Gail came in with a pair of men's pajamas, still in a wrapper. "These should fit," she said. "It was a Christmas present I never got to give Alan, and he was about your size."
The three women wandered off to the living room while Kurtz struggled into the pajamas. He knew he had more he had to do tonight, but he couldn't quite remember what it was. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Dodger's face and open mouth. The trick, he discovered, was to button the pajamas without letting the cotton touch his back or neck. He couldn't quite master it.
He felt better by the time he joined the three in the hole living room. Aysha gestured toward the opened sleeper sofa and its tangle of pillows and blankets. "You sleep here, Mr. Kurtz. I sleep with your daughter."
Kurtz could only stare at the woman.
"Gail leaves around seven-thirty," said Arlene. "What time do you want to get going, Joe?"
Kurtz looked at his watch. He couldn't quite focus on medial.
"Seven?" he said. That would give him a full three and a half hours.
"Go to sleep, Joe," said Arlene,
leading him to the opened bed.
For the second time that night, Kurtz fell face forward. This time he did not rise.
Kurtz drove the Pinto behind Gail DeMarco's little Toyota in the morning and, thanks to her intercession, was in the ICU when Rigby King woke up.
"Joe. What's up?"
"Not much," said Kurtz. "What's new with you?"
"Can't think of anything," said Rigby. "Except I love this Darvocet morphiney stuff they put in the IV drip. And I don't think that I can pretend to be asleep much longer todayPaul Kemper won't buy it And he wants your ass."
"Why?" said Kurtz. "Didn't you tell them you couldn't remember who shot you?"
"Yeah," sighed Rigby. "But the problem with saying that you don't remember who did something is that you can't say that you do remember who didn't do something. If you follow my drift."
"More or less," said Kurtz. He had to sit forward on the upright hospital chair next to her bed, making sure the back of it didn't touch his back. He'd slept on his stomach during the time he did sleep. "Feeling the drugs. Rig?"
"Yeah. Li'l bit I'm going to doze for just a few minutes if you don't mind. You going to be here when I wake up, Joe?"
"Yeah."
Her eyes fluttered and then opened. "The doctor told me that another hour, they would've had to amp ampa cut off my leg."
"It's okay," said Kurtz, touching her arm. "We'll talk when you wake up."
With her eyes closed, Rigby said, "You don't know who shot me yet, Joe?"
"Not yet."
"'Kay. Tell me when you do." She started snoring softly.
The blue steel muzzle touched the back of Kurtz's scarred neck. He jerked awake. He'd fallen asleep in the chair, still leaning forward so his back didn't touch.
"Don't move a muscle," said Paul Kemper. "Put your hands behind your head. Slowly."
Kurtz did so slowly because it hurt too much to do it quickly.
"Stand up."
Kurtz did that slowly as well. Kemper patted him down expertly, not noticing when Kurtz drew in his breath sharply when his back and shoulders were touched. He wasn't armed.
Kurtz had run out of luck this morning as far as his streak of being around women who happened to have fresh clothes ready for him; he couldn't wear the sweater and peacoat, but none of the ladies had happened to stock a supply of shirts. In the end, he'd pulled on an oversized sweatshirt of Gail's that said HAMILTON COLLEGE on the front. Since he didn't think it would be a good idea to wear the peacoat with three bullet holes in it, Kurtz had just gone without a jacket this brisk but sunny first-of-November morning. He'd left the Browning with Arlene at Gail's apartment. When Arlene had said, "Can I go home yet, Joe?" he'd answered, "Not yet."
"Sit down," said Kemper. "Keep your hands clasped behind the chair."
Kurtz did as he was told. Kemper walked over to the hospital table by Rigby's bed and set a steaming, Styrofoam cup of coffee on it. He held his Glock on Kurtz as he opened the coffee one-handed and took a careful sip from it.
"You didn't cuff me," said Kurtz. "You haven't read me my rights. You're not arresting me. Yet."
"Shut the fuck up," said Kemper. He lowered the Glock when the nurse bustled in and changed one of Rigby's IV bags, but he kept it in his hand when she left.
They sat there for a while. Kurtz wished he had some coffee.
"I know you're involved in this, Kurtz. I just haven't figured out how."
"I'm just visiting a sick friend, Detective."
"My ass," said Kemper. "Where did you and Detective King go Sunday? She says she can't remember."
"We just took a ride in the country. Talked over old times."
"Uh huh," said Kemper. The black cop looked as if he was trying to decide whether to pistol-whip Kurtz or not. "Where'd you go?"
"Just out in the country," said Kurtz. "Just riding and talking. You know how it is."
"When'd you get back?"
Kurtz shrugged and barely succeeded in not wincing. His shoulders didn't like this posture with his hands clasped behind his back. "Late morning," he said. "I don't know."