Spark

12

A nurse placed cold compresses on Carver’s arms and shoulders to contain the swelling, while a young doctor whose name was Doris Loa swabbed his throat with disinfectant.

“This is about all we can do for you, Mr. Carver,” Dr. Loa told him, still with the cotton swab pressed against his tonsils. Apparently she didn’t expect an answer. She was a dark-complexioned, dark-eyed woman of about thirty with Asiatic features and an air of calm competence.

Finally she removed the swab, leaving him with a stinging sensation at the back of his throat and a persistent taste of iodine. She stepped back, dropped the used swab into a plastic-lined receptacle, and said, “How’d this happen?”

“Accident,” Carver said, before Beth could speak.

“That right?” She looked at Beth, who shrugged and nodded simultaneously. “Fell down some stairs, I bet,” Dr. Loa said.

“Fifteen steps,” Carver said. “Loose throw rug. Dangerous. When’s this bitter taste gonna go away?”

“Soon. What about the throat?”

“I was eating a Popsicle when I fell.”

“Those damned wooden sticks,” Dr. Loa said. She smiled hopelessly; she went from plain to attractive when she smiled. “I’m too busy to pry. I’m going to write you a prescription for pain pills and an antibiotic to reduce the possibility of infection. Call me if there are any complications. And I mean any.” A meaningful glance at Beth, conspiracy between the sexes. “Make sure that he does call.”

“You can see he’s easy to influence,” Beth said.

“I picked up on that. But I don’t want to treat him in the future for something more serious, if whoever beat him up with a throw rug, stairs, and Popsicle decides to get meaner.”

“Now I feel like a real patient,” Carver said, “being talked about as if I’m not here.”

“Or as if you hadn’t followed doctor’s orders and you died,” Dr. Loa told him. She parted pale-green curtains and was gone before Carver could say anything.

“Woman knows how to make a point,” Beth said.

On the way out of the hospital, they stopped at the prescription counter at the end of the hall and picked up the antibiotic and Percodan pain pills. Carver also bought a replacement cane. There was a spare cane in the trunk of the Olds, back at the motel, but the way things were going, it wasn’t a bad idea to keep his supply at two.

“What now?” Beth asked, as they walked across the hot parking lot to where she’d moved the car. There were dark clouds stacked on the horizon, and the humidity was trying hard to keep up with the temperature.

“We’re going to police headquarters.”

She broke stride, surprised. “You gonna report this? File a complaint?”

“Not exactly. I need to talk to Desoto.”

Beth snorted. “Oughta let him know he’s the one got you into this.” She liked Desoto, but despite his attraction to and for women, he’d never fully accepted her as a positive aspect of Carver’s life. He was a cop, and he couldn’t quite get around her background. Beth claimed not to be bothered by Desoto’s polite coolness, but Carver didn’t believe her. She said, “You’d be better off if you rested awhile back at the motel, then drove in to talk to Desoto later.”

“I don’t wanna waste time.”

“Such an obsessive bastard,” Beth said, unlocking the car door, then climbing in to reach across and unlock the opposite door for Carver.

“Can’t you think of me as determined?” he asked, after he’d lowered himself into the passenger seat. His arms and shoulders were still plenty sore, but the cold compresses had made the pain tolerable.

“The difference between determined and obsessive is a fine line,” she told him. “You’re way across it and on the other side, lover.”

He was irritated. She was merciless, to pick on him when he was sitting here aching everywhere from the waist up. “You think I’m obsessive, why do you stay with me?”

“It’s why I love you, Fred. Let’s stop someplace and get some ice cream ’fore we go see Desoto. It’ll be my lunch, and it’ll make that sore throat of yours feel better.”

Carver thought that was a sound idea. Numb his throat and get rid of the taste of iodine. Not that he was hungry.

She started the car, switched the air conditioner on high, and shifted to reverse. Both hands on the steering wheel, ready to drive, she looked over at him. “Ice cream?”

He nodded.

She grinned. “You glad I came, Fred?”

He wasn’t sure. Didn’t answer.

After double scoops at a frozen yogurt place on Orange Avenue, Beth drove the few blocks to police headquarters and parked on a side street off Hughey. Carver had ordered low-fat strawberry, while Beth of the fashion-model figure had spooned down extra-rich French vanilla laced with crumbled Oreo cookies. The chubby teenage girl behind the counter had given her looks colder than the yogurt.

Beth didn’t like police stations, she told Carver, any more than she liked dietary frozen yogurt. She’d take a walk while he was inside seeing Desoto, then meet him in about half an hour at the car.

“Might take more’n half an hour,” Carver said.

“Then I’ll take another walk. Maybe get another couple scoops of cookies and yogurt. Ruin my shape.”

He had to smile. “Don’t roam too far away,” he said. He climbed out of the car, waited a few seconds, then limped across Hughey when there was a break in the traffic.

The desk sergeant said Desoto was in a meeting, so Carver sat on a long wooden bench and watched people come and go. Plainclothes detectives with their loose-jointed, too-casual air. Uniforms swaggering with their arms swinging out from their bodies to avoid the gear strapped to their belts. A down-and-out old man who looked like a street person, being booked for loitering, but not understanding. Bewildered, as if old age and destitution had caught up with him overnight. He kept widening his eyes and asking about a lottery, apparently thinking he’d won something. The desk sergeant was getting exasperated. The young uniform who’d brought in the loiterer looked alternately sad and amused, learning about life’s puzzle.

When the old guy had finally been booked and taken to a holdover cell, the phone rang, and the desk sergeant held it to his ear briefly then hung up and told Carver he could go back to Desoto’s office.

A couple of plainclothes cops nodded to Carver as he limped along the hall, remembering him from his department days. They’d all been in uniform then.

Desoto was hanging up his cream-colored suit coat when Carver entered through the open door. There was an ornate brass hook on the wall near his desk, where he often hung his coats. Only he never put them directly on the hook, always used a shaped wooden hanger.

“Amigo,” he said, nodding a hello to Carver and sitting down behind his desk as Carver sat. He was wearing a white-on-white shirt with gold cuff links and a gold tie bar, flowered tie with a lot of yellow in it, tan leather shoulder holster. The well-dressed cop’s ensemble. Did Desoto have a different color gun for each outfit? “You’re moving a bit gingerly today.” He didn’t seem to have noticed that about Carver, but he had.

Carver told him why he was moving gingerly.

“So,” Desoto said, when he was finished, “you want to file a complaint?”

“Maybe to complain that filing a complaint wouldn’t do any good.”

“Yeah, we both know how it works. The guy who did a job on you has probably got an alibi and two backup alibis.”

Carver said he knew. “What I want is to find out who he is.”

“Oh, I just bet you do. You wanna let him finish what he started.” Desoto shook his handsome head. His sleek black hair didn’t budge. “You latch onto something like this, you make a pit bull seem like a quitter.”

Carver hoped he wasn’t going to start in with that “obsessive” talk again. Like Beth on the drive over. There was too much psychoanalysis in the world; things were complicated enough without it. Therapy had its uses, but it had also become the narcotic of the law-abiding. Can’t cope? No need to learn. See an expert. Again and again and again. People were taking therapists like Valium.

“Commitment to revenge can be your fuel, amigo, and it can also get you killed.”

“It isn’t only revenge,” Carver told him. “If somebody wants me to turn loose of the Jerome Evans investigation, it’s because there must be something to investigate.”

“That hadn’t escaped me,” Desoto said. “But it won’t make you any less dead.”

“Beth’s waiting for me outside,” Carver said. “Why don’t you feed the tough guy’s description into the process while I examine mug shots?”

“How come she didn’t come in with you?”

“I think you make her nervous.”

Desoto didn’t say anything. Then he stood up. “Can you walk okay?”

Carver said he could. He stood up and leaned hard on the cane.

Desoto led him to a small room not much larger than a storage closet. It contained three chairs and a rectangular oak table. The pale-green walls were grease-stained and badly in need of paint. There were three stacks of thickly bound mug books on the table. The only light was from the single, dust-coated window.

“I’ll leave you here to look for the right photo,” Desoto said. “While you’re doing that, I’ll get the description in circulation.”

Carver thanked him and settled down on a hard wooden chair, making it a point not to groan with discomfort. By the time he’d dragged the first of the large, heavy books over, Desoto had left and closed the door softly behind him.

Carver was alone in the tiny, quiet room with the sun streaming like a celestial spotlight through the incredibly dirty, wire-reinforced window behind him, illuminating the rogues’ gallery in front of him.

As if it were a book of saints.