Bud Schwartz had been smoking in a holding cell of the Dade County Jail when Molly McNamara arrived.
At the time, she was a volunteer worker for Jackson Memorial Hospital and the University of Miami Medical School; her job was recruiting jail inmates as subjects for medical testing, a task that suited her talent for maternal prodding. She had entered the holding cell wearing white rubber-soled shoes, a polyester nurse’s uniform and latex gloves.
“I’m insulted,” Bud Schwartz had said.
Molly McNamara had eyed him over the top of her glasses and said, “I understand you’re looking at eighteen months.”
“Twelve, tops,” Bud Schwartz had said.
“Well, I’m here to offer you a splendid opportunity.”
“And I’m here to listen.”
Molly had asked if Bud Schwartz was interested in testing a new ulcer drug for the medical school.
“I don’t have no ulcers.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Molly had said. “You’d be in the control group.” A pill a day for three months, she had explained. Sign up now, the prosecutor asks the judge to chop your time in half.
“Your friend’s already agreed to it.”
“That figures,” Bud Schwartz had said. “I end up with ulcers, he’ll be the cause of it.”
When he’d asked about possible side effects, Molly read from a printed page: headaches, high blood pressure, urinary-tract infections.
“Run that last one by me again.”
“It’s unlikely you’ll experience any problems,” Molly had assured him. They’ve been testing this medication for almost two years.”
“Thanks, just the same.”
“I know you’re smarter than this,” Molly had told him in a chiding tone.
“If I was really smart,” Bud Schwartz had said, “I’d a put new plugs in the car.”
A week later she had returned, this time without the rubber gloves. Pulled his rap sheet out of her purse, held it up like the Dead Sea Scrolls.
“I’ve been looking for a burglar,” she had said.
“What for?”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
“Very funny,” Bud Schwartz had said.
“Call me when you get out. You and your friend.”
“You serious?”
“It’s not what you think,” Molly had said.
“I can’t think of anything. Except maybe you’re some kinda snitch for the cops.”
“Be serious, young man.” Again with the needle in her voice, worse than his mother. “Don’t mention this to anyone.”
“Who the hell would believe it? Ten grand, I swear.”
“Call me when you get out.”
“Be a while,” he said. “Hey, is it too late to get me in on that ulcer deal?”
That was six months ago.
Bud Schwartz touched the place on his brow where the rent-a-cop’s flashlight had clobbered him. He could feel a scabby eruption the size of a golf ball. “Damn,” he said, opening his eyes slowly.
Molly McNamara moved closer and stood over him. She was wearing her reading glasses with the pink roses on the frames. She said, “Your friend is in the bedroom.”
“Danny’s back?”
“I was on my way here when I spotted him at the Farm Stores. He tried to get away, but—”
“You didn’t shoot him again?” Bud Schwartz was asking more out of curiosity than concern.
“No need to,” said Molly. “I had the Cadillac. I think your friend realized there’s no point in getting run over.”
With a wheeze, Bud Schwartz sat up. His ears pounded and stomach juices bubbled up sourly in his throat. As always, Molly was prompt with the first aid. She handed him a towel filled with chipped ice and told him to pack it against his wound.
Danny Pogue clumped into the living room and sat on the other end of the sofa. “You look like shit,” he said to Bud Schwartz.
“Thank you, Tom Selleck.” From under the towel Bud Schwartz glared with one crimson eye.
Molly McNamara said, “That’s enough, the both of you. I can’t begin to tell you how much trouble you’ve caused.”
“We was trying to get out of your hair is all,” said Danny Pogue. “Why’re you keeping us prisoners?”
Molly said, “Aren’t we being a bit melodramatic? You are not prisoners. You’re simply two young men in my employ until I decide otherwise.”
“In case you didn’t hear,” said Bud Schwartz, “Lincoln freed the slaves a long time ago.”