when she reported that Jack had come around, and she knew they would
put the word on the department grapevine. Unlike the doctors, they
understood when she refused to focus gloomily on the paralysis and the
treatment required to overcome it.
“I need someone to take me home,” Heather said, “so I can get my car.
I want to go see Alma Bryson.”
“I’ll take you there and then home,” Gina said. “I want to see Alma
myself.”
Gina Tendero was the most colorful spouse in the division and perhaps
in the entire Los Angeles Police Department. She was twenty-three
years old but looked fourteen. Tonight she was wearing five-inch
heels, tight black leather pants, red sweater, black leather jacket, an
enormous silver medallion with a brightly colored enamel portrait of
Elvis in the center, and large multiple-hoop earrings so complex they
might have been variations of those puzzles that were supposed to relax
harried businessmen if they concentrated totally on disassembling
them.
Her fingernails were painted neon purple, a shade reflected slightly
more subtly in her eye shadow. Her jet-black hair was a mass of curls
that spilled over her shoulders, it looked as much like a wig as any
Dolly Parton had ever worn, but it was all her own.
Though she was only five three without shoes and weighed maybe a
hundred and five pounds dripping wet, Gina always seemed bigger than
anyone around her. As she walked along the hospital corridors with
Heather, her footsteps were louder than those of a man twice her size,
and nurses turned to frown disapprovingly at the tock-tock-tock of her
high heels on the tile floors.
“You okay, Heth?” Gina asked as they headed for the four-story parking
garage attached to the hospital.
“Yeah.”
“I mean really.”
“I’ll make it.”
At the end of a corridor they went through a green metal door into the
parking garage. It was bare gray concrete, chilly, with low
ceilings.
A third of the fluorescent lights were broken in spite of the wire
cages that protected them, and the shadows among the cars offered
countless places of concealment.
Gina fished a small aerosol can from her purse, holding it with her
index finger on the trigger, and Heather said,”What’s that?”
“Red-pepper Mace. You don’t carry?”
“No.”
“Where you think you’re living, girl — Disneyland?”
As they walked up a concrete ramp with cars parked on both sides,
Heather said, “Maybe I should buy some.”
“Can’t. The bastard politicians made it illegal. Wouldn’t want to
give some poor misguided rapist a skin rash, would you? Ask Jack or
one of the guys-they can still get it for you.”
Gina was driving an inexpensive blue Ford compact, but it had an alarm
system, which she disengaged from a distance with a remote-control
device on her key ring. The headlights flashed, the alarm beeped once,
and the doors unlocked.
Looking around at the shadows, they got in and immediately locked up
again.
After starting the car, Gina hesitated before putting it in gear. “You
know, Heth, you want to cry on my shoulder, my clothes are all
drip-dry.”
“I’m all right. I really am.”
“Sure you’re not into denial?”
“He’s alive, Gina. I can handle anything else.”
“Forty years, Jack in a wheelchair?”
“Doesn’t matter if it comes to that, as long as I have him to talk to,
hold him at night.”
Gina stared hard at her for long seconds. Then: “You mean it. You
know what it’s gonna be like, but you still mean it. Good. I always
figured you for one, but it’s good to know I was right.”
“One what?”
Popping the hand brake and shifting the Ford into reverse, Gina said,
“One tough damned bitch.”
Heather laughed. “I guess that’s a compliment.”
“Fuckin’ A, it’s a compliment.”
When Gina paid the parking fee at the exit booth and pulled out of the
garage, a glorious gold-and-orange sunset gilded the patchy clouds to
the west.
However, as they crossed the metropolis through lengthening shadows and
a twilight that gradually filled with blood red light, the familiar
streets and buildings were as alien as any on a distant planet. She
had lived her entire adult life in Los Angeles, but Heather Mcgarvey