She said, "One of Alejandro's club buddies left a gram or so of coke in the glove box of my Jag. I haven't flushed it yet."
I said, "You want to blow cocaine in my face?"
"No," Induma said, "you want me to blow cocaine in your face."
She got the folded square of magazine page holding the coke, soaked the scalpel in alcohol, and we settled down, Homer standing over me in the Some Like It Hot bathrobe, eyes closed, no doubt trying to recall the principles of facial surgery. I lay on the sheet like a corpse, gripping Induma's hand in mine, waiting for the blade. The scalpel neared. His hand was trembling. He wiped his brow and stepped back.
"Do you have any scotch?" he asked. "I need a highball to settle the shakes."
As Induma started for the bar, I gazed up at his pale features.
"Better make it a double," I said.
Chapter 33
Afternoon light roused me, streaming through the curved wall of glass at the back of the living room. Immediately pain pulsed to life in my cheek. On the coffee table, just below the level of my face, squares of gauze crimped around blackened knots of blood. Blades of various sizes with darkened tips. A salad bowl filled with pink water. A quarter page of Vanity Fair, unfolded, white flakes across Nicole Kidman's dress. Towels and more towels. And there, triumphantly resting in a metal Nambe candy dish, Charlie Jackman's bone fragment.
Pounding pain across my crown. Dirt-dry mouth. Numbness down my left side, like a dead weight. Two feet above my face, dangling from its arcing stainless-steel stem, the shade of a giant lamp swung over me like a dental light. I was on the couch. Raising my aching head in the limited space, I peered around. Induma was burrowed between me and the cushioned back, her face pressed to my bare chest so that her cheek shifted forward to crowd her mouth. Homer was sprawled in the corner, his hairy belly rising through the bathrobe like a breaching marine mammal. The scene looked like the aftermath of an S amp;M rave.
I slid out from under Induma, and she grumbled but immediately appropriated my space. The imprint of her body had reddened my left side. Some of the feeling prickled back into my skin. At least the numbness hadn't been from some surgical mishap.
I fought my way to my feet, light-headed, the makeshift implements spinning like cartoon recall. The silver and crimson blur brought back last night's endless probing, a memory as sharp as vomit in the throat. It had been horrible, and cocaine hadn't lived up to its reputation. Despite Homer's best efforts, the procedure had gone on and on, a bottomless splinter dig, steel tips scratching bone. It wasn't until first light competed with the lamp that the piece of Charlie had popped free and Induma had wept with exhausted relief.
The digital camera was still peering from its tripod, though the red light no longer glowed. At the end of a single, grueling take worthy of Hitchcock, Induma had held up the bloody chip of bone with tweezers before the lens to document that the fragment was the one that had been lodged in my cheek. She'd encoded and uploaded the MPEG, along with scanned copies of the ultrasound and paternity test, to a secure off-site server.
Eager for an update on Baby Everett, I checked my cell phone, but there was no message from Steve. I moved unsteadily past the tripod into the bathroom. The first glance was horrifying, but after a few swipes with a towel soaked in warm water, most of the black crust lifted. The wound was fearsome in its depth, but it remained relatively small, a little bigger than a bullet head. After popping two extra-strength Tylenol and four Advil, I found a first-aid kit in the cupboard. A circular Band-Aid covered the wound, rendering my face, aside from its expression of squinting agony, normal.
The noise of the sink must have awakened Induma and Homer, because by the time I got back out, they were sitting up, blinking at each other like hungover acquaintances unsure if they'd slept together the previous night. Beyond the tinted windows, surfers pedaled by with boards under their arms. Carefree L.A. in full Sunday swing.
"What time is it?" Induma croaked.
"Almost five."
Homer shoved himself to his feet, stumbled to the bar, and refreshed his glass with Johnnie Walker Blue Label. He gulped it down, then rubbed his eyes and shook his head. The bathrobe was hanging open now, but no one seemed to notice.
"Gotta get dressed," he said, then staggered into the other room to find his rags.
Induma and I just looked at each other. She wore a pert little smile that seemed to say, Can you believe what we did last night? We both held the stare, pleased at our shared secret-a blood oath and an inside joke all in one. It was more precious unspoken, just us in the imperfect stillness, like me and Callie on Frank's back deck with the moths and the gold smudge of the porch light, Callie with her Crystal Light and sticks of charcoal, me watching her work, blissfully unaware that I'd never feel so contented again.
Homer finally returned, the appropriated pink bathrobe peeking out among the layers of dirty clothes. I doubted that Induma would want it back anyway. I threw on a shirt to walk him out and grabbed Charlie's rucksack-I didn't want it out of my sight.
Homer downed another glass of scotch before bending to kiss Induma's hand. We walked out, and he tilted his face to the sun.
I said, "I'd give you a ride, you know, but I should probably stay off the street. Take some money for the bus." I reached into the rucksack, tugged five hundreds from beneath one of the purple bands, and held them out.
He exhaled, relieved, his shoulders dropping. "I thought you were actually just gonna give me bus money." He took the bills, rubbing them together like gold coins.
I felt a flood of affection for him, for what we'd been through, and I said, "Listen, I feel like I ought to tell you I know. About your wife and kids, all that. And I'm sorry."
He did a double take, his jowls bouncing beneath that scraggly beard. "I was never married."
"It's okay. I found out by accident. About how you were a dentist and then you started drinking, left everything behind."
"A dentist? What are you talking about, Nick? I sold weatherproofmg."
Shaking his head, he folded the bills into his pocket and walked off, leaving me poleaxed on Induma's front walk.
Induma was still laughing. "You had a drunk former weatherproofmg salesman perform maxillofacial surgery on you."
"Faulty intel. It happens to the best of us. Besides, I was high on cocaine at the time. Impaired judgment."
"Especially this week. Homer's vocational history came from the same woman who sold you that 'Godfather's with Firebird' line?"
"You try getting wrapped up in a government conspiracy. It can wear a person down."
"I just hope she shows you the secret handshake next time."
"There's an obvious joke I'm not gonna make."
"Hey. Chivalry isn't dead."
We were at the counter, me on a stool, Induma leaning. Our old positions. We'd showered and squared away the living room. Then, when we realized we were starving, she'd whipped together some vadai-which, to her chagrin, I characterized as Indian falafel. Now we sat and drank green tea.
She followed my eyes to the chip of Charlie's bone, in a Ziploc on the counter next to the chutney. I said, "I wonder what bone it's from."
"Sacroiliac, I'm thinking. I'll run it in right now. That all you care about, or you wanna do a DNA, too?"
I couldn't help but grin. We sipped our tea some more, enjoying the sun-warmed room, prolonging the inevitable. "Might as well while they're at it."
"Okay. Two days to process. And no, there is no quicker way."
"Baby, I take the Jag." I thought it wasn't a bad Alejandro. "I bring it in for the service."
She snorted. "You sound like Ricky Ricardo. Where to?"