“You need fork?” she asked me. She was an older woman, so nonstop and eager-to-please she must have been the owner.
I nodded no, mouth full. Now the waitress turned to Sherry and her empty plate. She looked for a moment, shaking her head. “I get you fork,” she said.
“It’s okay,” Sherry shouted after her, but the waitress was halfway across the room by now, shouting orders at some poor cowering schmuck in Chinese.
“Life from dirt,” I prompted after the waitress had gone.
“Yeah. A phase change. Something qualitatively different from what it emerges from. At a critical point - the point of instability between one phase and another - something new takes off. Life. Mind.” She took a long sip from the tea cup in her hand.
“But because these emergent entities are so exquisitely balanced, they’re fragile, like RAM in a computer. Shut off the power and the whole thing collapses. Change the chemical balance and you just might tip the brain into an unstable state.”
“You think Somnolux is tipping the brain into an unstable state?” I asked, figuring that was where she was going.
“Into a state which wouldn’t naturally occur, maybe. Where some parts are on, that should be off, and some parts are off, that should be on.”
“Which causes the...”
“Anomalies, yes,” she replied.
“You told them that?”
“Absolutely.”
“And what did they say?” I asked, putting down my chopsticks.
“Ryan said the whole concept of an emergent mind is silly; the mind isn’t so irreducibly complex that we can’t figure it out. He thinks we just haven’t figured it all out yet.”
“I always thought Ryan was a jerk. Don’t worry about what he says.”
“Yeah, well. The head of the Institute agreed with him. He insisted there’s no way Somnolux is destabilizing the brain. All it’s doing, he said, is enhancing the GABA transmitter. Simple as that. Then he told me I was very young and I should consider myself lucky to have such a cushy job at Vandenberg.”
“He said that?”
“Not in those words.”
“Meaning, back off or lose your job?”
“That’s what it sounded like to me, too.”
Just then, the waitress came back with a fork. Sherry shook her head.
“You no want? I go special to kitchen for you.”
“I’m sorry,” Sherry said. “Could you pack it all up, please?”
The waitress looked as if we had just slapped her in the face, letting loose with a burst of outraged Chinese singsong. Then she disappeared into the kitchen, reappearing with four paper take-out containers and a big spoon, which she ceremoniously dumped on our table. “You pack,” she said.
* * *
The first few bars of LinkinPark startled me awake. I grabbed at my cell and flipped it open. “Detective Sirken?” I shouted into the phone.
“Mr. Jackman, this had better be on the level.”
“It is. It is.” I told her the whole story about finding that Ryan O’Donnell lived at 119 West 96th, about his connection to the two of them, about how he had motive - Sherry told him she was in love with me. How I had told him she was awake, so he was probably on his way that very moment to the Bronx nursing home to snuff her out before she could tell anyone that he was the one who hit her over the head with the African statue. I gave her the address of the home.
“Hmmm,” Sirken said. “You realize all this is speculation, don’t you, Mr. Jackman? Still, the fact that Ryan O’Donnell has some connection to both victims is new to us. Okay, thank you. We’ll take it from here.”
“You gonna station someone at the nursing home to protect her?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want me to meet you up there?”
“No. I think we can handle it now.”
“Uh, okay. Can I have your cell number?”
“No.”
The phone clicked off.
Well, I thought. That’s that.
The next day I called in sick and went to visit Sherry. The one good thing about nursing homes is that there aren’t any real visiting hours. You can go anytime you want without anyone making a big deal of it. I took the subway up as far as I could, and then walked about fifteen blocks. This place was a bitch to get to.
I walked in. No one even noticed I was there, except for one old codger who asked who I was and who I was going to see. He wasn’t the type to work there; I figure he was just an old busybody resident. After I had given him Sherry’s name, he waved me on, like a traffic policeman. If that’s the type of security they have here, I thought, Ryan could get in and out with no one the wiser until someone walked into Sherry’s room and found her dead.
So, I walked on down the hall. A few old people were shuffling around, some with canes, others under their own steam. A couple of aides chatted in the corner. I just walked on past them, rounded the corner and entered Sherry’s room. She was in bed in her pajamas, groaning a bit. As many times as I’ve asked them to dress her and move her to the chair, just so she gets some kind of exercise and change of scenery, they don’t do it. I felt her diaper, and it was wet.
I went out to complain, but couldn’t find anyone to complain to. I went to the head desk, and waited for fifteen minutes till the nurse came back, dressed as if she was about to leave. I gave her hell about Sherry, and her wet diaper, and whether they were going to dress her and move her out of bed or what. She said she had been there all night, and now she was goin’ home. It was someone else’s job to get them up. Anyway, she said, hands on her hips, they were super busy, because there were cops there all night, messin’ up the schedule and upsettin’ the residents. Was I the person who done that?
“Well, yeah,” I said. “I was protecting Miss Pollack.”
“Protectin’ her? From what?”
“I can’t tell you what. That’s police business. But did Sherry have any visitors last night?”
“No, except if you mean them cops. Who was you expectin’?”
“Forget it. I guess he didn’t show up. Maybe the cops scared him off. Could you please get someone to change and dress Miss Pollack?”
“You’ll have to take it up with the next nurse. My shift’s over.”
So I gave hell to the day nurse. Eventually, they washed Sherry and changed her and stuck her in a chair. I sat there all day watching and waiting and daydreaming....
I could almost hear her high heels clicking up the steps to my apartment. She’d come through the door in her little dress-for-success suit, classy and beautiful. She’d kick off the heels at the door, leave the jacket in the hallway, the skirt on the bedroom floor: a kind of reverse treasure hunt, the clues on the floor leading up to the person who set them down. I’d follow the trail and fuck her wherever I found her: the living room couch, the bathtub, a closet. Oh, yeah.
I couldn’t believe my good luck. How could someone so smart and sexy want to be with a shlub like me? I was okay looking: tall enough but still gangly, with too little hair on top but a carpet on my back and arms. I wasn’t brilliant or rich or famous or high society. In fact, you might say I was fairly dumb and poor and unknown and blue-collar. I only asked her why once, not wanting to rock a boat that was still in the water. She gave me this sly smile and said, “I can’t resist you when you’re naughty.”
Sure she was lying there in a hospital-issue gown, eyes open but blank, hair in a tangle, but in my mind I saw her kicking off her high heels. “Sherry, Sherry baby,” I sang. “Sherry, can you come out tonight?” At the sound, she turned her head toward me, but her eyes wouldn’t focus. Maybe some other night....
I must have drifted off. Then, suddenly, around six, Ryan showed up. He stuck his head in the door, saw her sitting there and shouted, “Sherry! You’re all right!” But she didn’t respond, of course. He bounded in. “Sherry?” he said. No response. He shook her slightly, and she opened her eyes. “It’s me! Ryan!” he shouted. All of a sudden, he see
med to notice me in the corner. “What’s going on? You said she was all right.”
“She seemed to wake up, but then I guess she went back under,” I said. It was a lame excuse, but it was all I could think of.
For a minute I thought I saw a gleam of murder in his eye, the same gleam he must have had when he hit Sherry over the head with the African statue, but then it was gone, and I couldn’t prove a thing.
* * *
I waited till O’Donnell left before I had the detective paged. I know Sirken told me not to call her, she’d call me, but no one had called, and I didn’t see any police detail for tonight. Someone had to take charge of this case. So, I had Sirken paged before I left the building.
“We had someone there stationed at her room all night,” she said. “Your friend never showed up.”
“He’s not my friend. And I know that. The nurses told me. But your man wasn’t around when I got there.”
“You were there?” she asked.
“Still am. Yeah, where’s your guy? I’ve been here all day, and a good thing, too, because O’Donnell showed up this evening.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah, he came in and shook her. Then he saw me and acted like he was just trying to see if she was conscious. He even acted angry at me for lying to him that she was awake.”
“So now he knows she’s not awake,” Sirken replied.
“Well, I told him she was awake, but must have gone back under.”
“Very convincing.”
“It was all I could think of. Anyway, he’ll be back.” I watched as the more able-bodied residents filed out of the dining room, branched off at the lobby, then trudged, shuffled and wheeled their poky way down the hall to their rooms. The lobby was emptying out.
“You better schedule someone for tonight,” I said.
“Stop acting detective and let me do my job.”
The phone clicked off. I crossed the lobby towards the night nurse.
“You here again?” she said, looking up.
“Yeah, I’m just leaving.”
“Cops coming again tonight to mess up the schedule?”
“I don’t think so. Listen, you gotta help me. If you see a guy with sandy colored hair, around my height in a suit and tie, don’t let him in.”
She shrugged. “Doors close at 9:30, anyway.”
“Good.”
Just then a bell sounded. “Gotta go,” she said.
“Remember, don’t let him in,” I said again.
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, turning her back to me and taking off down the hall.
I walked the fifteen blocks to the subway in the dark, half expecting Ryan O’Donnell to jump out of the bushes at any minute. Old, boarded-up houses lined the streets. This must have been a classy neighborhood at one time, but now it was a place you didn’t want to walk through at night. A huddle of guys on the far street corner looked up as I passed by. Whoa. I walked faster and faster, rounding the corner, finally sprinting the last stretch to the subway. I raced down the stairs and slipped my Metrocard into the slot. The local train was just pulling in. I pushed my way through the gate and sailed through the open doors of the car. There must have been about fifteen people on the train, some dozing, some reading newspapers, others just sitting there, eyes blank and straight ahead. No one blinked an eyelash as I came in and dropped into the first empty seat, breathing heavily.
All of a sudden, my phone rang. I flipped it open, thinking it must be the police, when suddenly this loud angry voice was yelling at me in a Spanish accent. Half a dozen people glared at me for invading their space, but when I glared back, they backed off.
As soon as I could get a word in edgewise, I said, “I think you have the wrong number. Who is this?”
“Who the fuck is this?” the voice growled.
“Hey, it’s my phone. I don’t have to tell you anything. Just get off and try again.”
“Isn’t this Jackman?” the voice demanded.
“Yeah, it is. But don’t swear at me! I don’t even know who the hell you are.”
“Listen, if I even see you around my girlfriend one more time, I’m going to kill you.”
“What? Who is this?”
“Just consider this a warning.”
The phone clicked off again.
I checked the last number, and called it back.
“Listen yourself! Don’t you dare threaten me! I haven’t been near your girlfriend. I don’t even know who she is. And if you threaten me, I’m gonna call the cops!”
By now the entire subway car was listening in.
“I’m just going to say this one more time,” the voice said. “I DON’T EVER WANT TO SEE YOU NEAR ALICIA AGAIN.”
“Who’s Alicia?” I said, but the phone went dead.
I tried calling Detective Sirken on the cell number she had called me back on, but she didn’t pick up. She had Caller ID and wasn’t picking up on purpose. I felt frustrated. There was nothing I could do to either protect Sherry from the nutcase who had attacked her once and would do it again; or myself from a lunatic warning me to stay away from a girl I didn’t know. When I got home, I poured myself a jigger of Scotch and turned on Letterman, but neither did the trick. What the hell. I took a Somnolux and went to sleep.
* * *
The phone was ringing in my dream. I walked over and picked it up. “Hello?” I said. I could barely hear Sherry’s voice on the other end, because the phone kept ringing. “Speak louder!” I shouted. “I can’t hear you!” Then I woke up. The phone on the bedside was still ringing.
“Hallo,” I said, half asleep.
“Hey, Henry. It’s Carl. I’ve been calling and calling. Where were you?”
“I’ve been sleeping,” I said, catching a glimpse of the clock. “Wow, look at the time. Sorry, I took a Somnolux last night and I guess it just knocked me out.”
“I was wondering whether you were still sick.”
It took me a moment or two to remember I had called in sick yesterday. “No, I’m okay. Just a little punch drunk. I’ll be in soon as I get dressed.”
“Make it soon. We’re really busy.”
“Sure.” I hung up. Wow, was I ever tired. And achy. I pulled off the covers. Apparently I had gone to sleep in my boxers last night. Yesterday’s clothes were still scattered on the floor. Were those the things I had been wearing? I shuffled over to the bathroom, turned on the light and took a look in the medicine cabinet mirror. A strange bruised face with a black eye stared back at me, a cut on my lip, dried blood caked around it.
I sat down on the toilet to think. What was I doing last night? I last remembered coming home on the subway. The angry phone call from the guy about leaving his girlfriend alone. Could he have called again? Maybe he did a reverse directory search and got my address. No, you can’t do that on a cell phone. Could he have challenged me to a fight? I picked myself up and walked down the hall to the living room, half expecting to see it torn to shreds, but, no, it was in perfect order. In the kitchen, I found a bloody napkin sticking out of the garbage, a pool of water on the floor, and a box of half-eaten cookies. None of this made any sense.
I went back to the bathroom, took a hot shower, cleaned myself up and opened up the closet door. Whatever I wore on top was going to get covered by a lab coat, no problem, so I grabbed a short sleeve knit shirt. The only clean pants hanging was a pair of old ripped jeans. Carl would have my head if I wore those, so I reached over to pick up the wrinkled khakis from the floor. As I did so, my cell phone fell out of the pocket. I could have sworn I’d stuck it in the charger last night. And if it wasn’t in the charger, I realized, it would be - I flipped it open to see no bars left – dead, of course. I stuck the phone in the charger, pulled on the wrinkled pants and the short sleeve shirt and went one more time into the bathroom to inspect my eye. It was bad: bluish-black and swollen. Carl was going to have loads of fun with this.
After a cup of coffee and a few of the remaining cookies for breakfast, I walked slowly to
work. My knees hurt, and my back wasn’t so good. What the hell had I been doing last night? Wrestling? I opened the front door and shuffled along to the back counter, hoping to get there before Carl noticed. No such luck, of course.
“What the hell happened to you?” Carl shouted.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Was this why you didn’t come in yesterday?”
“No,” I said, thinking. “It must have happened last night.”
Carl grabbed my chin and pulled my face toward him. “You better put something on that eye. Wait.” He climbed down from the platform and searched the aisle, pulling a bottle off the shelf. “Least you can do is put some of this on it,” he said, shoving some Calamine lotion at me, when he came back. “What do you mean you don’t know? Were you knocked out cold?”
“I guess,” I said.
“You mean you don’t remember anyone’s fist making contact with your face?”
“No,” I said gingerly applying Calamine to my eye. “Maybe it wasn’t a fist.”
“Maybe it was a train?”
“Cut it out, Carl. I already said I don’t remember,” I said, waving my arm right into the Calamine bottle. It turned over, a river of pink heading for the edge of the counter.
“Shit. Whassamatta with you today?” Carl cried.
I was reaching around for something to mop it up with, but not coming up with anything. I reached into my pocket for a tissue. Instead, I found a scrap of paper with an address written on it, and stood there staring at it.
“Hey, Henry. C’mon. It’s starting to spread,” Carl shouted, tossing me a wad of paper towels.
I started mopping up the counter with my right hand, still staring at the scrap with the address in my left. Carl came over with another wad. “What’s that in your hand?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Just a piece a paper I found in my pocket.”
Carl looked over. “Whose address?” he asked.
“Don’t know.”
“Full of answers today, aren’t we?”
“I never saw this paper in my life.”
Come Out Tonight Page 10