Sara Paretsky - Burn Marks

When I woke up again it was past noon. I didn’t feel like running a mile but I thought I could manage getting dressed and going to the grocery. When you feel really lousy, puppy therapy is indicated. I stopped at Mr. Contreras’s to pick up Peppy.

“You look terrible, doll. You doing okay?” He was wearing a red shirt so brilliant it hurt my eyes.

“I feel like death. But I’m going to get better. I just want to borrow the dog for a while.”

His faded brown eyes were bright with worry. “You sure you even oughta be dressed? Why don’t you go back to bed and I’ll fix you something to eat. You shouldn’t of got out of the hospital so soon. I don’t know what Dr. Lotty would say if she could see you.”

I swayed slightly and caught hold of the doorjamb. Peppy came over to lick my hands. “She’d say I got what was coming to me. This is just cork flu-it doesn’t have anything to do with my injuries, or at least not much.”

“Cork flu?” He cocked his head to one side. “Oh. You been drinking too much. Don’t do that, doll. It’s no way to solve your problems.”

“No, of course it isn’t. Who should know that better than you? I’ll bring Peppy back later.”

I wobbled off with the dog while he was squawking righteously about how knocking back a few with the boys was not the same as me drowning my sorrows in whiskey, I should know by now it was bad for my system. Peppy was totally uninterested in these fine points of ethics, or the different morality prevailing for men who drink than for women. She was staggered that we weren’t going running. She kept looking up at me to see if I was watching her, then looking very pointedly to the east to say we should be going that way.

When she saw it wasn’t going to happen she took it like a lady, waiting sedately outside the grocery on Diversey and staying fairly close going home. She’d run a half a block ahead of me, come back to see if I was still there, tree a squirrel a few yards back, then move ahead again. Back at my apartment she placed herself on the kitchen floor between the stove and table. In my stupefied condition I kept stepping on her tail but she didn’t move-what if some food fell?-she wanted to be able to get to it before I tripped on it. That’s what a guard dog is for.

I squeezed some orange juice and fried hamburgers for the two of us, hers without rye or lettuce. The hamburger raised my blood sugar to the point that I thought I might even manage to live another few days.

I’d intended to go back to the Recorder of Deeds office to look up Farmworks; if it wasn’t a partnership, I’d have to drive to Springfield to see whether they’d been incorporated. Halfway through the second bottle last night, though, as Rick described in hilarious detail the collapse of a set he’d designed for the La Brea Tarpit Wars , I’d remembered the Lexis system. If you had a pal who subscribed to it, you could find out who the officers of a closely held company were as long as it had filed to do business in Illinois.

I wasn’t up to taking the first step, visiting the Recorder’s office in the old county building, but I went to the living room to call Freeman Carter. He’s my attorney, not exactly a pal, and he wouldn’t get me the information for nothing, but it still beat driving to Springfield.

Freeman expressed himself pleased at hearing from me-his secretary had brought in the news clips about my near death. He’d been waiting for me to feel better before seeing if I wanted to start a civil action against anyone.

“You mean the way you have to do if the Klan murders your kid?” I asked. “What is it you do-sue for being deprived of your civil right to life?”

“Something like that.” He laughed. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m coming along, but I was too ambitious yesterday- I’m not going out today. I was wondering if you’d do something for me.”

“Maybe, if it relates to my proper professional role in your life and if it is very clearly marked ‘legal.’”

“When have I ever asked you to do something illegal?” I demanded, stung.

He responded more promptly than I really enjoyed. “There was the time you asked me to give you financial details on one of Crawford, Meade’s other clients. That’s not only illegal but highly unethical. Then when you wanted me to get a restraining order against Dick you could hardly stand it when I turned you down. Then ten or twelve months ago-”

“Okay, okay,” I interrupted hastily. “But those were all things I would have done myself if I’d been able to. Name something illegal I wouldn’t do myself.”

“I don’t have that much imagination. And anyway, you wouldn’t give away confidential client records to anyone. Probably not even to me. Still want to ask me something?”

“Just for some information out of Lexis.” Peppy, giving up on the idea of more hamburger, started exploring the room to see who had been there since her last visit.

“You still don’t have a computer? Christ, Vic, when are you going to join the eighties?”

“Soon,” I promised. “Very soon. As soon as I get four thousand dollars that isn’t marked rent or mortgage or insurance or something. Also I need a new car. The Chevy has ninety-five thousand miles on it and is starting to make horrible grinding noises at high speeds.”

“Don’t drive it so fast,” he advised unkindly. “What do you need off Lexis? Just the officers of a corporation? Spell it out for me, okay-one word, right, ‘works’ not capitalized. One of the paralegals will call you back this afternoon or tomorrow morning. Drink some chicken soup and get a good sleep.”

The sleep idea sounded inviting, but first I checked in with my answering service to see how many people I’d kept hanging since Saturday. Lotty had phoned once, as had Furey, Robin Bessinger had called a couple of times.

Maybe Michael had some word on my aunt. I tried both the station and his house and left a message on his machine.

After hanging up I went to the window to stare down at the Chevy. The real reason I’d been skipping my calls was my aunt. Her condition had been pretty marginal when she left the hospital; every time the phone rang I was afraid it was someone with bad news about her.

If she did turn up alive, she’d probably need some nursing care. Maybe I could get Peter to shell out for it, but history didn’t make me want to bet on it. You’d better not be blowing your transmission or anything really irreplaceable like that, I warned the car. ′Cause it’s you and me, babe, for the foreseeable future.

At least I could call Robin. It might be that we’d killed the personal side of our life together, but I ought to be friendly-if I could only play the corporate politics right, I could turn Ajax into a major account.

Robin was in a meeting. With her usual bouncy good cheer the receptionist promised to give him my message. I fiddled with the cord to the blinds. What I really ought to do was call Murray and talk to him about the lack of any Hispanic or black workers at the Alma work site, even though they’d won part of the Ryan contract because they were a minority contractor. But MacDonald had promised me more details about Alma and Roz and I thought I should give him another day before going public. Waiting wasn’t my style, though. Why was I being so patient now?

“You’re getting old, Vic,” I told my wavery reflection in the window. “People didn’t used to scare you so easily.” Was it his phone call last night or my being trapped in the Prairie Shores last week? It had to be the phone call- I didn’t have any reason to connect him with my near death. Except, of course, for the note he’d sent with his greenhouse.

Behind me Peppy was whimpering in frustration. I pulled on the cord to the blinds impatiently, then flicked them shut and looked to see whether she needed to go out. She came over to me, pawed my leg, then went back to the sofa, got down on her forepaws, and whimpered again, her tail waving gently.