Bitter Medicine

by Sara Paretsky

  3/26—bought 20 boxes staples $21.13

  3/28—paid phone bill 198.42

  3/31—paid electricity 12.81

  4/2—cash receipts in mail 212.15

  She apparently had started out with a system of disbursals and receipts and then had got in the habit of entering items in whichever log was closest to hand. No breakdown by type of expenditure.

  I chewed on a pencil. I needed hours with these books and I didn’t want to spend them with the rats and the drunks. Naturally the office didn’t have a photocopier. Monkfish had my name and phone number. If I stole both books or cut out the last few pages from them, he would know to check on me. Inevitably, since I’d just been there making inquiries. On the other hand…

  I gathered up the ledgers and stood the card-catalog drawer with donor names on it on top of them. I looked in my wallet. It held a twenty and seven singles. I crumpled the singles together in my fist, stuck two in my shirt pocket, and held the others tightly clasped over the top of the file drawer. Thus laden I went back downstairs, leaving the light on and the door open. My pal on the second-floor landing was still there and walking over him was even harder with the load I was carrying. I brushed his head with my left foot but didn’t wake him.

  Three men were camped in the hallway when I reached street level. They eyed me suspiciously, making no effort to move. I opened my fist and the wad of bills dropped. They dived for it instantly.

  “Hey, that’s mine,” I whined. “I found it myself. You guys want money, you work for it the way I do.”

  I put the stack of papers on the floor and made an ineffectual grab for the cash. One of the men saw the singles in my pocket and snatched them out.

  “C’mon, guys. Let me have it. There’s plenty more upstairs. You want some, go get it yourself.”

  At that they stopped and looked at me hard.

  “You got this upstairs?” one of them asked, a man of indeterminate age, perhaps white.

  “There’s an office open up there,” I sniveled. “They left the lights on and everything. I found that in a drawer. There was a whole lot more, not locked up or anything. I didn’t want to steal—I just took enough for a bottle.”

  Still eyeing me suspiciously, they muttered to themselves. They saw the box of name cards.

  “She’s got money in there,” the speaker announced.

  Before he could dump the contents—or steal the box—I opened it and riffled it in front of him. “Now how about my money?”

  “Forget it.” The speaker wore an overcoat several sizes too big and five months too warm.

  His companions had backed away a little. Now they added menacing support, ordering me out of the way if I knew what was good for me. I shrank back in the malodorous doorway as they shuffled upstairs together, poking each other in the back, giggling in high, obscene cackles.

  Outside, as I moved on up Wells Street toward my car, I passed two men having an argument. One was dressed in a three-piece suit tailored for a man thirty pounds heavier, the other in a sleeveless T-shirt and dungarees.

  “And I say nobody never hit better’n Billy Williams,” the suit said in the tone of one clinching the matter, his face thrust close to T-shirt’s.

  “Hey!” I shouted at them. “There’s an office open in that building with money in it. I found it and these guys tried to muscle me away.”

  It took a few repetitions, but they got the message and headed on down the street to Monkfish’s building. I jogged swiftly to my car. The blue-and-whites come through a street like this pretty frequently; I didn’t want to be picked up in the headlights.

  Once in the Chevy I took off my foul-smelling running shoes and drove home barefoot. When I pulled up in front of my building I saw Peter’s Maxima across the street. With a guilty start, I remembered we’d been going to have dinner together. My obsession about Monkfish and the afternoon drive to Downers Grove had pushed the date completely out of my mind.

  I went into the lobby, expecting to find him there. When I didn’t see him I headed up the stairs. Mr. Contreras’s door opened behind me.

  “There you are, doll. I’ve been entertaining the doc for you.”

  I came back down and went into the overstuffed living room. Peter was sitting in the mustard-colored armchair where Mr. Contreras had fed me hot milk the night of my injury. He was drinking a clear liquid—the foul grappa Mr. Contreras favored.

  “Hi, Vic. I thought we had a date. Your neighbor took pity on me and brought me in for some grappa. We’ve been cursing the fickleness of women for some time now.” He didn’t move out of the armchair. I couldn’t figure out whether this was due to anger at being stood up, or paralysis, a typical side effect of grappa.

  “With good reason. I apologize. I got a bee in my bonnet or something about how Dieter Monkfish was affording my ex-husband’s legal fees. And I’m afraid I was so intent on getting evidence about it that I forgot our plans.”

  I offered to raid my insubstantial larder for him, but Mr. Contreras had grilled ribs in the backyard and they were both content.

  “So did you get your evidence? Is that it?” That was Mr. Contreras.

  “I hope so. It’s IckPiff’s ledgers, and I had to fight off winos to get it, so they’d better be useful.”

  Peter sat up, sloshing his drink on his trousers. “You burglarized them, Vic?”

  The sharpness in his voice nettled me. “You from the Legion of Decency or something? All I want to know is who is paying Dick’s monster bill. He won’t tell me, Monkfish won’t tell me, and Crawford, Meade won’t tell me. So I’m going to find out. Then I will return their ledgers. Even though I think they are mad lunatics whose papers should be burned I’m not going to erase a single line item. Though I may call their auditors—these are the most screwed-up books I ever saw.”

  “But, Vic. You can’t do that. You really shouldn’t.”

  “So call the police. Or take me to church in the morning.”

  As I left the room, Mr. Contreras said in an urgent undertone, “Go apologize to her. She’s just doing her job—don’t blow a good thing over a little incident like this.”

  Peter seemed to think this was sound advice. He caught up with me as I started up the stairs. “Sorry, Vic. Didn’t mean to criticize. The thing is I’ve been drinking more than I should. These the documents? Here, let me carry ’em for you.”

  He took the books from me and followed me up the stairs. I carried my malodorous shoes into the kitchen and began pouring water and Clorox on them. I was really furious, both with his criticism, and also with myself for having said anything. It’s never a good idea to let people know that you’ve been obtaining information through questionable means. If I hadn’t been startled, guilty, feeling at ease with Mr. Contreras, and pissed as hell with Dick, I wouldn’t have said one word about it. Goes to show.

  Peter gave me a tentative, alcoholic kiss behind my ear. “C’mon, Vic. Scout’s honor, I won’t say anything more about your—uh—business methods. Okay?”

  “Yeah, okay.” I finished rinsing my shoes. My hands now smelled of Clorox, not as bad as vomit, but not good. I rubbed lemon juice into them. Not all the perfumes of Arabia. “No one likes being criticized, Peter. Least of all me. At least not on stuff that’s connected with my job.”

  “You’re right. You’re absolutely right. Did I ever tell you I was descended from the General Burgoyne who did so badly for the British at Saratoga? I know just how he felt. The Americans fought dirty, and he got squeamish. So put down my idiotic objections to burglary as squeamishness. Okay, General Washington?”

  “Okay.” I couldn’t help laughing. “Done… I need to get some food and there ain’t a hell of a lot to eat here. Are you up to a trip to the all-night diner or have you had it for the day?”

  He put both arms around me. “No, sure. Let’s go. Maybe a walk’ll clear my head.”

  Before going out I called the Herald-Star’s city desk and told them drunks were pawing through IckPiff’s headquarte
rs. In case that wasn’t enough, I called the police, too—not 911, where all the lines are monitored, but the Central District Headquarters.

  Well pleased with myself, I walked with Peter, who was still a bit unsteady, to the Belmont Diner, a twenty-four-hour place where old Mrs. Bielsen bakes her own pies and cooks fresh soups. He excused himself to make a phone call while I ate cold tomato soup—called gazpacho in upscale restaurants where it’s half as good at twice the price—and a BLT on whole-wheat. I was paying the bill when Peter finally returned, his narrow, mobile face troubled.

  “Bad news on the delivery front?” I asked.

  “No.” He shook his head. “Personal problem.” His face cleared and he tried for a lighter note. “I keep a boat up on Pistakee Lake. It’s not a real big lake, so it’s not a real big boat—twenty-footer with one sail. How about coming up tomorrow—spend the day on the water? I don’t have any patients to see and I can cancel all my meetings.”

  The weather was still so hot that a day in the country sounded great. And if the Downers Grove box factory hired me, this might be my last free day for some time. We went back to my apartment in good humor, Peter making a successful effort to keep his private worries at bay. Mr. Contreras popped his head out the door as we came in.

  “Ah, good. You took my advice, young man. You won’t be sorry.”

  Peter flushed and stiffened. I felt slightly embarrassed myself. Mr. Contreras watched us go up the stairs together, hands solemnly at our sides, and finally closed his door when we disappeared around the landing. We burst into an explosion of guilty laughter when we got to the top.

  18

  Messing About in a Boat

  The Herald-Star had a nice little story about IckPiff headlined VANDALS WRECK ABORTION FOE OFFICE. I was afraid they might relegate it to the second section, where the previous day’s haul of rapists, murderers, car wrecks, and drug busts are reported, but they tucked the lead into the bottom of the front page. Dieter Monkfish attributed the break-in to the machinations of the evil baby murderers, retaliating for the destruction of Lotty’s clinic, but the police said they’d found five drunks having a fight, flinging drawers open and throwing paper at each other.

  The five men had been charged with breaking and entering, disorderly conduct, and vandalism. The story was nice and short—it didn’t include room for comments from the drunks on mysterious ladies who might have sent them up to IckPiff in the first place.

  I’d gone to the corner store for the paper and some food while Peter continued to sleep off the grappa. He staggered into the kitchen as I was finishing my second cup of coffee, wearing his underpants and my bathrobe, his eyes squinted shut. He held out a hand and said piteously: “Coffee.”

  I poured him a cup. “I hope you feel better than you look, General Burgoyne. Want to call off the trip to Lake Pistakee?”

  “No,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll be okay. I just need to get used to the idea that I’m not dead. Jesus Christ, what the hell did that guy give me last night?”

  He sat morosely for a while, sipping the coffee and burying his face in its steam, shuddering at the mention of food. With a heartiness typical of the virtuous sober in the face of a friend’s hangover, I ate pita bread with swiss cheese, tomato, lettuce, and mustard. When Peter didn’t respond to the news that the Cubs had beaten the Braves in Atlanta last night—in thirteen innings—I left him huddled by the kitchen table and went into the living room to call Lotty.

  “I read about this IckPiff burglary in the morning paper, Lotty. Dieter the Mad thinks it’s pro-choice monsters getting even with him for smashing up your clinic. Want me to send over the Streeter brothers to keep an eye on things in case his followers decide to come back for seconds?”

  She’d read the article, too. “Just give me their number. If anyone shows up I’ll call them. You don’t know anything about this break-in, do you, Vic?”

  “Me, boss? The paper says five drunks were up there getting ready for a ticker-tape parade.” I looked at the IckPiff files where Peter had perched them on the mountain of Wall Street Journals covering the coffee table.

  “Yes, Vic. I can read. Also I know you. Thanks for calling—I have to run.”

  I sat cross-legged on the floor with the card catalog on my lap. From the background sounds, Peter had decided to revive his life-support system in the shower. I started with the A’s. At a guess, there were six thousand names in the file. If I could go through ten a minute, that was ten hours. My favorite kind of work, the main reason I’m sorry the women’s movement came to life before I could use my B.A. to be a secretary.

  I’d gotten to Attwood, Edna and Bill, who’d donated fifteen dollars a year for the last four years, when Peter came in. He was dressed and looked more like a human being, although not one I’d trust my obstetrical care to.

  “Having any luck with your files?” he asked.

  “I’ve just begun. I figure at the steady pace I’m working I should be at the end around Thanksgiving sometime.”

  “Can you bear to leave them for a while? It’s nine-thirty now—I need to stop at home to change, so it’ll be noon or so before we get to the boat if we leave now.”

  “Fine with me. These will certainly keep until tomorrow.” I stood up in one movement, pushing with my quadriceps. We learned how in kindergarten and I’ve always been proud of being able to do it—not everybody can.

  Even though the line in my face was disappearing, Dr. Pirwitz had stressed keeping it out of the sun for another several months. I had bought myself a little golfing cap with a long green polarized sun bill in front—twenty-five dollars at a pro shop, but worth it. That, with white jeans, a white sleeveless shirt, a bathing suit, and my Cubs jacket—in case it got cold on the lake—and I was ready.

  Peter looked at me faintly. “The Cubs jacket and a green golfing cap? Please, Vic. My stomach can’t take it this time of day.”

  He also objected to the Smith & Wesson. I, too, wondered about the point in carrying it around—nothing was happening. If Sergio was seeking revenge for my filing charges, he was taking a lot longer to act than the gangs usually do. I weighed the gun in my hand, finally compromising by promising to lock it in my glove compartment for the duration of the trip.

  I followed the Maxima to his home in Barrington Hills. He had a beautiful place. Not a large house, maybe eight rooms, but set on three acres, with a little wood and a creek running through it. Birds were twittering in the midday heat. The air was fresh, no hydrocarbons to clog the sinuses. I had to admit it would be hard to leave it just for the joy of practicing medicine in the city.

  His dog, a golden retriever named Princess Scheherazade of Du Page but called Peppy, bounded out to meet us. Peter had a fancy electronic dog feeder set up, since he often was away on business as well as pleasure, which measured out a ration of dog food at six every evening in her large, covered kennel. She seemed perfectly happy—never bearing a grudge for long periods of abandonment.

  I’d been to Peter’s a few times already. The dog seemed to know me and was almost as glad to see me as him. I stayed in the yard to play fetch with her while Peter went inside to change into sailing gear. He came back half an hour later in faded jeans and a T-shirt, carrying a cooler.

  “I packed us up some cheese and stuff for the boat,” he called. “You don’t mind if we take Peppy with us, do you?”

  It was hard to see how we could keep her away. At the sight of Peter in civvies, she went wild, banging her tail madly into the side of the car, doing a little dance and panting. When he opened the door, she sprang into the backseat and sat there with a defiant grin on her face.

  Lake Pistakee was another sixteen or so miles to the north. We drove slowly on country roads, the windows open, the rich air of late summer enveloping us voluptuously. Peppy kept her head out the window the whole time, giving little grunts of excitement as we got closer to the water. As soon as we stopped, she jumped through the window and bounded down to the lake.

  I fol
lowed Peter out to the marina. It was a workday; despite the dozens of boats docked there, we had the place to ourselves. His was a pretty little boat, white fiberglass trimmed in red, just big enough for a couple of adults and a large dog. Peppy leaped in in front of us, slowing down the launching by running back and forth across the length of the boat while we were untying it.

  We spent a delightful day on the water, swimming, picnicking, holding the boat steady while Peppy jumped over the side after a flock of ducks. The city, with Sergio, dead bodies, and Dieter Monkfish, receded into the background. Peter lapsed occasionally into a brooding silence, but whatever was bothering him he kept to himself.

  At seven, as the sun set, we returned to the marina. It was crowded now with families taking to the water, escaping from the week’s pressures. Children screamed shrilly. I watched one little girl carefully pick up a plastic buggy holding a large doll family to carry it over the rough aluminum docks. Cabin cruisers filled the air with whining and gasoline, and freckled young businessmen hollered at each other with beery goodwill.

  We drove into the quiet of the countryside and found dinner at a little place on a side road. It wasn’t much of a restaurant, the kind of place where you can get an average steak or awful quasi-French dishes and chilled red Inglenook. I drank Black Label while Peter had beer; we wrapped up the remains of our steak for Peppy and went back to Peter’s house.

  While he checked in with the hospital from the phone in his study, I called my answering service on the other line in the kitchen. Lotty wanted me to call; it was urgent.

  I dialed her number, my heart pounding: If she had been vandalized again. And because of my stupid burglary… She answered on the first ring, in a most un-Lotty-like frenzy.

  “Vic!… No, no, the clinic’s all right. No one showed up today. But at noon I had a call from a lawyer. A man named”—she was apparently consulting a piece of paper—“Gerald Rutkowski. He wanted my records on Consuelo.”

  “I see. A malpractice claim. Who filed it, I wonder? Does Carol know?”