“Uh,” she said.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Chemo, shoving her back in the room, kicking the door shut behind him, savagely cursing his own rotten luck. The woman was wrapped from forehead to throat in white surgical tape—a fucking mummy! He took the photograph from his overcoat and handed it to Maggie Gonzalez.
“Is that you?” he demanded.
“No.” The answer came from parchment lips, whispering through a slit in the bandages. “No, it’s not me.”
Chemo could tell that the woman was woozy. He told her to sit down before she fell down.
“It’s you, isn’t it? You’re Maggie Gonzalez.”
She said, “You’re making a big mistake.”
“Shut up.” He took off his broad-brimmed hat and threw it on the bed. Through the peepholes in the bandage, Maggie was able to get a good look at the man’s remarkable face.
She said, “My God, what happened to you?”
“Shut the fuck up.”
Chemo unbuttoned his overcoat, heaved it over a chair, and paced. The trip was turning into a debacle. First the man in Queens had sold him a rusty Colt .38 with only two bullets. Later, on the subway, he had been forced to flee a group of elderly Amish in the fear that they might recognize him from his previous life. And now this—confusion. While Chemo was reasonably sure that the bandaged woman was Maggie Gonzalez, he didn’t want to screw up and kill the wrong person. Dr. Graveline would never understand.
“Who are you?” Maggie said thickly. “Who sent you?”
“You ask too many questions.”
“Please, I don’t feel very well.”
Chemo took the Colt from the waistband of his pants and pointed it at the bandaged tip of her new nose. “Your name’s Maggie Gonzalez, isn’t it?”
At the sight of the pistol, she leaned forward and vomited all over Chemo’s rubber-soled winter shoes.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he moaned and bolted for the bathroom.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie called after him. “You scared me, that’s all.”
When Chemo came back, the shoes were off his feet and the gun was back in his pants. He was wiping his mouth with the corner of the towel.
“I’m really sorry,” Maggie said again.
Chemo shook his head disgustedly. He sat down on the corner of the bed. To Maggie his legs seemed as long as circus stilts.
“You’re supposed to kill me?”
“Yep,” Chemo said. With the towel he wiped a fleck of puke off her nightgown.
Blearily she studied him and said, “You’ve had some dermabrasion.”
“So?”
“So how come just little patches—why not more?”
“My doctor said that would be risky.”
“Your doctor’s full of it,” Maggie said.
“And I guess you’re an expert or something.”
“I’m a nurse, but you probably know that.”
Chemo said, “No, I didn’t.” Dr. Graveline hadn’t told him a thing.
Maggie went on, “I used to work for a plastic surgeon in Miami. A butcher with a capital B.”
Subconsciously Chemo’s fingers felt for the tender spots on his chin. He was almost afraid to ask.
“This surgeon,” he said to Maggie, “what was his name?”
“Graveline,” she said. “Rudy Graveline. Personally, I wouldn’t let him trim a hangnail.”
Lugubriously Chemo closed his bulbous red eyes. Through the codeine, Maggie thought he resembled a giant nuclear-radiated salamander, straight from a monster movie.
“How about this,” he said. “I’ll tell you what happened to my face if you tell me what happened to yours.”
It was Chemo’s idea to have breakfast in Central Park. He figured there’d be so many other freaks that no one would notice them. As it turned out, Maggie’s Tutlike facial shell drew more than a few stares. Chemo tugged his hat down tightly and said, “You should’ve worn a scarf.”
They were sitting near Columbus Circle on a bench. Chemo had bought a box of raisin bagels with cream cheese. Maggie said her stomach felt much better but, because of the surgical tape, she was able to fit only small pieces of bagel into her mouth. It was a sloppy process, but two fat squirrels showed up to claim the crumbs.
Chemo was saying, “Your nose, your chin, your eyelids—Christ, no wonder you hurt.” He took out her picture and looked at it appraisingly. “Too bad,” he said.