Simple Intent (30 page)

One said, “Where you going, Lou?” and waved a folded piece of paper in Gallo’s direction.

Shazad argued with the tough day nurse. “I am telling you, Miss. He is my brother. Ray will say to you. He has been calling me.”

“Sir, you aren’t on the family list. I can’t let just anyone into Mr. Bentley’s room. He’s still in critical condition, and I’m sure he didn’t make any calls.”

“I know this to be so.” Shazad touched her arm and caught her eyes with his. “Miss, he requires me.”

The nurse fought the brown eyes, felt the heat of the man’s skin on her arm, soothing and warm. She pulled back, flustered, and glanced back at her empty station. Something melted inside her when she said, “Ten minutes,” and walked away. 

Shazad stepped into Ray’s room. There was a vase of daisies on the bedside table. A slim black girl was reading a poem about trees and noise and reckless choices. Her head was bowed over the thick book, her fingers tucked under the page ready to turn. Shazad closed his eyes and felt the energy in the room. If he had been an artist, then he would have painted this canvas with a broad brush loaded with sunny yellows, vibrant blues and just a touch of red, a small circle off-center. When he opened his eyes, the girl was looking at him. She had Ray’s eyes.

“Are you here to see Ray?”

Shazad smiled at her. “He is pleased you are here, to be reading to him.”

Sailor closed the book, held it on her lap.

She looked harder at Shazad. “Do I know you?”

“Only when you dream.”

“Wait, this is so bizarre. Are you sure we haven’t met somewhere before?”

“Never on this plane, Miss.”

“On a plane? Was that it?” Sailor set the book on the bed as she stood up.

“No, no.” Shazad shook his head. “Never mind. You are hungry. Go and eat. I will be with Ray.”

Sailor wondered how the guy knew she was hungry. Did she look hungry? And it was the weirdest thing, she felt like she knew him. And not from her dreams. Somehow, she trusted him. Besides, what harm could he do to a comatose man? 

“Maybe I could use a little something. Thank you.”

“I am Shazad.”

“Sailor,” she said, extending her hand. 

He took her hand, held it gently between his and nodded.

His fingers were slim, his hands warm and smooth like the lining of a mink coat. She could have left her hand there forever and was disappointed when he let her go.

Flustered, she said, “How do you know Ray?”

“He was my cellmate.”

“Oh.” Sailor looked at her shoes. “Maybe I will, you know, just go grab a little something to eat.” She started toward the door, thinking she wouldn’t be long. 

Shazad smiled. “Take as long as you will be needing. Everything will be okay.” 

Sailor raised a brow then glanced at Ray and left.

Shazad waited until the door shut then approached the bed. He skimmed his hands over Ray’s body, his eyes unfocused.

“There is not much time.” Shazad’s hands made small circles over Ray’s heart, moved to his face, fingers parting as his hands opened, palms up. 

“Hello, Ray.”

Ray opened his eyes and blinked twice.

Sailor tried to see through the plastic lids. Not much of a choice. A squashed tuna sandwich, a limp green salad, or a turkey club stacked with pink tomatoes. She slid her tray down the rails and paused at the soup. Minestrone. Her Mom used to make minestrone. 

“Smells good.” Reilly pushed an overloaded tray next to hers.

Sailor glanced at his choices; coffeecake, turkey club and lime Jello. “Look at you. Brave one, eh?”

“The breakfast of champions.”

Sailor laughed.

“Thanks for coming, Reilly.”

“Anytime.” 

They paid the cashier and sat at a small table near the entrance. They ate in silence, unsure of what to say. Reilly wanted to joke, but was afraid his words would come out wrong. 

Sailor pushed the soup away and wiped her lips on a paper napkin. “I have to get back.”

Reilly nodded, then held up a finger as he chewed a bit of sandwich and swallowed. 

“I’ll come with you. Just a sec.” He started to pile his garbage on the tray.

“No. I mean, finish your Jello. I’ll meet you up there. Ray’s got a visitor, anyway.”

“A visitor?”

“Yeah. A little guy named Shazad. He’s a bit strange.”

Reilly snorted, “Shazad’s more than a little strange. The cons I talked to at Graterford said he was magic.”

“Magic?”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Got me.” Reilly shrugged. “I just like the dude’s name. Shazad.”

“Sounds like a really fast sports car.”

“Or a venereal disease.”

They laughed.

Sailor was still chuckling when she left Reilly. She took the stairs back to Ray’s room, preferring the smell of Lysol and cigarettes to the claustrophobic elevators stinking of sickness and despair.

It had been five days of watching and waiting. Not sure what she expected, she knew she had to be there. 

The doctors weren’t encouraging. Between the head trauma and the knife wound, complete recovery wasn’t an option. The word rehabilitation never came up. Sailor asked her father to help. Dr. Beaumont’s name went a long way, and the best doctors gave Ray the best treatment. Sailor wouldn’t give up. 

She’d talked to Ray while he lay there in his self-imposed prison. She’d read Tolstoy to him, and when that grew too grim, she’d switched to Faulkner, and when her throat closed around the long sentences and pieces of a past she’d never seen, she opened a volume of poetry and let the masters say the things she longed to say—clear, concise, condensed.

She’d have to go back to Connecticut soon. There were things to pack, decisions to be made. But for now, she was here. 

Sailor left the stairwell and wandered down the white hallway. Someone had abandoned a stretcher in the corridor; drops of blood stained the white sheets. She rolled it against the wall and tried not to think about the blood and the deep indentation where a head had once lain. She paused outside his door, took a deep breath and went inside.

Berger lay propped up in the bed with his eyes closed, one hand on the TV remote. The picture was clear, the sound muted. 

Taylor Dunne jostled for her shot in front of the Courthouse as people and reporters ran around behind her with cameras and microphones and steno pads. 

Sailor watched the lines scroll at the bottom of the screen. Philly mob going down...long-time insiders make deal...Don Louis Michael Gallo takes some of Philly’s finest with him...Deluca funeral tomorrow...coverage at noon...

It would be a while before it all died down. 

Berger said, “I keep dreaming of deer.”

Sailor turned around. 

He hit the bed control button, raising himself as she turned her way. “Why do you suppose that is? They have these big eyes, and they’re so quiet, you know, like they’re watching me.” He laughed. “Guess I’ll have to ask the Doc about that.”

“How’s that going?” Sailor asked, approaching the bed and pulling up a chair. 

“We’re trying some new meds. With that and therapy and time.” He shrugged. “We’ll see.” He slid his eyes to the TV screen and pointed.

Sailor saw Len Banning standing next to Taylor Dunne. Berger turned up the volume.

“...The Alliance. The people of Philadelphia deserve the truth. They deserved it in 1977 when their streets were being run by crooked cops, their courts ruled by greedy judges, and they deserve it today, when we see the rich and powerful use their influence to control and disrupt our daily lives. The whole country—no—the world will be watching what happens here, in this court.” He jerked his thumb in the direction of the imposing building behind them. “When the good citizens finally get to hear the truth, the whole truth—”

Taylor Dunne’s red glossy lips finished the line, “So help me God.”

Berger clicked off the TV.

“What a circus.” He lowered his bed a little, looked at Sailor. “What are you gonna do, kid?”

Sailor shook her head. “I’m not sure. My dad wants me to come home, but…”

“Did Banning ever tell you that you look like her? Your mother?”

“How do you know about my mother?”

“Reilly told me everything.” Berger stared at Sailor. “Yeah, you look like Tara, but I can see Ray in you, too. You got his fire.”

Sailor smiled. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“Listen, I—” Berger cleared his throat, looked out the window. “You tell him I’m sorry, you know? I was a real asshole back then.” 

He turned back. “I ain’t using this as an excuse or nothing, but the Doc says it’s the disease—that maybe I didn’t know, didn’t have a choice.” 

His fingers worked at the blanket threads, plucking the cotton, worrying a hole into the weave. He stopped suddenly and sighed. 

“Shit. I did know. I got off on the power, tripping on the badge. And Gina. Sweet Gina. Christ. I really fucked up.” Softer then, “Who am I kidding? I’m still an asshole.”

Sailor reached for his hand. “You can’t change the past, Berger, but maybe you can pay off the future.”

Shazad smiled at Ray, into eyes like dull pennies, then pulled the lids down. 

“Good-bye, my friend. I will never forget you.”

Reilly waited on a plastic chair, watched the nurses flirt with the interns. He imagined a new comedy skit, a gay nurse with a thick accent and a limp. He smiled, felt his pockets for paper and pen.

“You didn’t have to stay.” 

Reilly looked up. Sailor stood over him. 

“How’s Ray?”

“He didn’t make it.”

“I’m sorry. Do you want to sit down?” He motioned to the seat beside him.

She hugged herself. “No. Actually, I’d rather go.” 

“Sure.” Reilly stood, tucking the paper and pen in his pocket. 

Sailor pulled a worn notebook from her purse. “Shazad gave me this.” She handed it to Reilly. He opened it carefully. Tiny precise handwriting covered the page, every page.

“It was Ray’s. It’s his story.”

Reilly closed the book, smoothed his hand down its length, handed it back.

“It’s your story now.”

Sailor hugged the notebook to her chest. Reilly put his arm around her, started toward the elevator. “Did I ever tell you the one about the American, the German and the French guys about to be executed?” 

Sailor shook her head, smiling, and punched the down button.

Paris stormed into the office and slammed the door behind her. “You!”

Banning turned from the window where he’d been standing, arms crossed and staring.

She said, “You are
something
else.”

Banning raised his brows. “Go on.”

Paris sauntered across the room. “I always knew you had it in you.” 

Banning dropped his arms as she crushed herself against him, kissing him deeply, and lifting one Manolo-clad foot off the antique Persian rug in Ted Montgomery’s old office.