"That's riiii-ghht."
Chaz Perrone said, "We should get together, you and me."
"Why?"
"To talk."
"We're talking now," Stranahan said. "You tossed your beloved into the Atlantic Ocean. I'm curious to hear an explanation."
"I didn't push her. She fell."
"That's not what I saw."
"Listen to me," Perrone pleaded, but his voice trailed away.
"Yoo-hoo? Chaz?"
"We should do this in person."
"Do what? There's eighteen hundred dollars in your checking account," Stranahan said. "That's pitiful."
"I can get more," Perrone blurted. Then, warily: "How'd you know what I have in the bank?"
"Pity-full."
"Don't hang up. Don't!"
Stranahan said, "How would you ever get enough money?"
"People owe me."
Stranahan laughed. "Are you a biologist or a loan shark?" "Okay, Rolvaag. Tell me how much you want." Again with the "Rolvaag" stuff, thought Stranahan. "I haven't decided on an amount," he said.
"Okay, when can we get together? I'm serious."
"Bye-bye, Chaz."
"Wait," Perrone said, "I've gotta ask-that voice you're doing?"
"Yeah?"
"Jim Carrey, right?"
Stranahan said, "Mister, my price just doubled."
Tool filled the bedroom doorway, demanding to know who the hell was calling so early in the morning. When Chaz Perrone said it was the blackmailer, Tool swore groggily and lurched back to bed. It had been a long, fitful night, the fentanyl patches having dried up one by one, dying like flowers. The so-called doctor had been no help whatsoever-obviously he hated the idea of Tool staying inside his house, and the feeling was mutual. But Red was the boss man, and Red said he didn't want Tool out on the street, freaking the neighbors. He was to remain with the doctor, and make sure nobody else broke in. Chaz Perrone grudgingly had surrendered the guest bedroom. Later Tool had attempted a shower, but within five minutes he shed so much tarry body hair that the drain clogged. Chaz had cleaned it out with a coat hanger; not saying a word, but Tool could tell he was ticked.
For breakfast Tool prepared an omelette, using nine eggs, a pint of clotted cream, a half pound of cheddar, assorted peppers, a pawful of pitted olives and four ounces of Tabasco. As Tool slurped down the pungent creation, the doctor reeled from the kitchen in disgust.
Afterward Tool announced he was heading out in search of medicine. "Where's the closest hospital?" he asked Chaz Perrone.
"Are you out of your mind? You can't sneak into a hospital and steal that stuff."
"Wherever they's a hospital, they's a nursing home close by. Or else a whatchacallit-a place where they put, you know, the terminals. Them that's gone die."
"You mean like a hospice."
"Right," Tool said, "where the people are too sickly to make a fuss."
"And then?"
"I look around till I find the ones with stick-on patches."
"Jesus." The doctor suddenly got quiet.
"Well?"Tool demanded.
"Does Mr. Hammernut know you do this?"
"Red don't pry hisself into my bidness."
"Smart man." Charles Perrone reached for a pen. "The nearest hospital is Cypress Creek. I'll write down the directions."
"Draw me a pitcher instead."
"A map, you mean."
Tool smiled. "Yeah, that'd be good."
He had dumped the minivan at Hertz and defected to Avis for a black Grand Marquis. The extra legroom was a treat, and the air conditioning was purely glorious. Once Tool located the hospital, he began scouting adjacent neighborhoods for likely targets. The first place was called Serenity Villas, but he backed off as soon as he realized it was an assisted-living facility. That meant that the old folks were still hoofing around pretty good, and in Tool's experience they did not part easily with their medications.
His next stop was Elysian Manor, a convalescent home run by a local church. Tool put on the size XXXL lab whites that he always carried, and entered through a rear service door. For a large man he moved unobtrusively, checking one bed at a time. Some of the patients, as frail as baby sparrows, were sound asleep; those Tool gently rolled over to inspect for patches. The patients who were awake behaved cooperatively, although one launched into a fractured monologue that Tool couldn't sort out-something about a sellout in Yalta, wherever the hell that was.
The lack of visitors was one reason that Tool favored nursing homes over hospitals. Why people spent so little time with their ailing mothers and fathers, he didn't know, but it was a bankable fact. In only one room at Elysian Manor did Tool encounter a relative perched at a patient's bedside-Tool excusing himself with a wave, and moving on down the hall. Nobody in authority displayed the slightest interest in his presence; the harried nurses assumed he was a newly hired orderly, turnover being universally rampant at geriatric facilities.
He hit pay dirt in no. 33, a private room. The patient, a bony-shouldered woman with permed silver hair, was curled up, sleeping with her face to the wall. The back of her cotton gown was untied, revealing on her papery gray skin a crisp new patch of fentanyl. Tool crept forward and began to peel it off. The woman spun violently, her knobby right elbow nailing him like a cudgel between the eyes. Rocking backward, Tool groped for the bed rail to steady himself.
"What're you up to?" The woman's fierce blue eyes were clear and alert.
"Changin' out your patch," Tool mumbled.
"But they just gave me a new one an hour ago."
"Ma'am, I just do what they tell me."
"I believe that's a load of bull crap," she said.
This is no good, Tool thought. She's too damn ornery.
"They'll bring you more," he said. "Come on now, roll over."
"You're sick, too, I can tell. Is it cancer?"
Tool fingered the rising lump on his forehead. "I ain't sick," he said, glancing at the door. He expected somebody to barge in any second.
"I'm Maureen." The woman pointed at a straight-backed chair in the corner. "Pull that over here and sit. What's your name?"
Tool said, "Nice and easy now. Lemme take off that patch, then you can go back to sleep."
Maureen sat herself up, plumping a pillow behind her head. "I must look terrible," she said, touching her hair. "I wasn't sleeping, for your information. In my condition, who could sleep? Pull up that chair, I'll give you what you want."
All Tool could think about was the warm embrace of the drug, deep and delicious. He dragged the chair over to Maureen's bedside and sat down.
"You're in pain, aren't you?" she inquired.
"Damn straight. I gotta bullet up the crack a my ass."
"Yow."
"That's how come I need the dope," Tool said. "So, what d'ya say?"
He didn't want to take it by force. She was a scrapper and he'd have to get rough, maybe even strangle her…
"How did you happen to be shot?" she asked.
"Huntin' accident."
"And they couldn't remove it surgically?"
"Guess not," Tool said.
"My late husband was a police officer in the city of Chicago, Illinois. He shot a man once."
"Not up the ass, I bet."
"It was in the shoulder," Maureen said. "The fellow was a hardened criminal. He robbed a gypsy cab. Are you a criminal?"
"Not to my way of thinkin'." Tool was perspiring through his medical whites. He fought the urge to tear the patch from the old coot's hide and bolt for the door.
Maureen said, "All right. I can see you need the medicine more than I do." She turned and presented her bare back, gesturing over one shoulder. "Go ahead and take it, but please be careful. I tend to bleed for no darn reason these days."