Part 45 (1/2)

”Quite possibly,” Carrie said.

He kissed her softly on the forehead. ”I'll be cheering for you, too.”

”I know you will, Joe.”

As far as Bud Schwartz was concerned, he'd rather be in jail than in a hospital. Practically everyone he ever knew who dieda”his mother, his brother, his uncles, his first probation officera”had died in hospital beds. In fact, Bud Schwartz couldn't think of a single person who'd come out of a hospital in better shape than when they'd gone in.

”What about babies?” Danny Pogue said.

”Babies don't count.”

”What about your boy? Mike, Jr., wasn't he borned in a hospital?”

”Matter of fact, no. It was the back of a Bronco. And his name is Bud, Jr., like I told you.” Bud Schwartz rolled down the window and tried to spit the toothpick from the corner of his mouth. It landed on his arm. ”A hospital's the last place for a sick person to go,” he said.

”You think she'll die there?”

”No. I don't wanna set foot in the place is all.”

”Jesus, you're a cold s.h.i.+t.”

Bud Schwartz was startled by his partner's anger. Out of pure guilt he relented and agreed to go, but only for a few minutes. Danny Pogue seemed satisfied. ”Let's get some roses on the way.”

”Fine. A lovely gesture.”

”Hey, it'll mean a lot to her.”

”Danny, this is the same woman who shot us. And you're talking flowers.”

Molly McNamara had driven herself to Baptist Hospital after experiencing mild chest pains. She had a private room with a gorgeous view of a parking deck.

When he saw her shriveled in the bed, Danny Pogue gulped desperately to suppress the tears. Bud Schwartz also was jarred by the sighta”she looked strikingly pallid and frail. And small. He'd never thought of Molly McNamara as a small woman, but that's how she appeared in the hospital: small and caved-in. Maybe because all that glorious white hair was stuffed under a paper cap.

”The flowers are splendid,” she said, lifting the thin plastic tube that fed extra oxygen to her nostrils.

Danny Pogue positioned the vase on the bedstand, next to the telephone. ”American Beauty roses,” he said.

”So I see.”

The burglars stood on opposite sides of the bed. Molly reached out and held their hands.

She said, ”A touch of angina, that's all. I'll be as good as new in a few days.”

Danny Pogue wondered if angina was contagious; it sounded faintly s.e.xual. ”The house is fine,” he said. ”The disposal jammed this morning, but I fixed it myself.”

”A spatula got stuck,” Bud Schwartz added. ”Don't ask how.”

Molly said, ”How is Agent Hawkins?”

”Same as ever.”

”Are you feeding him?”

”Three times a day, just like you told us.”

”Are his spirits improved?”

”Hard to tell,” Bud Schwartz said. ”He don't talk much with all that tape on his face.”

”I heard about the golfer being shot,” said Molly. ”Mr. Kingsbury's had quite a run of bad luck, wouldn't you say?” She asked the question with a trace of a smile. Danny Pogue glanced down at his shoes.

To change the subject, Bud Schwartz asked if there was a cafeteria in the hospital. ”I could sure use a c.o.ke.”

”Make that two,” said Danny Pogue. ”And a lemonade for Molly.”

”Yes, that would hit the spot. Or maybe a ginger ale, something carbonated.” She patted Danny Pogue's hand. Again he looked as if he were about to weep.

In the elevator Bud Schwartz couldn't shake the vision of the old woman sunken in bed. It was all Kingsbury's faulta”Molly hadn't felt right since those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds beat her up at the condo. That one of them had been gunned down later by a baboon was only a partial consolation; the other goon, the one with nine fingertips, was still loose. Joe Winder had said don't worry, they'll all paya”but what did Winder know about the law of the street? He was a writer, for Chrissakes. A G.o.dd.a.m.n dreamer. Bud Schwartz had agreed to help but he couldn't pretend to share Winder's optimism. As a lifelong criminal, he knew for a fact that the bad guys seldom get what they deserve. More often they just plain get away, even a.s.sholes who beat up old ladies.

Bud Schwartz was so preoccupied that he got off on the wrong floor and found himself standing amidst throngs of cooing relatives at the window of the nursery. He couldn't believe the number of newborn babiesa”it baffled him, left him muttering while others clucked and pointed and sighed. In a world turning to s.h.i.+t, why were so many people still having children? Maybe it was a fad, like CB radios and Cabbage Patch dolls. Or maybe these men and women didn't understand the full implications of reproduction.

More victims, thought Bud Schwartz, the last d.a.m.n thing we need. He gazed at the rows of sleeping infants, crinkly and squinty-eyed and blissfully innocent, and silently foretold their future. They would grow up to have automobiles and houses and apartments that would all, eventually, be burglarized by lowlifes such as himself.

When Bud Schwartz returned to Molly McNamara's room, he sensed he was interrupting something private. Danny Pogue, who had been talking in a low voice, became silent at the sight of his partner.

Molly thanked Bud Schwartz for the cup of ginger ale. ”Danny's got something to tell you,” she said.

”Yeah?”

”I must admit,” Molly said, ”he left me speechless.”

”So let's hear it already.”

Danny Pogue lifted his chin and thrust out his bony chest. ”I decided to give my share of the money to Molly.”

”Not to me personally,” she interjected. ”To the Mothers of Wilderness.”

”And the Wildlife Rescue Corps!”

”Unofficially, yes,” she said.

”The mob money,” Danny Pogue explained.

Bud Schwartz didn't know whether to laugh or scream. ”Twenty-five grand? You're just givin' it away?”

Molly beamed. ”Isn't that a magnificent gesture?”

”Oh, magnificent,” said Bud Schwartz. Magnificently stupid.

Danny Pogue picked up on his partner's sarcasm and tried to mount a defense. He said, ”It's just somethin' I wanted to do, okay?”