Stealing Time (20 page)

"Anything else?"

"It's a cute little guy, what else is there?"

"Anything about the eyes?"

"You said it wasn't her baby."

"That doesn't mean it isn't a Chinese baby. The factory is in Chinatown. It's not nice, Mike. The baby could be one of those Little Italy-Chinatown mixes. Maybe somebody sold him to them. Could be something worse."

"Oh." Mike was silent for a while, thinking about what could be worse.

"You know what I have to do now?" she said.

"You have to hit every hospital in the metropolitan area looking for white-Chinese combination babies."

"Tristate area. The whole world, if I have to. Mike, I don't think I believe in mixed." That's what she'd come to tell him. She flushed some more.

"Mixed marriages, mixed love affairs, mixed drinks, what?" Suddenly he was angry.

"You know what I mean," she said softly.

"I know that's the prejudice that keeps all the wars going," he said evenly. "But sometimes you don't choose who you're going to fall for." He gave her a look to calm her down, but she wasn't buying.

"Don't give me that. It's not prejudice. I lost a friend. I lost my parents, everything," she cried.

"What are you talking about, you lost your parents? Are you nuts?"

"My mother's giving me the silent treatment. I went

home, no one's there. I call, no one answers the phone. Ever had your mother boycott you?" she asked.

"No, mine wouldn't know how. What's her beef?"

"You are." April put her hand to her mouth and closed her eyes. "I can't take it."

Mike sat up. He'd never seen that expression on her face before. "You going to cave for your freaking parents? That's
locoV'

"I'm not making this up, Mike. She's wiping me out."

"Nah, she wouldn't do that."

"Yes, she would. She'd cut off her only daughter for face."

Face! You couldn't fight Chinese and their crazy concept of face. Mike chewed nervously on his mustache. "
Querida,
give me a hug. I'll help you with this. You want something to drink? Huh, how about a beer? You want to eat something? How about dinner?"

She shook her head again. "Sorry to throw off your sex schedule."

"Oh, don't do that." What was this? What was in her head here? Suddenly he needed a beer. He got up a little self-consciously and padded into the kitchen. In the refrigerator, he found a six-pack of Dos Equis. He came back with the tops popped on two and handed her one. She put hers on the floor without taking even a sip.

Mike swallowed some beer. "You want me to talk to your parents?"

"What can you tell them, that your intentions of ruining their precious Han daughter are honorable?"

"I could tell them we love each other and want to get married sometime within the millennium." Mike handed her back the baby picture.

"That's dishonorable. It would bring on World War Three."

"You told me World War Three has already started."

"It has."

"If they're boycotting you, how do you know something else isn't going on?"

"Like what?"

Mike shrugged. The Woos had a complicated variety of relationships with people they called sister-cousins, old uncles, young uncles, aunts, grandfathers, and grandmothers they weren't even related to but who nonetheless had the power of family members to one-up and torture them. Could be some crisis had come up with one of these nonrelative relatives.

"I have a feeling they'll get over it,
querida.
Why don't you ask me to dinner?"

"I can't do that, Mike. They're not at home. They're not speaking to me."

Most people were glad to get a little relief from their parents. But the silence seemed to unsettle April more than was absolutely necessary. He felt bad for her. "So leave them a note. Let me spend a little time with them. Trust me on this. They'll get used to me."

"Oh, they'll never get used to you. They're going to make me pay. You're costing me." A ghost of a smile played on her lips.

The sun was going to come out. "And the lost friend? Who might that be?" he teased.

"You. Chicks and guys can work together—I guess—but once you turn the corner into the other thing, God, it's babies and marriage and—nothing but trouble." She shook her head. "I hate this."

She loved it, but he wasn't going to argue. "You want to hear about my case?" he asked.

"Sure."

"Guess who was the last person to see Schlomo alive?"

"A queer. A transvestite."

He jumped away from her in shock. "Oh come on, who told you?"

She laughed suddenly. "No one told me. I was kidding. A transvestite, really?"

"He/she. Could be he castrated him for a souvenir, but it's hard to buy." Mike finished the beer and rolled the empty can around in his hands thoughtfully. "I'm looking for missing sex organs and you're looking for a missing baby. Your parents aren't speaking to you, and you're scared to death about race, sex, and friendship, in that order. Phew, this is a heavy week."

"Jesus. Somebody took his
cojones
? You didn't tell me that."

"Yes, I did. You weren't listening."

"You didn't tell me," she insisted.

He tickled her. "You weren't listening."

"Well, maybe they'll turn up. Look. I've got to go." She gathered herself together.

"Bueno
." Mike lobbed his empty beer can into a wastebasket across the room.

"What about you?" She finished the beer and put the can down on the floor.

"I've got to go, too." He stretched. "Anything else on your mind? I mean, other than breaking up."

She hesitated, then gave him a sly smile. "You want a last fling?"

He threw his hands up in the air. "Oh, no. You'll have to beg me now."

"I don't beg."

"Okay, then strip for me." He sat back with a grin.

She rolled her eyes.

"Go ahead. Otherwise, we'll just end it now. Clean break. That's it."

"All right.
Bueno.
Turn off the lights. I'll strip." "I'm not turning off the lights."

"Fine, I'll do it." April got up and unzipped her skirt. It fell to the uncarpeted floor. She unbuttoned her blouse, took it off slowly, and tossed it away from her. Then she gave him a shy smile and stopped.

Good enough for a beginner. He held out his arms. "
Venga."

CHAPTER 22

J
ason finished his patient day, had dinner with his wife, Emma, then returned to Roosevelt Hospital late in the evening. April had left instructions with the nurses and the officer on duty to let him into Heather's room, so he had no difficulty gaining access. After talking to her nurse, he went in to see her, pulled up a chair, and sat close to the bed. She was in the same position on the bed and looked much as she had earlier in the day. He took her hand and squeezed it.

"Hi, Heather. It's Dr. Frank. The nurses tell me you're beginning to come around."

Her hand remained impassive, and she didn't say anything. There was an ice pack on her black eye, but the good one seemed to move a little in his direction. On the bed tray was a cup of water with a straw in it. "They tell me you asked for water." Jason offered the cup to her, but she didn't take any now. He went on.

"Somebody beat you up pretty bad. Do you remember what happened?" He massaged the hand gently.

Such a long silence followed that he'd almost given up hoping for an answer when the word "Clinton" came out of her swollen lips.

"What? Clinton?" Jason caught his breath. "Did

you say Clinton?" He waited for her to clarify. She didn't.

"Someone hit you on the head. The police say you were hit with a broom. Do you remember that?"

Then she said it again. "Clinton."

"Clinton hit you?" Jason's brow furrowed. This particular accusation was a first for the president. Heather must be pretty confused.

"Bill Clinton is president." She looked at him as she said it, not confused at all. Then her eye closed.

Jason's heart pounded. He realized she wasn't aware that any time had passed since his last visit. She was responding to the first question he'd asked her.

"That's right. Bill Clinton is president." Jason praised her. "Who are you?"

"I'm a piece of shit." She said this so softly that Jason had to lean close to hear her.

"That may be how you feel. It's not your name. What's your name?"

"Heather Rose."

"That's right. What day is it?"

"Tuesday."

"No, it's Wednesday night."

The eye popped open. "Wednesday? I must have—"

"You've been asleep for almost thirty hours. Heather, everybody is looking for the baby. Where is he?"

Her eye wandered around the room as if looking for him.

"He's not here. Where is he?"

"Paul?"

"Yes, Paul."

A tear formed and spilled over. "I told him I wanted to be good. I only wanted what was right for him." These words came out with great difficulty. Heather's voice was cultured but hoarse. She hadn't

spoken for a while. It wasn't easy for her to speak now.

"What does that mean, Heather? Where is he? You can tell me."

Her hand came alive and gripped his. He could feel her trembling.

"Who beat you up, your husband?"

She shook her head.

"Someone else?"

She shook her head again.

"I'll make a deal with you. I'll help you if you help me."

Heather's eye traveled to the little window in the door. She became upset. Jason turned around and followed her gaze to a face peering in. When he looked back at her, her eye had closed and her hand had gone limp again.

"Heather? Heather? Come on, wake up." He squeezed and patted her hand. "Come on." The face in the window was gone, but so was she. Finally he got up and went out in the hall to find out who had frightened her.

The hefty nurse at the desk identified the densely built dark-haired man with a prominent forehead and soldier's rigid bearing. "That's the husband."

He was in deep conversation with someone of a similar stocky build but softer around the edges. This man had thick black hair sticking out here and there like a half-tamed fright wig. Unlike Heather Rose's husband, who was wearing a suit, the second man had several days' growth of grizzled beard on his face and was casually dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a sweatshirt.

"Thanks." Jason went to talk to them. "Mr. Popescu."

Anton spun around angrily and quickly evaluated

Jason from haircut to loafers. "How do you know who I am? Who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Frank, one of your wife's doctors."

Anton snorted. "You guys don't know fuck." He glared at Jason. His companion put a hand on Anton's shoulder, whistling softly under his breath. Anton shook off the hand. "Fuck you."

Jason didn't pick up the gauntlet. The silence forced Anton to go next.

"What were you doing with her? What did she say?" he demanded after a pause.

"I'd like to talk to you for a few moments, if you don't mind." Jason was coolly professional.

"What for?" Popescu took a challenging step into Jason's space.

Calmly, Jason retreated, taking a quick look at the man in the sweatshirt to see how he was reacting. He was now standing there with a vague air of detachment, looking away and scratching the extended belly under his shirt as if this was just another in a lifetime of Anton Popescu-generated embarrassing moments.

"Maybe I can help you," Jason suggested.

"Whose side are you on?" Anton said suspiciously.

Good question. "I have no stake; I'm just interested in finding the baby and helping your wife," Jason murmured. He turned toward a lounge area at the end of the hall, where there were some unoccupied chairs.

Anton stiffened. He glanced at his companion who offered a little shrug of encouragement. "Fuck you," Anton said again; then, to Jason, "So, what do you have to say to me?"

"I thought we might say a few things to each other."

"All right, all right." Anton marched down the hall to the chairs and indicated the one he wanted Jason to take.

Jason sat in a different one. "I can see you're very upset."