Right To Die

Bacall sighed. "There. Be all right in a minute."

I left my hands on the wheel, where the cops could see them. The one approaching me was female, the one coming around to the rear of the passenger side a male. Bacall, eyes closed, was breathing deeply. The leather case lay open on the dashboard.

"Alec?"

"Yes?"

"No sudden movements. We've got company. Leave the works where they are."

Bacall opened his eyes but didn't turn his head.

The woman had her right hand on the butt of her holstered weapon, using the left index knuckle to rap on my window. I rolled it down slowly.

She had close-set eyes and the cratered cheeks bad acne leaves behind. "What's the problem, boys?"

Her eyes left my face to see the paraphernalia on the dash and Bacall's exposed left leg.

I said, "This man's a diabetic. He wasn't feeling too well, so we pulled in and he took a shot."

Bacall said, "Of insulin."

"Want to step out of the car, please."

Bacall started to say something as I said, "We'll step out of the car."

I came out slowly. Bacall fumbled with the unfamiliar door handle. He locked himself in before floundering out to be caught and steadied by the male partner.

I said, "I'm carrying a Chief's Special over my right hip. I have some ID in my inside jacket pocket."

She motioned for the ID.

I took it out. Reading it, she said, "Heard of you. Nancy Meagher, right?"

"I'm seeing her."

"Nance and I went to school together." She arched her nose over a shoulder. "Gate of Heaven. Tell her Sheilah Boyle, she'll remember."

"I will."

Boyle handed me back the ID. "They're okay, Conn."

The male partner said, "Thank Christ, it's like Siberia out here."

Then to Bacall, "You gonna be all right there, pal?"

"Yes. Yes, fine. Thank you."

"Have a good night," said Boyle as she and Conn trotted to their unit.

Back in my Prelude, Bacall had gotten his pant leg down and was stowing the hypo case. "Thank you, John."

"For what?"

"This happened to me once before. The police… well, as I said back in your office, I don't always bring out the best in them."

I started the car and drove Bacall to his house in Bay Village. On the way back to the condo I tried to convince myself that things would have gone just as smoothly with Sheilah Boyle and Conn if Bacall had spoken first.

13

I WOKE UP TUESDAY RELATIVELY FREE OF STIFFNESS DESPITE THE punishing run the previous morning. The sky outside my window was overcast, the radio quoting a temperature in the high forties. I dressed for running and went downstairs.

No sign of the derelict, but I remembered his advice. Some stretching exercises for the calves and hamstrings, not quite breaking a sweat. I started out slowly, going over the ramp to the river path in a gentle second gear. Then I began pushing off more, using the thighs and the ball of the rear foot, gradually lengthening my stride as he'd predicted. The pace didn't feel faster, but my whole body seemed in tune with the rhythm my legs were setting. I turned around at the Boston University bridge so the run would be just about three miles.

As I approached the Fairfield Street ramp again, the bum was sitting on the bench, a couple of layers of sweater off his torso and knotted around his waist like a backward apron. Nodding and smiling.

I slowed to a walk in front of him. "Didn't see you this morning."

"Saw you."

"You did."

"Uh-huh. Wanted to check first."

"Check? On what?"

"On whether you were one of those know-it-alls, couldn't take any coaching. There're a lot like that."

"And?"

"And you did just fine. The stretching, the pushing off, cutting your distance back after a tough one the day before."

I kept walking, my lungs settling down. "The run yesterday took a lot out of me."

The derelict shrugged, glasses slipping down his nose. "Wouldn't have known it. You looked pretty limber today."

"Thanks."

He thumbed the glasses back up. "Got to get some new tape for the bridge here. They been sliding on me."

I extended my right hand. "John Cuddy."

"John." He shook, but tentatively, almost mechanically, as though he hadn't done it for a while. "Just call me Bo."

"Bo." I used the sleeve near my bicep to blot some sweat off my forehead. "Bo, you really know anything about this coaching stuff?"

A glitter behind the lenses. "I do."

"Feel like training me'?"

The lids lowered, and I thought he was going to get up and leave when he fixed back onto me. "Two conditions."

"What are they?"

"First, don't want no money from you."

"That doesn't seem fair."

"I decide what's fair here. I got my life, you got yours. I don't want no money."

"Okay. What's the other condition?"

"I don't want you turning me into some kind of project."

"Project?"

"Rehabilitation. Or pity. Like bringing a soldier home for Christmas dinner. Just me coaching, you listening and doing."

"You've got a deal. Shake on it?"

"We already shook. You ready for some more advice?"

"You bet."

"First thing, lose the sweat clothes and buy one of those fancy Gore-Tex suits. I know, I know, you figure you'll feel like some kind of dilettante. But you'll be able to wear just a cotton turtleneck and shorts under it, and the fabric wicks the sweat right off so you won't get chilled when the real weather comes in. January, February, you'll be running far enough we can't always start you into the wind. You sweat down into your jock, and penile frostbite gets to be a real possibility, eh?"

"I understand."

"Second thing, go easy on the booze. Beer's okay because it's got plenty of carbohydrates. But lay off the hard stuff, dehydrates you too much."

"Right."

"Third thing, you got to drink water. Lots of water. Half gallon a day isn't out of the question. Also, get used to sugar-electrolyte drinks like Gatorade or Exceed. They'll have that stuff along the course, and you don't want the tummy getting its first taste of it at mile fourteen the day she counts."

"Anything else?"

"We have to put you on a program. You do any lifting now?"

"Nautilus."

"Fine. Stick with that, but drop the weight on your leg machines and increase the repetitions at the lower weight. Want to build that redundant function endurance."

"Okay."

"Now, for the running itself, we'll do six days on, one day off. Your body's all wrong for serious training, but we got better than four months yet. You'll train at the pace you'll maintain during the race. We'll do low mileage five days and give you a long run the sixth day for your confidence."

"I think I can handle that."

"You won't ever do more than a twenty-miler before the race herself."

"Why is that?"

"It's best to leave the last six or so as unexplored territory till you have the crowd to help you through."

"Makes sense."

Bo thumbed his glasses again. "Mornings all right?"

"That's what I'm used to anyway."

"See you here, then. Tomorrow, seven in the A.M."

"Thanks again, Bo."

"Give it a couple months." He rose and began walking upriver as he had the day before. "Then thank me, you still feel like it."

After showering I made some phone calls while my hair dried. A receptionist at Mass General told me Dr. Paul Eisenberg would be unavailable all morning, but could squeeze me in that afternoon if I promised not to take more than fifteen minutes. I promised. I reached the Reverend Vonetta Givens directly. Nudging the truth a little, I said I'd covered the debate the previous night and wanted to ask some follow-up questions. Givens said she'd be happy to see me at her church and gave crisp directions to it.

Directory assistance had Louis Doleman's number in West Roxbury. He answered on the third ring. Without saying anything, I cut the connection, an odd noise in the background just as I depressed the plunger. It sounded like the birds from jungle movies of the forties.