Part 15 (1/2)

”Just tell her there's something I need.”

The waiter let out a sly, knowing smile. Apparently, this was a familiar conversation. ”Yeah, yeah. I got it, I know ... there's always stuff we need.” He delivered his sandwiches, then disappeared into the back room.

Mama Ca.s.s stepped through the door a couple of minutes later. She glanced around the room, spotted me, and summoned me back with a wave of her hand.

A burst of steam hit me in the face as soon as I opened the kitchen door, greeting me with the spicy scent of pepper and simmering tomato sauce. It was a good-size kitchen, but it was mostly deserted. The central work s.p.a.ce was lit up bright with gas lanterns, but the periphery of the room remained dark and empty. A breeze flowed in through open windows along the back wall, cutting through the steam and spice with a damp, earthy chill.

There were bins of fresh vegetables stacked three deep in front of an unplugged industrial-size refrigerator, and a coffin-size footlocker blocked the rear entrance. The locker stood open, and I could see snow and ice packed around containers of store-bought meat. Mixed in with the ground beef and cuts of chicken and steak, I could see at least a dozen prepackaged Hormel hams. Hand-smoked, my a.s.s, I thought. There were three people working back here: the burly waiter, a.s.sembling sandwiches at a side table; a heavily tattooed girl, stirring pasta sauce on a camp stove; and a rail-thin old man, sweating over a generator-powered griddle.

Mama Ca.s.s-Sharon, I corrected myself, remembering her real name-flashed me a bright smile and ushered me into her office. In stark contrast to her employees, she looked clean and sophisticated. The consummate professional, I thought. A perfectly composed, unflappable businesswoman, ready to step from the pits of h.e.l.l straight into the nearest Fortune 500 boardroom.

Her office was a small room branching off the kitchen. I imagined it had once been a pantry before she'd taken over, now stripped of shelving and filled with office furniture.

”Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” she said, gesturing toward a chair. She sat on the edge of her desk, a couple of feet away. ”It's Dean, right? Sabine's friend, the photographer? I was wondering if I'd see you again.”

”Yeah, well, things happen, I guess,” I said lamely. ”I was hoping I could get your help with something. I've got money. I can pay you.” I reached for my backpack to show her the color of my money, but she dismissed the gesture with a flip of her hand.

”Don't worry about that now, Dean. Just tell me what you need. We can work out payment later. Okay?” She smiled. It was a warm smile, and if it was part of a mask-a calculated gesture meant to instill confidence and trust-it was a good mask, one she wore well.

”I need some drugs,” I said. ”I've got an infected wound, and I need something to keep my arm from falling off.”

”Show me,” she said, pus.h.i.+ng herself up off her desk. She made a lifting gesture with her finger, like she was flipping over a rock to study the ground underneath.

I nodded and pulled up my sleeve, revealing the swollen red flesh.

Sharon bent down over my hand and gently turned it toward the light. After a couple of seconds, she produced a pair of reading gla.s.ses from her blouse pocket and bent even closer, staring deeply into my palm. Her face crinkled up in concentration. She looked like a fortune-teller trying to make a difficult read.

”How long would it take you to find me some antibiotics?” I asked.

She dropped my hand and leaned back on her heel. There was a slightly amused look on her face. ”Are you kidding me? This whole place is just one big rusty nail, crawling with disease. I've got a room full of the stuff over there.” She pointed out the door, toward the other side of the kitchen.

I let out a loud sigh, and my stomach suddenly unclenched. Hearing those words ... it was a huge relief. One less thing to worry about.

”It's a really nasty wound,” she said, nodding toward my hand. She kept her eyes on my face even as her head bobbed up and down. ”How did it happen?” There was something odd about her voice-too much curiosity, maybe, or just a bit too quiet, too careful. It made it seem like she was trying to pull a fast one on me, trying to trick me into revealing sensitive information.

”I stepped on a rusty nail,” I said.

She chuckled and shook her head. Then her hand darted up to my forehead. She moved fast, and I didn't have time to pull away. ”You've got a nasty fever, too,” she said, resting the back of her hand against my flesh. ”If you'd waited any longer, I'd be calling in a chopper. Or digging you a hole.”

She stood up and left the room. I could hear her exchanging pleasantries with the kitchen staff as she crossed to the other side of the restaurant.

When she came back, she was holding a canvas bag full of medical supplies. ”Amoxicillin,” she said, pulling out a pill bottle. ”Twice a day for ten days. And if it doesn't start getting better in the next twenty-four hours, come back and I can give you a shot. I'd be surprised, though. The pills should do the trick. I've seen them work on worse.”

I nodded and accepted the pill bottle.

”Take one now,” she said, fixing me with steady, forceful eyes. She pulled a can of c.o.ke from her bag.

I swallowed one of the pills, chasing it down with a swig of warm soda. She nodded in approval and dug back into her bag.

”When was the last time you had a teta.n.u.s shot?” she asked. Her voice was clipped and fast, without a trace of emotion. It sounded like she was giving a perfunctory reading from a very familiar script.

”A couple years ago,” I said. Then I smiled. I actually had stepped on a rusty nail for that one.

”Then you're fine.” She pulled a syringe from her bag and lobbed it into the outgoing mail bin on her desk.

After a moment of thought, she pulled another bottle of pills from her bag and tossed it my way. I grabbed it from the air reflexively and let out a pained hiss as my injured hand clenched shut around the hard plastic. I muttered a curse, then turned the bottle in my steepled fingers. The pharmacy label read ”Hydrocodone,” but the word Vicodin was printed underneath in shaky letters. The name of the patient and prescribing doctor had been gouged out of the paper label. ”For the pain,” Sharon said with a smile. ”It must be screaming like a b.i.t.c.h right about now.”

My eyes darted from the pill bottle back up to her face. She was still smiling, a sly understanding smile. This is how it happens, I told myself. This is where I become indebted to her. It's one thing to accept antibiotics. Narcotics, on the other hand ... that's a completely different beast.

If I accept these pills, I become complicit.

I moved to return the bottle but stopped with my hand only partly extended. Sharon raised her palm and shook her head, warding me back like a traffic cop. ”Don't worry about it, Dean. Really, it's nothing. Your hand is injured. It's messed up pretty bad. I'd feel awful if I didn't help.”

”What do you want?” I asked, letting out an exhausted sigh. I was too tired to argue. I just didn't have the strength. ”What's the price?”

”Nothing. This is a community service, an act of fellows.h.i.+p. Hershel out there would call it a mitzvah.” She nodded toward the kitchen, and I guessed she was referring to the rail-thin man working at the griddle. ”We're in a dangerous situation here, and we all have to look out for each other. Am I right?”

I nodded in wary agreement. Then I waited for the other shoe to drop, for her mercenary intentions to become clear. I didn't have to wait long.

”Although,” she said, that sly smile returning to her lips, ”if it's not too much of a problem, there is an errand you could run for me. A simple errand. Actually, it's something you might enjoy, something you might find ... illuminating.”

And with that, her smile widened.

Sharon put new bandages on my hand. She dug antiseptic and clean gauze from the depths of her bag, then cleaned and dressed my wounds, going about the task with the care and competence of a trained nurse. Every now and then, she glanced up and gave me a rea.s.suring smile. It was the smile of a confident mother. A saint. A perfect, loving angel.

And it bothered me.

The way this was going, I couldn't tell if she was trying to f.u.c.k me or trying to tuck me in for the night.

When I couldn't take it anymore, I pulled my hand out of her grip. ”Don't you think this whole thing is incredibly cra.s.s? What you're doing here, to these people?” I nodded out toward the crowded restaurant. ”You're taking advantage of the situation. You're gaining profit and power from these people's misery.”

Sharon sighed and rolled her eyes. ”Yeah, well, I'm not exactly alone in that boat, now, am I, Dean?” She seemed exasperated by the accusation but not surprised, as if she'd been waiting for this, as if she'd seen it coming. ”Think about it. Think about what you're doing here. You're not coming into this situation as a scientist or a policeman; you're here as a photographer, a journalist.” She nodded toward my camera bag, and I fought the urge to push it back behind my chair, out of sight. ”You're not looking for a fix or a cure. You're not invested in the situation; you don't have family to protect, or even property. And you're certainly not trying to save lives. No, what you're doing ... you're looking for the next cool shot. You're looking for fame. Your own special kind of fame.”

She leaned forward and patted my knee. The annoyance was gone from her eyes, and now there was nothing but sympathy and understanding. ”I'm not operating under any illusions here, Dean. I'm no saint. But you might as well face that truth yourself. You're invested in the status quo, just like me. You're invested in the city staying strange. So you can take your pictures. So you can explore and report. And the reason you're here, the reason you came here, of your own free will, is because you'd rather be here, inside this weirdness, than anywhere else in the world.”

I leaned back in my chair and looked away. I opened my mouth, then closed it again. ”I'm still getting my feet wet,” I said lamely. ”I'm still waiting for the big picture.”

Sharon let out a laugh. It was a loud, barking laugh, and it surprised me. ”Big picture? You're waiting for the big picture? Well, let me tell you, Dean, from where you're standing, you won't see a thing.” She smiled and gave me a wink. ”From where you're standing, you won't be able to see the forest for the forest fire.”

She waited for me to respond. When I didn't, she gave me a nod and went back to work on my wounds.

Her words struck hard. They were a sucker punch to the gut, a big, strong jolt of truth.

And it is the truth, I realized. That's why all of those people out there in the restaurant gave me those withering looks. I came to the city to take pictures, while they scratch and sc.r.a.pe just to survive. I'm exploiting their hards.h.i.+p. I'm turning it into a product, something to study-dispa.s.sionately-and consume.

I could have lied to myself right then and convinced myself that I did have n.o.ble intentions, that I was looking for the truth, trying to show the world what was going on inside the military's oppressive media blackout. But that wasn't the truth. Carrying my camera, street to street, day to day, I'd never even thought about those things.

I just wanted people to see my pictures. I wanted them to be amazed. By me. By my skill. I wanted to save myself from a mundane future.

Not exactly a n.o.ble endeavor.