Kiss

7

Dr. Dan Pauly lived not in an apartment but in a house on Verde Avenue, in a moderately wealthy part of town. It was a very small, brick-and-stucco home with wooden flower boxes beneath the front windows and a curved stone walk that led from the driveway to the front porch. Perfect red geraniums, and some kind of leafy vine, thrived in the flower boxes, which were in glaring sunlight. The grass in the front yard was thick; it was so weed-free and uniform in length that it appeared shorter than Carver found it to be when he probed the ground with his cane. How high could it get and still look like a putting green?

He went through his friend-come-to-call act again. Appeared curious as to why no one had come to the door. Went to a window and peered inside, as if concerned that something might be wrong or that Dr. Pauly maybe had the TV on too loud and hadn’t heard him. Then a walk around back, to see if maybe Pauly was in the yard. Another bold peek in a window. All for the benefit of any neighbor who might be watching.

The Pauly home was expensively furnished, but it wasn’t nearly as neat as Nurse Rule’s apartment. There were newspapers stacked on the sofa, a glass and a coffee cup resting on an end table. A pair of shoes, or maybe house slippers, was on the floor near a chair, one of them flipped upside down as if it had been removed hastily and forgotten. A bachelor lived here, Carver reminded himself. A busy and not very tidy one.

Feeling as if he had a better idea of the who and what of Dr. Dan Pauly, as well as of the other Sunhaven staff members whose homes he’d seen today, Carver negotiated the curved walk back to the street. Dr. Macklin’s home wasn’t on his agenda; the Sunhaven administrator had family quarters at the retirement home itself. The better to rule the kingdom of the old.

It would have been convenient if Carver had seen something through a window that gave him some idea of what was going on at Sunhaven and who was making it go on, but real-life detective work didn’t fall into place that way. Real detective work was more routine, and usually uneventful. Something like real police work, until when you least expected it a hyped-up punk with a cheap handgun zapped a bullet through your knee.

Carver had parked the car around the corner from Dr. Pauly’s house, near a Chinese carry-out restaurant. Across the street from the restaurant was a small park with a playground, but it was too hot today for even kids to play outside. The grass was burned brown. Plastic swing seats swayed gently in the warm breeze. An American flag rippled just enough to send ropes and pulleys clanking rhythmically against its metal pole.

When Carver was a few feet from the Olds, his cane suddenly flew out of his grip and he was on the hot concrete before he realized what had happened. The heel of his right hand stung, where he’d caught himself and for a second taken the weight of his fall.

A medium-height but incredibly broad Latin man was standing about six feet away and smiling down at him. He had on faded Levi’s and a sleeveless black muscle shirt. Had muscles, too. His arms were leg-size and layered with brawn in a way that only years of weight training could provide. His shoulders were stacked with the same hard muscle. The man’s thighs threatened to pop the stitches on his strained jeans. His waist was slimmer than Twiggy’s.

He was holding Carver’s cane delicately with both hands, as if he might decide to tap-dance and use it as a prop. Maybe tell a few jokes. His thick black hair was waved high in an attempt to make him appear taller. It made him look as if his head came to a point. No matter; he was a mile short of handsome anyway.

Carver worked his way up to a sitting position, his stiff leg extended awkwardly in front of him. He felt foolish and knew he couldn’t get up all the way without his cane.

The Latin with the muscles looked around. Carver looked around. They were alone beneath the cruel sun. Across the street, the rope and pulleys clink-clanked lazily against the metal flagpole.

“You should find some other way to spend your time, compadre,” the man said. He had a Spanish accent and a smooth voice that was oily with meanness and a dark kind of humor. He was getting a tickle out of this.

Carver wished he’d get near enough so his legs were within reach. If he could grasp a handful of Levi’s and drag the man down with him, so they were both off their feet… Well, the guy would probably dismember him like a Colonel Sanders chicken. Sometimes it was wise to admit you were outclassed. Sometimes it meant survival.

The wide man was irritated by Carver’s neglecting to answer. He gripped the cane like a baseball bat, swung it as if trying to hit the ball out of the park, but whipped his hands back halfway through the powerful swing. The cane snapped in half, and the end with the crook flew into the street and clattered against the opposite curb. The laws of physics had defeated hard walnut. Carver had even seen the cane bend before it had reversed direction and split apart.

“You should pay closer attention to what I say, eh, fuckface?”

“Right,” Carver said. “Better way to spend my time.”

“Some other way’s what I said. I don’t much give a shit if it’s better. It’s your time. But it just goes to show how you don’t pay close enough attention when you’re told something.”

“Other way,” Carver repeated dutifully.

The man’s smile broadened. He had deep-set and twinkling cruel eyes. He was a menace, all right. A bandito who’d stumbled upon Nautilus training. “Be some bad luck if your one good leg got broke up, you think?”

“Bad luck,” Carver agreed. He felt a hollow coldness in the pit of his stomach.

“Human bone, it don’t take much to snap it. Not like this cane.” He tossed the broken end of the cane on the sidewalk in front of Carver, within reach. “Sharp. A weapon. You want to use it?”

“I’ll pass.” Come closer, you bastard!

“You got no guts, my man?”

Carver didn’t answer. See if the musclehead would lose his temper. Carver was prepared to grab the broken piece of cane and use its sharp tip to penetrate flesh. His body was tensed, his fingertips almost tingling with anticipation. For the moment, fear was pushed to a far part of his mind.

The broad, smiling man edged nearer, but not quite near enough. He’d had experience. He was playing a familiar game. “Fuckin’ cripple, you got no right to live anyway. Law of the jungle, you be dead meat in no time, you know?”

Carver stayed quiet, looking the man calmly in the eye. The Latin stared back at him in the way little boys observe insects being devoured alive by ants. No mercy. In fact, if any help was offered it would be to the ants.

“Goddamn straggler some bigger animal get an’ eat. Chew up the good parts of you, spit out the bad.” He spat a large glob of phlegm on the street to lend emphasis to his words.

“There a point to this?” Carver asked.

“Point is, fuckhead, you’re playin’ in a jungle. You understand?”

With a speed and grace Carver would have thought impossible, the man danced in, kicked him in the good leg, and danced out before Carver could react. Pain sliced like a hot blade deep into Carver’s thigh. Then the leg started to go numb. Fear shriveled him. He didn’t want to lose all mobility. Not my one good leg! Oh Christ, no!

“I guess you got the message, my man,” the muscular Latin said. He spat again, artfully, through his broad white smile. Some of the warm spittle struck Carver in the face; a fleck of it got on his lower lip. “You take care of yourself, hear? Way to do that is to change your work habits. Maybe change your job, you think? You gonna do that?”

Carver began rubbing his leg, trying to coax feeling back into it. “Whatever you say.”

“Thought so.”

The broad man swaggered away toward the corner, proud of his bulk and what it had just enabled him to do. Should be wearing a truck license and he knew it. He didn’t bother glancing back at Carver; he was moving on to more important matters and fresh game.

Carver dragged himself to the Olds, managed to get the door open, and struggled inside.

God, it was hot in there! Sweat was rolling down his face and the back of his neck. Within seconds his shirt was plastered to him. His arms were doing all the work; his hands were raw from clutching the sidewalk. He slapped at his thigh where the man had kicked him, glad to feel pain. Anything but numbness, helplessness.

Finally he managed to sit up behind the steering wheel. His eyes stung from perspiration, causing him to squint. But he saw a white Cadillac flash past the intersection, his assailant in the driver’s seat.

He smiled grimly and started the Olds.