THIRTY-ONE

Joe Winder held Carrie in his arms and wondered why the women he loved were always a step or two ahead of him.

"So what are you planning?" he asked.

She stirred but didn't answer. Her cheek felt silky and warm against his chest. When would he ever learn to shut up and enjoy the moment?

"Carrie, I know you're not asleep."

Her eyes opened. Even in the darkness he could feel the liquid stare. "You're the only man I've ever been with," she said, "who insists on talking afterward."

"You inspire me, that's all."

"Aren't you exhausted?" She raised her head. "Was I hallucinating, or did we just fuck our brains out?"

Winder said, "I'm nervous as hell. I've been rehearsing it all in my head."

She told him to stop worrying and go to sleep. "What's the worst thing that could happen?"

"Jail is a distinct possibility. Death is another."

Carrie turned on her belly and slid between his legs. Then she propped her elbows on his rib cage, and rested her chin on her hands.

"What are you smiling at?" Winder said.

"It's all going to work out. I've got faith in you."

"But you're planning something, just the same."

"Joe, it might be my only chance."

"At what?"

"Singing. I mean really singing. Am I hurting you?"

"Oh, no, you're light as a feather."

"You asshole," she giggled, and began to tickle him ferociously. Winder locked his legs around her thighs and flipped her over in the sheets.

They were kissing when he felt compelled to pull back and say, "I'm sorry I dragged you into this mess."

"What mess? And, besides, you're doing the honest thing. Even if it's slightly mad."

"You're speaking of the major felonies?"

"Of course," Carrie said. "But your motives are absolutely pure and unassailable. I'll be cheering for you, Joe."

"Clinical insanity isn't out of the question," he said. "Just thinking about Kingsbury and that damn golf course, I get noises inside my skull."

"What kind of noises?"

"Hydraulic-type noises. Like the crusher on a garbage truck."

Carrie looked concerned, and he couldn't blame her. "It goes back to my old man," he said.

"Don't think about it so much, Joe."

"I'd feel better if the governor were here. Just knowing I wasn't the only lunatic – "

"I had a dream about him," she said quietly. "I dreamed he broke into prison and killed that guy – what's his name?"

"Mark Chapman," said Winder. "Mark David Chapman."

She heard sadness in the reply, sadness because she didn't remember the details. "Joe, I was only fourteen when it happened."

"You're right."

"Besides, I've always been lousy with names. Oswald, Sirhan, Hinkley – it's easy to lose track of these idiots."

"Sure is," Winder agreed.

Carrie tenderly laced her hands on the back of his neck. "Everything's going to be fine. And no, you're not crazy. A little zealous is all."

"It's not a bad plan," he said.

"Joe, it's a terrific plan."

"And if all goes well, you'll still have your job."

"No, I don't think so. I'm not much of a Seminole go-go dancer."

Now it was his turn to smile. "I take it there may be some last-minute changes in the musical program."

"Quite possibly," Carrie said.

He kissed her softly on the forehead. "I'll be cheering for you, too."

"I know you will, Joe."

As far as Bud Schwartz was concerned, he'd rather be in jail than in a hospital. Practically everyone he ever knew who died – his mother, his brother, his uncles, his first probation officer – had died in hospital beds. In fact, Bud Schwartz couldn't think of a single person who'd come out of a hospital in better shape than when they'd gone in.

"What about babies?" Danny Pogue said.

"Babies don't count."

"What about your boy? Mike, Jr., wasn't he borned in a hospital?"

"Matter of fact, no. It was the back of a Bronco. And his name is Bud, Jr., like I told you." Bud Schwartz rolled down the window and tried to spit the toothpick from the corner of his mouth. It landed on his arm. "A hospital's the last place for a sick person to go," he said.

"You think she'll die there?"

"No. I don't wanna set foot in the place is all."

"Jesus, you're a cold shit."

Bud Schwartz was startled by his partner's anger. Out of pure guilt he relented and agreed to go, but only for a few minutes. Danny Pogue seemed satisfied. "Let's get some roses on the way."

"Fine. A lovely gesture."

"Hey, it'll mean a lot to her."

"Danny, this is the same woman who shot us. And you're talking flowers."

Molly McNamara had driven herself to Baptist Hospital after experiencing mild chest pains. She had a private room with a gorgeous view of a parking deck.

When he saw her shriveled in the bed, Danny Pogue gulped desperately to suppress the tears. Bud Schwartz also was jarred by the sight – she looked strikingly pallid and frail. And small. He'd never thought of Molly McNamara as a small woman, but that's how she appeared in the hospital: small and caved-in. Maybe because all that glorious white hair was stuffed under a paper cap.

"The flowers are splendid," she said, lifting the thin plastic tube that fed extra oxygen to her nostrils.

Danny Pogue positioned the vase on the bedstand, next to the telephone. "American Beauty roses," he said.

"So I see."

The burglars stood on opposite sides of the bed. Molly reached out and held their hands.

She said, "A touch of angina, that's all. I'll be as good as new in a few days."

Danny Pogue wondered if angina was contagious; it sounded faintly sexual. "The house is fine," he said. "The disposal jammed this morning, but I fixed it myself."

"A spatula got stuck," Bud Schwartz added. "Don't ask how."

Molly said, "How is Agent Hawkins?"

"Same as ever."

"Are you feeding him?"

"Three times a day, just like you told us."

"Are his spirits improved?"

"Hard to tell," Bud Schwartz said. "He don't talk much with all that tape on his face."

"I heard about the golfer being shot," said Molly. "Mr. Kingsbury's had quite a run of bad luck, wouldn't you say?" She asked the question with a trace of a smile. Danny Pogue glanced down at his shoes.

To change the subject, Bud Schwartz asked if there was a cafeteria in the hospital. "I could sure use a Coke."

"Make that two," said Danny Pogue. "And a lemonade for Molly."

"Yes, that would hit the spot. Or maybe a ginger ale, something carbonated." She patted Danny Pogue's hand. Again he looked as if he were about to weep.

In the elevator Bud Schwartz couldn't shake the vision of the old woman sunken in bed. It was all Kingsbury's fault – Molly hadn't felt right since those bastards beat her up at the condo. That one of them had been gunned down later by a baboon was only a partial consolation; the other goon, the one with nine fingertips, was still loose. Joe Winder had said don't worry, they'll all pay – but what did Winder know about the law of the street? He was a writer, for Chrissakes. A goddamn dreamer. Bud Schwartz had agreed to help but he couldn't pretend to share Winder's optimism. As a lifelong criminal, he knew for a fact that the bad guys seldom get what they deserve. More often they just plain get away, even assholes who beat up old ladies.

Bud Schwartz was so preoccupied that he got off on the wrong floor and found himself standing amidst throngs of cooing relatives at the window of the nursery. He couldn't believe the number of newborn babies – it baffled him, left him muttering while others clucked and pointed and sighed. In a world turning to shit, why were so many people still having children? Maybe it was a fad, like CB radios and Cabbage Patch dolls. Or maybe these men and women didn't understand the full implications of reproduction.