Flood worked carefully but quickly. She would have made a great surgeon, but I guess her calling in life was to make work for the medical profession-or the undertaker.

“See if you can press the edges together-do they match up?”

“Almost.” She grimaced.

“Okay,” I said out of the good side of my mouth, “can you hold the edges together and sew with one hand?”

“I don’t think so.” She sounded upset.

“All right, all right, no big deal. Take my hand and show me where to put it, I’ll hold everything together. You take this needle”-I pointed to the tiny curved piece of shiny steel-“and put some small stitches in as careful as you can, okay? Remember, they have to come out. Make sure the edges are together firmly so it’ll knit. You understand?” Flood nodded, still concentrating. She threaded the tiny needle as easily as putting a pencil in a donut hole. “Work from one end across to the other. Don’t overlap, I’ll have to take them out later. Tie a big knot at the end. That’s where we’ll cut them off.”

Flood put the stitches in silently, occasionally motioning me to move my hands so she could see better. When she finished I held up the mirror to check. Lovely work. I smeared the gauze pad liberally with Aureomycin ointment and put it in place. It didn’t taste too sporty but it would drain well and stop any infection in its tracks. I poured alcohol over my bridge and let it sit in the glass-I wouldn’t be using it for a while-then flicked off the overhead light and lay back in the semidarkness with my eyes closed. Flood lit a cigarette from my pack. “Can you smoke?” She touched her own mouth. I nodded, took it from her. Smoked silently, watching the red tip glow illuminating Flood’s blonde hair.

She shifted her hips, sat down on the desk next to me and asked in a matter-of-fact tone what was next. She was still afraid I’d panic. I took another drag, handed the butt to her, and she stubbed it out for me. “I have to call someone about Goldor. Can’t do it until seven in the morning when they open up.”

Flood glanced toward the still-open back door. “That’s still a couple of hours, just about. You have any pain-killers here?”

“No good-they put you to sleep, slow you down. Have to do a lot of talking soon. Work things out for Goldor.”

“And you’re a tough guy, right? Don’t need ’em.”

“Right-that’s me.”

Flood stood up, took off the jacket she was wearing, and pulled the jersey top over her head. Her breasts looked like hard white marble in the dim light. She came back over to me, sat on the desk again.

“Does next door have a shower or a bath?”

“Why?”

“I want to make love to you, Burke. And if there’s no shower here, I’ll never get these damn pants on again afterward.”

“There’s a shower, but-”

“It doesn’t matter. I don’t need to take them off.”

“More ancient Japanese techniques?”

“I don’t think so, but it’ll work just as well. Make you nice and sleepy, yes?”

“You sure?”

“Would you rather that way… or are you afraid I’ll hurt you if we…?”

“Both,” I said.

“Sold,” said Flood, and reached for my belt.

WHEN I CAME to, I was still in the chair. Pansy was muttering at me. I told her to go on the roof-the door was already open. I needed a shower and a change of clothes. I figured I couldn’t shave my face the way it was and I was glad of the excuse-I hate shaving. But Flood, who looked as fresh as new flowers, said she could shave me painlessly as long as I got my face warm and wet. It was awkward in the tiny bathroom, but Flood sat on the sink facing me and did a beautiful job. I never felt a thing. While she was shaving me I watched her breasts bounce ever so slightly in the morning light-she was biting her lip in concentration, and I thought how fine it would be to have her around all the time. I realized I’d been hit harder in the head than I’d thought.

At a little past seven in the morning I sat down at my desk again, checked the phones to make sure the hippies weren’t changing their ways, and dialed. It was picked up on the second ring. “Clinica de Obreros, buenos dias.”

“Doctor Cintrone, por favor.”

“El doctor esta con un paciente. Hay algun mensaje?”

“Por favor llamat al Señor White a las nueve esta mañana.”

“Esta bien.” And we both rang off.

Flood was staring at me. “I didn’t know you spoke Spanish.”

“I don’t. I just know a few phrases for certain situations.”

“You asked him to call you tomorrow?”

“Today, Flood. Mañana just means morning-like in German morgen means tomorrow, but if you say guten morgen it means good day.”

“Oh. So who’s this doctor?”

“Nobody. You didn’t hear that conversation. That knock on the head you gave me is making me stupid. I’ll do this, not you. Okay?”

Flood shrugged.

“I have to go out and see someone. I’m not sure when I’ll be back. You want to wait here, at your place, or what?”

“Would it be a problem to take me back to the studio? You could call me there.”

“No problem, I need the car anyway.”

I set out some food for Pansy, hung around a few moments until she snarfed it down, set up the office again, and we went downstairs to the garage. I moved quickly to get Flood home, and she seemed to understand that I was working on a schedule now. Jumping out of the Plymouth while it was still rolling to a stop, she threw me a quick wave over her shoulder and ran into her building. I had to be at the pay phone on Forty-second and Eighth at nine on the dot. That’s what the Mr. White message would mean to Dr. Pablo Cintrone, director and resident psychiatrist at the Hispanic Workers Clinic in East Harlem.

Pablo was a towering figure in the city, a graduate of Harvard Medical School who turned down a small fortune when he went back to where he came from. He’s a medium-sized, dark-skinned Puerto Rican with a moderate afro, a small beard, rimless glasses, and a smile that made you think of altar boys. He worked a twelve-hour day at the clinic, six days a week, and he still found time for his hobbies, like leading rent strikes and campaigning against the closing of local hospitals. The rumor that he went to medical school to learn how to perform abortions because the cost of the pregnancies he caused were going to break him was untrue. Other people thought he was dealing prescription drugs out of the clinic or that he was a secret slumlord. All bullshit, but he allowed the stories to circulate because it kept the focus away from things that were really important to him-like being el jefe of Una Gente Libre.

Una Gente Libre-A Free People-didn’t operate like most so-called underground groups. No letters to the newspapers, no phone calls to the media, no bombs in public places. They had been blamed for a number of outright assassinations over the years-a mixed bag of sweatshop owners, slum landlords, dope dealers, and apparently some honest citizens. But infiltration was impossible-they’d never applied for a government grant. The word would go on the street that UGL wanted someone-and someone would die. UGL was a dead-serious crew.

You can’t hang around Forty-second and Eighth. It’s a trouble-corner, especially after dark. But early in the morning there’s still a few citizens around. And, of course, plenty of whores in case the citizens want their cocktail hour a bit early. But the phone booths were empty, like I expected. I’d rather have used someplace else, but the rule is you can’t ever make calls from Mama’s. This conversation wouldn’t last long anyway. I knew where I had to go-I just had to be sure I could go there safely.

I rolled up on the phone with a minute or so to spare. It rang right on the money.

“It’s me.”

“So?”

“Have to meet you. Important.”