Bad Moon Rising

3

In high school Alan Nevins was inevitably called “Four Eyes” because of his thick glasses. We were friends because we read science fiction. I doubled up on Gold Medal novels of course, but since all the books and magazines we wanted could be found at the same drugstore-specialists in cherry Cokes-we always ran into each other. He was a relentless smart-ass. He was also now my doctor. He’d taken care, good care, of my father in his last two years. He was Wendy’s doctor as well. I was sitting on a bed in a large room filled with three gurneys and cabinets on every wall filled with various drugs and implements. Alan was sewing nine stitches into the back of my head and obviously enjoying the hell out of me wincing.

“He’s too cute to die, doctor. Is he going to make it?” Wendy said.

“Yes, he is pretty cute, now that you mention it. But it’s going to be touch and go,” the good doctor said as he finished his work.

“Very funny, you two.”

I hadn’t planned on coming back to the hospital in which my father died for a long time. Years, hopefully. But here I was, as much confused as hurt. I had a ghost memory of being put in the flower power van out at the commune and taken here. The memory extended to clutching a phone in my hand and telling Mike Potter about the Mainwaring girl and where he could find her.

“Do you think an injury like this could change his personality, doctor?”

“I’m afraid not. He’d have to be hit on the head a lot harder than he was tonight.”

“I think I could arrange that.”

I couldn’t help it. I laughed, and when I laughed my skull cracked right down the middle again. I pressed my hands to my temples, as if I could crush the pain.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sam,” Wendy said, taking my hand. “You should’ve seen your face just then. No more jokes.”

Then there were three of them. Mike Potter, in his police tans, had joined them. He was a short, wide, fierce-looking man who needed to shave three times a day. The mild, reasonable voice emanating from that baleful face always surprised people and put them at their ease, sometimes at their peril.

“How you doing, Sam?”

“I guess Doc thinks I’ll live.”

“I know a lot of people who won’t want to hear that.”

“Another comedian.”

He smiled. Of all Cliffie’s gendarmes, Potter was the most streetable one. His years as a Kansas City homicide detective had given him a professional manner not usually seen on the streets of Black River Falls. He looked at Wendy and Alan. “I’d like five minutes alone with Sam here if you wouldn’t mind.”

“No problem,” Alan said.

“If you’re going to beat him, could we stay and watch?”

“I won’t beat him right away, Wendy. But when you hear him start screaming, feel free to come back and watch.”

“This is like comedy night on Ed Sullivan,” I said.

Wendy very carefully placed a tiny kiss on my forehead and then disappeared with Alan. Potter went over to a coffeepot I hadn’t noticed and poured himself a cup. He waggled an empty one at me. I started to shake my head but it hurt too much so I just said “No.”

He pulled up a chair next to my bed and sat down. His military-tan shirt was sweated through in many places. “I think those hippies set a record for contaminating a crime scene in that stall where the girl was.”

“You noticed that, huh?”

“They really that stupid?”

“Not stupid. Just-they were curious is all.”

He set his coffee cup on the floor, then yanked a package of Viceroys from his shirt pocket. I did the same with my own brand. His Zippo got both of us smoking.

“In case you’re interested, the Powers girl had a thick steel rod stuffed into the back of her jeans. That’s what she hit you with. She’s a tough little cookie. Sort of mannish.”

“I take it her brother escaped.”

“That’s what hitting you was all about. Give him time to get away.”

“And nobody at the commune went after him?”

“They’re not what you call upstanding citizens.”

Most times I would have defended them. Right now I wasn’t feeling gracious.

“You know this Neil Cameron?”

“Yeah. I defended him a few times in court.”

“The boys at the station tell me he’s a real bastard.”

“He can be.”

“Enough of a bastard to kill Vanessa Mainwaring?”

“I can’t say.”

“Can’t or won’t? He’s your client.”

“Can’t. I haven’t been asked to defend him in this case, anyway. And besides, I don’t think you’ve got enough to arrest him. All you can do is bring him in for questioning.”

“The chief thinks we’ve got our man.”

“The chief always thinks that.”

“He wants to see you, by the way. Tomorrow morning at your convenience. Which means as early as possible.” He picked up his coffee. It was cooler now and he drank it down. He got up and carried the cup over to the sink. He came back and said, “You and Paul Mainwaring are friends, I’m told.”

“Not really friends, friendly I guess you’d say. We agree on a lot of things politically and so we wind up at meetings sitting together and talking.”

“Gee, the chief says you two are Communists.”

“Does he still carry that photo of Joe McCarthy in his billfold?”

Potter smiled. “I stay away from politics. I hate them all. Anyway, you go see the chief first thing tomorrow, all right?”

“Sure.”

“Sarah Powers is in our jail now and she’ll stay there until somebody bails her out. I doubt the hippies can raise the money but maybe they’ll surprise us.” He went to the door and said, “Glad you weren’t hurt, Sam. But those kids were bound to get in trouble. I suppose a lot of people have told you that.”

“Just a couple thousand.” To his back, I said, “Thanks, Mike.”

He opened the door and stood aside as Wendy and Alan came back in. She watched him out and then closed the door. “He’s so nice.”

“He’s so nice as long as he thinks you haven’t done anything wrong. Then he’s not so nice at all.”

They came over to my bed.

With his acne gone and his style of glasses more fashionable, Alan had grown well into his medical whites. He had a red Corvette and a number of girlfriends. The only thing he lacked was hair. Two years from a bald pate for sure. He put his hand on my shoulder. “You’re going to have your headache for at least twenty-four hours, maybe longer. I’ve given you some pills that will help. I’d say right now let’s have Wendy take you home and make you comfortable.”

“You did such a great job on Sam, Alan.”

“I inflicted all the pain I could on him, Wendy. I did the best I could.”

Wendy was of course delighted. She giggled.

“He’s all yours, Wendy. Good luck. Sam, I gave her instructions on what to watch for and how to take care of you. She’s got my card. I wrote my home number on the back of it. If anything changes, call me. Now I’ve got some really sick patients to see.”

Just as the door closed, Wendy said, “I’ve never been in charge of anybody before. This’ll be fun. I’ll be back in a minute. While I’m gone, don’t do anything dumb, Sam.”

“Such as?”

“Such as trying to walk. Alan told me you’d be unsteady on your feet.”

“Yes, boss.”

Her lovely red lips bloomed into a smile. “I like the sound of that.”

While she was gone I eased myself off the examination table and tested my legs. Shaky, but not as bad as Alan predicted. I walked over to the sink. I moved slowly, carefully. There was a moment when my left leg lurched wildly. I stood absolutely still, waiting for the shock of the lurch to recede. Then I started walking again, much more slowly this time.

I made it to the sink and back before Wendy returned.

“Good boy,” she said. “I’m sure you were walking around while I was gone but I appreciate you pretending you didn’t.” She put her hand on my shoulder. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

I didn’t argue.

At Wendy’s I lay on the couch watching a rerun of I Love Lucy while Wendy worked in the kitchen. My impression was that I dozed off for a few minutes. But when I woke up to the aromas of good food, Wendy informed me that I’d been out for nearly forty-five minutes and that she hadn’t started breakfast until she heard me stirring.

“I thought you might like this. Scrambled eggs, French toast, bacon, orange juice.”

“God, thank you, I’m starved.”

“Sit up then, we’ll go out to the breakfast nook. I wanted to entice you with this food in case you tried to tell me you weren’t hungry.”

“Thank you very much, Wendy.”

“How’s your head?” she asked as she helped me up off the couch.

“Tolerable.”

“How about the stitches?”

“Sting a little.”

“I’ll run some warm water on a washrag and hold it against your wound while you eat.” She kissed me on the cheek. “So eat.”

I ate. A window in her breakfast nook allowed me to glance outside at a backyard filled with the green, green grass and the blue and red and yellow of various birds that were almost, but not quite, as beautiful as those in Disney animation. Wendy held the washrag against the back of my head for nearly fifteen minutes. She did this while sitting in a chair and drinking coffee and smoking Winstons. “Lady Madonna” played low on the radio.

“Do you remember me helping you to bed?”

“Vaguely. I was exhausted. And maybe I just didn’t want to think about everything that had happened so I blacked out.”

“Survival tactic.”

“That sounds like something your shrink would say.”

“He talks like that.”

“You sure he’s not trying to get you into the sack?”

“That was the last one. That’s why I got this new one. And this new one looks very tame. He wears Hush Puppies. I’m pretty sure if you wear Hush Puppies you’re faithful to your wife.”

I hate laughing with my mouth full.

Then she said: “It’s in the paper. They make you sound like a hero. How you suspected there was something wrong about that trailer and how you went to arrest Cameron and how his sister knocked you out.”

There was a reason for the favorable treatment. A distant cousin of mine was now the editor. If Cliffie could rely on kin, why shouldn’t I? But Wendy was only repeating what my mother, my friend and landlady Mrs. Goldman, and Kenny had told me earlier this morning when they’d called to see how I was doing.

“Well, we’ll see how it plays with the people. Cliffie will say I got beaten up by a girl.”

“Did I ever tell you that Cliffie groped me once?”

I had to speak around a large bite of French toast. “Cliffie did?”

“One of those Christmas dances for charity. Several years ago. Cliffie’d had plenty of eggnog. He grabbed me and dragged me to the dance floor. I swear that guy has six hands. Just when I was brushing his hand off my bottom he started dry-humping me. He even started kissing my neck. I was worn out after one dance. And I knew he remembered because every time he’d see me afterward he’d look away. This went on for a long time. Now he’s back to ogling me. So don’t worry about what Cliffie thinks. He’s an idiot.”

The kitchen phone was a bright yellow. It was affixed to the wall next to the counter space in the kitchen and its ring complemented the color. It trilled yellow. Honest.

I enjoyed watching her walk to the phone in her red shorts and loose white blouse. A comely woman. When we were apart I could actually feel her sleep warmth. I considered that a very good sign.

“Hello.” Then: “He’s right here.”

She held the phone out to me and when I took it she was nice enough to lean into me and kiss me on the cheek again.

“Are you all right? I was so scared reading about you. I’ve said a lot of prayers already. Oh-sorry. Good morning, Mr. C. I should have said that first I guess.”

My secretary, Jamie, has come a long way. She still can’t type but at least she catches about half her mistakes and retypes them over Wite-Out. The problem here being that she’s a bit sloppy with the white stuff so that it tends to run down the page and smear some of the words below. But the fault is mine. I was forced to take her in trade from her father who couldn’t pay the bill he owed me for representing him in court. She’s cute and sexy and as good-hearted as Bambi. Despite my attempts to explain why Turk, the lazy, shallow, and self-absorbed love of her life, was bad for her, she went back to him after a long break-up Wendy and I had helped along. Turk had apparently interpreted their wedding vows to include his right to hit his wife, which he’d done on at least one occasion.

“Good morning, Jamie.”

“I really like Wendy, Mr. C. You two should get hitched.”

The “Mr. C” owes to the fact that the people on Perry Como’s TV show called him “Mr. C.” I know-my name doesn’t begin with C. But as Jamie explained, “There’s a C in the second and third letters.”

“We’re working on that, Jamie. What’s going on?”

“The police station called and they said that Sarah Powers wants you for her attorney.”

Days that began with surprises were not my favorite. Somehow the surprises were always bad. “All right. I’ll stop there before I come in this morning.”

“Oops. There’s the other line, Mr. C.”

I finished my eggs and a fresh cup of coffee while telling Wendy about Sarah Powers.

“Be careful she doesn’t still have that steel rod. You sure you want to help her?”

“No.”

“Then why do it?”

“Because there’s nobody else who’ll sign on. And she definitely needs help.”

“You have a lot of other things to do.”

“I just hate to see her in jail. She’s sort of a sad case. In her mind she was just trying to help her brother.”

“Why is she a sad case?”

“The ugly girl. The fat girl. The boyish girl. Easy to imagine how the other kids treated her growing up. She and Cameron lost their parents when they were still kids. She was defending the only real friend she’s ever had.”

“I hate to remind you, Sam, but you’re still wincing from your headache because of her.”

“Maybe I’m doing it just to piss off Reverend Cartwright.”

She poked me on the shoulder. “Now there’s a reason I can understand, Sam.”