr. Gendel swivels his chair to face them. Goodman braces for the worst. Isn’t it good that the spot’s fading? Isn’t yellowish brown better than all brown? Doesn’t that count for
something?

“I’m going to confess, I’m just a little bit baffled here,” Gendel says. “The MRI pictures are clear - there’s no tumor I can see. The spot on the eye
has
faded some - Kelly’s absolutely right about that.

“My best guess is that we’re looking at a case of atypical pseudotumor cerebri here. That’s when we have an overabundance of spinal fluid, and we see symptoms mimicking those associated with a tumor: headaches, visual spots, and so forth. Though the truth is, we usually find that condition in teenagers, and, more often than not, where obesity plays a contributing part.

“The diagnosis - or lack of diagnosis, really - could explain why we’re seeing some improvement following the spinal tap. We draw fluid out, and that relieves some of the pressure.”

“So she’s getting better?” Goodman’s voice sounds far away to him, unlike his own.

“Well, she’s certainly holding her own,” Gendel says. “And the pictures are negative, even with contrast. We’ve got to be very happy about that.”

“We are,” Goodman agrees.

“What next?” It’s Carmen’s voice.

“Next is continued close monitoring,” Gendel says. “Someone’s got to keep watching that spot. It provides us with a convenient barometer of the pressure inside. The spot grows bigger and darker, the pressure’s building up. That means it’s time to do another tap, draw off some fluid. Should it get real bad, she might need to have a drain inserted. On the other hand, the spot continues to get smaller and lighter -
yuckier,
I believe the technical term is - the less we have to worry about. The important thing is that somebody’s got to keep an eye on the spot.”

“Somebody?” Goodman asks. He’s aware that twice now, Dr. Gendel has distanced himself from Kelly’s case.

Dr. Gendel rises from his chair. “We can talk about that if you like,” he says, looking at Kelly and Carmen as if to tell them that they’re dismissed now, this is man-to-man talk. Something else they must teach in medical school, Goodman decides.

Carmen takes the cue, and she and Kelly say their goodbyes and head back toward the waiting room. Dr. Gendel closes the door.

“Is this about money?” Goodman asks.

“Partly,” Dr. Gendel admits. “My office manager tells me you have no insurance of any sort.”

“I’m going to be able to pay your bill,” Goodman says.

“This is a very expensive proposition,” Dr. Gendel says. “We’ve made accommodations, but you’re already several thousand dollars behind. Your daughter needs to be watched. There may have to be more procedures, possibly many of them.” He shrugs. “You know, there
are
city hospitals. I don’t want to see your daughter go untreated. But it’s just not fair to the rest of my patients.”

The phrase “city hospitals” stings Goodman’s ears. He’s not about to turn his daughter’s care over to some medical student or first-year intern. “I’m going to be able to pay your bill,” he repeats dumbly. “Whatever it comes to.”

“Don’t get me wrong - I know you have the best of intentions-”

“You said ‘partly,’ “Goodman reminds him. “Is there some other problem?”

“Problem? No. Suggestion? Yes.”

“What’s that?”

“Your daughter’s
cold,
Mr. Goodman. She damn near has chronic hypothermia.”

“She’s nervous about all of this.”

“She’s freezing!”

“So?”

“So,” Dr. Gendel says, “take her on vacation. Take her someplace where it’s
warm.
Give the kid a chance to
thaw out,
for God’s sake!”

Thawing out is very much on Daniel Riley’s mind, too. He shivers in a doorway opposite the entrance to Dr. Gendel’s office, waiting for the reappearance of Michael Goodman, his daughter, and his girlfriend. They’ve been inside for forty minutes now. Outside, where Riley is, it’s thirty-three degrees and windy.

Riley’s back on duty after a rare night with his family. He watched his son’s fourth-grade basketball team lose to a team of what seemed to Riley to be a bunch of
high school kids.
At least one of them looked like he was
shaving
already.
They
certainly had no trouble reaching the basket. The final score had been twenty-three to nine. Riley’s kid went scoreless, missing two free throws in the last minute from a foul line that couldn’t have been more than five feet from the basket.

Riley takes his orders from Ray Abbruzzo on this assignment, and Abbruzzo’s convinced the deal is going down Friday night. Still, he’s decided to cover the Mole full-time between now and then, just in case he makes a side trip from one of these family outings to meet with his customers. To Abbruzzo, full-time coverage means sitting by the heater in the plant. To Riley, it means standing out in the cold, getting pneumonia.

Seniority is a big deal in the NYPD, even among detectives. Especially in winter.

Preoccupied with his futile attempts to keep warm, Riley almost misses Goodman hailing a cab across the street. He flags down one of his own and jumps in. It feels almost as cold inside the cab as outside. Riley’s forced to show the driver his gold shield in order to convince him to make an illegal U-turn. The driver mumbles something in a strange language. Riley takes his eyes off the other cab just long enough to glance at the driver’s name on the ID card: Viktor Gromechki. That probably goes a long way toward explaining why there’s no heat on in the cab.

Back home, Goodman, Kelly, and Carmen celebrate the good news - or at least the absence of
bad
news - by toasting marshmallows over the burner of the stove. Kelly, standing on a chair and using a long serving fork, under Carmen’s close supervision, holds her marshmallow high over the flame, rotating it patiently until it gradually turns a golden brown, just the way Carmen says she likes hers.

Goodman is less careful, allowing his marshmallow to get too close to the burner, until it catches fire. By the time he succeeds in blowing out the flame, he’s left with a charred crust and an oozing interior that burns his fingers when he goes to pull it off the fork.

As they sit around the card table, eating their snack, Goodman asks Kelly if she’s warm enough.

“Yup,” she says absently, busy trying to coax Pop-Tart into tasting the inside of a marshmallow.

But to Goodman, her lips look thin and just slightly purple. He will watch her for the rest of the afternoon and well into the evening, looking for signs of shivering, of cold - of chronic hypothermia.