9

It took a lot of wheedling, but the hospital finally agreed to allow Eddie a peek at Mount Sinai’s latest Jane Doe.

Jack had never been particularly enamored of hospitals, but after Gia and Vicky’s ordeal earlier this year, he’d developed a definite aversion. The last time he’d seen the inside of one had been May when he and Abe had visited Professor Buhmann after his stroke. Right here at Mount Sinai, in fact.

The old guy had moved on to a nursing home, and then last month he’d matriculated to the Great Lecture Hall in the Sky. A grieving Abe had dragged Jack to the memorial service.

“They say she’s still unconscious,” Eddie said.

They stood in a foyer as he waited for security to escort him up to the floor.

Jack nodded. “Figured that.”

After all, she wouldn’t still be listed as a Jane Doe if she could tell them her name. Jack and Eddie used to play Master of the Obvious as kids. He wasn’t going to bring that up now.

Visions of Gia and Vicky inert in their beds with tubes running in and out of them flashed through Jack’s brain.

“If it is her, how are you going to prove you’re related?”

Eddie shook his head. “Damned if I know. They asked me if I had a picture of her. Are they kidding? Who carries a picture of his sister? Do you carry a picture of Kate?”

“No. But maybe I should.”

“Oh, hell, Jack. I’m sorry. I heard about Kate. I should have said something. She was a . . . a wonderful person. And your dad. That was the most bizarre damn thing. My condolences. I would have said so earlier except . . .”

“Don’t give it another thought. Let’s think about Weez. You have a key to her place, right? If Jane Doe is Weezy, you could match it up with a key in her bag.”

“Except this lady’s bag was stolen from the scene of the accident.”

“Swell.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said. “What kind of person sees somebody knocked down by a car and the first thing he thinks of is snatching her purse? I’m glad I live in Jersey.”

“Right,” Jack said, feeling suddenly defensive. “Like that would never happen in Newark or Paterson.”

A uniformed security guard arrived then.

“This won’t take long,” Eddie said as the guy guided him toward the elevators. “All I need is a peek.”

“If it’s her, you let me know ASAP and I’ll come up.”

He hoped not. Under any circumstances it would be kind of strange to reconnect with Weezy after all these years. But Weezy in a coma . . . he couldn’t bear the thought of that unique, bright mind with the power cut off.

As an elevator swallowed Eddie, Jack wandered around to kill time. He found a Starbucks Kiosk and was going to grab a coffee of the day when he realized one of the patrons—a skinny, shaggy-haired guy—looked familiar from the back. He wandered closer and recognized Darryl. As he looked up Jack quickly turned and wandered away. He wondered what Darryl was up to. He’d noticed a Band-Aid in the crook of his arm. Blood tests? He didn’t look happy to be here. In fact, he looked damn scared.

10

Darryl wondered why that bearded dude had been staring at him, then decided he didn’t care. He’d looked kind of familiar. Like maybe he’d seen him around the Lodge. Another sick Kicker? Well, who cared? Wasn’t going to be able to care much about anything until he got the results of those blood tests.

Weird how they’d told him to wait right here for the results. Whoever heard of getting test results right away?

This had to be real serious.

He had to say he was impressed with Drexler’s suck. He’d made his call and next thing Darryl knew he was on his way uptown to a big-time specialist. He’d been ushered right through Dr. Orlando’s office and into an examining room. He’d spent fifteen seconds, tops, with the doctor, a bald, round-headed fat guy in a white coat who reminded Darryl of Dr. Honeydew on The Muppet Show. He popped through the door, took one look at the rash, rattled off a bunch of medical gobbledygook to his assistant, and disappeared. Next stop had been the lab where they sucked out some blood, and then here to wait.

Why here? Darryl wondered why he wasn’t cooling his heels in Dr. Orlando’s office. He’d noticed INFECTIOUS DISEASES on the door. That was good, right? Infections could be cured.

“Mister Kulik?”

It took Darryl a second to respond. No one hardly ever used his second name. He was just Darryl to folks. He looked up and saw the doc’s skinny, red-haired assistant. Her name tag read B. SNYDER PA.

“Doctor will see you now.”

Darryl started shaking as he rose from the chair.

“He’s got results? What do I have?”

“The doctor will tell you.”

“Hey, if you know—”

“He wishes to discuss this with you himself.”

He shook all the way to the office. The walk, the elevator ride—blurs. Eventually he found himself sitting across the desk from Dr. Orlando.

“Well, Mister Kulik,” he said as he stared at the printout in his hands, “the stat labs confirm what I knew the instant I saw your skin lesion.”

“You mean the rash? What is it?”

“Kaposi’s sarcoma.”

“What’s that?”

“A form of cancer associated—”

“Shit!” Darryl would have leaped from the seat if his legs would have held him. “I got cancer?”

“Yes, but we can keep it under control by treating the underlying cause.”

“Which is?”

“AIDS.”

It took a while for the word to sink in, and when it did, Darryl felt like he’d turned to stone.

“What?”

“Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome, Mister Kulik. Your HIV test came back positive.”

He said it like a sandwich guy telling him they were out of ham but he could have turkey instead.

“But-but-but queers get AIDS!” he blurted when he found his voice. “I ain’t queer!”

“We prefer the terms ‘homosexual’ or ‘gay,’ Mister Kulik. And indeed you need not be homosexual to catch HIV. Heterosexual transmission occurs, but the majority of HIV-positive heterosexuals I see are the victims of contaminated syringes. Are you a drug addict or do you have a history of drug abuse?”

“No way. Never.”

Dr. Orlando’s tone said he didn’t believe him. “Yes, well, be that as it may, I—” He stopped and pointed at Darryl’s hand. “Oh, I see you have a tattoo. Contaminated tattoo needles can spread the infection as well.”

Darryl looked down at the little black Kicker Man in the web between his thumb and forefinger.

“Aw, no. Don’t say that.”

“The manner in which you were infected does not affect your treatment options. The fact that you have Kaposi’s indicates that you’ve been infected for some time—years, most likely.”

Years? Then it couldn’t be the Kicker tattoo. He hadn’t had it anywhere near that long. But how then? Darryl couldn’t imagine. He’d had a couple of girlfriends back in Dearborn after his divorce—well, okay, before his divorce too—but he’d always used a rubber because they hadn’t been the choosiest women.

But right now how didn’t matter all that much. He had AIDS, man. Fucking AIDS!

He listened to the doc go on about staging him and waiting for the results of tests that would take longer to complete and how treatment was so much better these days.

Yeah, sure. Medical bullshit. Everybody knew AIDS was a death sentence. So as the doc rattled on about this and that, tossing out terms like T-cell counts and remission, Darryl rose and forced his rubbery legs to carry him out of the office and back down toward the street.

Dead man walking.

He wasn’t a fool. He’d been handed a death sentence.

He just couldn’t let anyone else know.