Kiss My God

“Gosh dam it,” said Larry. “Lord, why do you punish me?” he quickly added.

Brother Samuel, a tall man in a short-sleeve, pinstriped shirt and blue tie, stepped out from behind the wall of Bibles. “I’ve come to pray for you, Lawrence, not judge you. But if I had to judge, I’d say you’re acting like a fool.”

I’m generally more comfortable with people judging me than praying for me, and I could tell by the nervous sweat on Larry’s forehead that he was, too. I said, “Are you the head Jehovah in this operation?” j Brother said, “I would hardly call the Jehovah’s Witnesses an organization. More of a following of the Lord’s teachings.” He spoke matter-of-factly, but without condescension.

“Gary Gilmore’s brother was a Jehovah,” I shared.

(I learned that from reading Shot in the Heart.)

Brother ran his hand over his bowl cut and regarded me closely. His eyes never strayed lower than my collarbone—strange. He said, “May I ask who you are and what you’re doing here?”

“You may.”

He looked heavenward. I hoped he wasn’t praying for me. “I’ve known about this lab since yesterday, Lawrence. I was hoping your foolishness would end— that you’d come to me to explain yourself. But now you’re bringing strangers onto our private property. I can’t look the other way now.” Brother regarded me and Alex. We weren’t looking our best. He said, “And the rats. Just stupid, Lawrence. If your rats got loose, they’d gnaw through every bag in the warehouse. They’d breed. I love all the Lord’s creatures, but those rats have got to go.” Brother looked at us. “So will you people. For all I know, you’re the ones who led Lawrence down the wrong path.”

“Molly here can take full responsibility for his fall,” I said. “We’re here for my own selfish purposes.”

“Such as?” Brother asked.

“Free coffee beans.”

Larry, meanwhile, was hiding under his makeshift lab table. I wondered if he had any formula nearby that would turn him invisible. I took another look at Brother Samuel. What was it about this thirtyish guy with flat hair and geeky shoes that could terrify Larry? In a fight, Larry could succotash him like a squash. Molly stood in front of the table, blocking Larry as much as she could. I wasn’t sure how much love it took for her to protect her boyfriend from a man in leisure slacks, but it was probably a lot. Alex stepped toward me and whispered in my ear, “He’s packing.”

I looked at Brother Samuel’s fly. “I know you’re not happy to see me,” I said. “So that must be a gun.”

He patted his pants and said, “The alarm went off at headquarters, and I had to be ready for action. I’m prepared to fight to protect our supplies. Without the contents of this warehouse, future generations of humanity couldn’t survive after the apocalypse.”

“I suppose they wouldn’t send you alone on such an important mission,” Alex asked.

“Reinforcements are on the way.” In that blue and white van, no doubt. “And if you even think about stealing any of our coffee, forgive me Lord, but I’ll defend our honor. If I don’t get you, the dog will.” Alex tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “I think we should leave.”

Molly heard him and begged with her eyes for us to stay. I considered it, but decided they were on their own. Under the circumstances, I figured it was best for me to hang on to Larry’s notebook. From the strange grin on Brother Samuel’s face, I’d bet that Larry’s ad hoc lab wouldn’t last through the hour. I sent Alex a telepathic message. He rubbed his left eye—code that he’d received it loud and clear. I turned to Molly and said, “Aloha.”

We split like canned peas. At a run, Alex and I vaulted the mountains of burlap coffee bean bags and climbed. A few broken nails later, we’d clawed and scraped our way to the top of the pile. From that high up, I could see that Brother Samuel had male-pattern baldness. Alex said, “Let’s fly,” and he ran on top the bags and boxes toward the west wall of the warehouse. I liked the sound of the beans and corn crackling under my feet as I ran. The piles were uneven, and I had to make running jumps a few times to keep up with Alex. I was getting more exercise in one day than I had in most of my adult life. I minded.

A shot rang out and ricocheted around the metal walls of the warehouse. I heard Molly scream. Shooting the rats? I wondered. What a waste of bullets. Alex and I were just at the end of the warehouse. He deftly maneuvered down the burlap bags. I followed and fell about eight feet to the floor. My knee was bleeding pretty badly as we sprinted for the hole in the wall we’d crawled in through. Adrenaline pumped ferociously through my veins.

Outside, we ran along the water’s edge toward the chain-link fence. We were halfway to it when something short and brown came flying at us from the other side of the warehouse. As it hurled toward us, I could see the saliva on its pointy white teeth sparkle and glisten in the sun. I would have stopped to admire this vision, if it didn’t mean my death. I turned toward Alex to tell him to move, but he was already gone. I yelped after him and pounded the pavement.

The dog wasn’t wearing platforms, nor did it carry a heavy purse. He also had two more legs. But, where he had speed, I had motivation. Plump perhaps, but I liked my ass and planned to keep it well into my dotage. I wasn’t as attached to the dress, which the dog sank his snapping white fangs into only seconds after I hit chain link. Alex was comfortably straddling the top of the fence. He watched in terror as the dog and I played tug-of-war with my sundress. The angle was right, so I kicked the animal in the chest with my platform. Instead of dislodging its jaw, the dog stripped off a nice chunk of my dress and wrestled it to the ground with his claws. Even I preferred a longer hem than this, although I remained mostly covered. I scrambled up the fence.

I would have hopped off just as easily, but we were distracted by the screech of a blue-and-white minivan. The Jehovah enforcers had arrived. The driver must have seen us (we were pretty hard to miss—a man and tattered woman straddling a ten-foot-high fence on a sunny June afternoon). We were so noticeable, in fact, that the lunch crowd spilled out of the River Cafe to get a load.

The van slammed into the fence right under where we were straddling it. Alex and I hung on for our lives, and our genitals. Three men in short sleeves, ties and leisure pants dashed out of the vehicle and started to clamber up the fence to take us down. Alex said, “On the count of three, Wanda.”

I nodded. Alex counted to three. We jumped over the men climbing the fence and onto the top of their van. I burned my butt sliding down to the street. I grabbed the driver’s side before Alex scrambled into the passenger seat. We slammed the doors and locked them. The keys were still in the ignition. We made dust. When we passed the River Cafe, we honked. I thought I heard cheers, but that could have been the roar of exploding blood vessels in my ears.

“Where to now?” asked Alex. He was grinning broadly—with teeth.

“The hospital,” I said.

Fear seeped across his features. “Did that maniac animal break skin? Shit, I knew I should have jumped down to wrestle that hell-beast into submission. Why, I ought to have—”

“Spare me a quarter, Alex. I’m fine.” He looked puzzled. I shook my head and said, “Hint: I’m glad I’m not the love of your life anymore.”

“Leeza,” he exhaled. He stuck his head out the window like a dog and yelled, “I’m coming to you, darling.” Shiny brown hair blew off his well-boned face. I had a flashback: Alex and I were making love in the dark. The headlights of a car passed through the window of our bedroom, painting a yellow beam across his face. His eyes were open. He was smiling.

The Alex of today pulled himself back inside the van and said, “If Leeza dies, could we be named accessories before the fact?”

Instead of hitting the ceiling, I floored the van. We made it to the hospital in seconds. About five thousand of them. Brooklyn General was located on the corner of Hicks Street and Atlantic Avenue, just down the strip from the Detention Center. If Jack really had had a claustrophobic seizure, he could have twitched and crawled his way to the emergency room on one knee.

We parked illegally. We also left the van keys in the ignition and the sliding door open. We hit the emergency room entrance. I was expecting bloodied bodies on gurneys lining the walls, but all I got was a few bored-looking hospital administrators sitting at metal desks. The only sounds were their chatter and the blare of a TV hanging from the ceiling. No bloodcurdling screams, no splatter of gore and guts on a concrete floor. Except for the bullet-proof glass that separated us from the administrators, the space looked just like a doctor’s office waiting room. My disappointment must have been obvious.

I visited the can. It was as much of a relief as not getting ravaged by the pit bull. I came back. Alex was rapping patiently on the glass. He was trying to get the attention of a heavyset black woman in bangles and braids. She was typing on a computer. After pretending to ignore us for longer than was polite, I said loudly, “This must be a public hospital.”

The woman squinted before smiling brightly. She said, “Sorry to keep you waiting. I was inputting information into our computer system so we could admit an uninsured woman in premature labor.” She had a Jamaican accent. “If I didn’t get that processed, she would have had to deliver her baby on the emergency room floor. Thank you for being patient.” Jamaican, perhaps, but she had the Jewish guilt thing down. One of her bracelets was inscribed with the name Annabelle.

“Is that your name? Annabelle? Very pretty,” I buttered her up like a turkey. “I’d like to see Leeza Robbins. She was brought in about an hour ago.” This was the closest hospital. She had to be there.

“Family?” she asked.

“I’m her sister.”

“You don’t look like her sister,” she said, checking me over.

I smiled prettily. “I’m adopted.” Annabelle shifted her weight on her ergonomic swivel chair.

She toyed with a few of her bangles and twisted a braid of hair. “Well, you can’t go into the emergency room.” Her accent swung back and forth like her braids.

I said, “I’ll give you twenty bucks.”

Her eyes flew open and she laughed. “I’d be more than happy to take twenty dollars from you, but you’ll have to wait like everyone else. Visiting hours are between three and three-fifteen.”

Time check: half past a bug’s butt. Shit, I thought. What am I going to do for forty-five minutes? I said, “I’ll give you forty.”

Annabelle smiled broadly—big tombstones of perfectly white enamel—and said, “I’ll take it.”

I turned to Alex and said, “Give her forty dollars.”

“You give her forty.”

“Alex, which one of us gives two flying shits about seeing Leeza anyway?”

She said, “I thought you were her sister.”

“We’re estranged.”

“I’ll say,” grunted Alex as he forked over two twenty spots. Annabelle nodded her thanks as she accepted the bills. Then she returned to punching keys on her computer.

I rapped on the glass. “What now?” I asked. “Click my heels together and say, ‘There’s no place like the emergency room?’ ”

“You can do that,” she said, not looking at us. “But you’ll have to do it for forty-five minutes until I can let you in like everyone else.” Before I got the chance to protest, she said, “And thanks for your donation to the hospital fund. Public hospitals need all the help they can get.” She swiveled in her chair over to her printer. She tore off a sheet of paper and handed it to Alex. “That’s your receipt. And don’t forget—sixty percent of your donation is tax deductible.”

I hate do-gooders. I scowled so hard it hurt, and found a seat in the waiting area. Alex joined me. He seemed upset. The room was nearly empty—not many emergencies in Brooklyn Heights that afternoon.

Clang. The outside doors smashed open. Five cops in uniform dragged in a black kid screaming in pain. I’d guess he was about fifteen years old, but it was hard to make a good guess with his face all covered in blood. Annabelle sprang to life and punched through the glass doors. She tried to ask the kid questions, but he was too busy suffering to answer. One of the cops—I thought he looked like the guy I’d used the old ventriloquist ploy on—said, “We caught him breaking into a car on Clark Street. Had to bust him up to restrain him.”

Alex whispered to me, “Fancy that.” Talk about dumb luck. The kid’s, I mean.

Annabelle lifted the kid like a sack of coffee beans. I was impressed by her brute strength. She muttered something about police brutality and kicked a switch plate on the wall. Two double doors burst open automatically. While cradling the kid in her arms, she shuffled down a long corridor into a pen with about forty beds crammed against the walls. The cops looked at each other in confusion. One mumbled into his walkie-talkie about the incident, and the rest of them congregated underneath the TV to comment on a “One Life to Live” scene.

I checked behind the bullet-proof glass windows. No one had come to replace Annabelle. “Stay here,” I commanded.

Alex said, “I suppose trying to talk you out of this would be a waste of time.”

“You’ve got to cover for me.”

“I fronted the forty.”

“You want a medal or a monument?” I asked.

“A simple thank you would suffice, Wanda.”

“I’ll be back in a flash.”

Alex said, “Kiss her for me.”

I walked toward the double doors. Alex waited for me to give him the wink, and then he clasped his arms around his gut and screeched in agony. “My valve!” he cried. “Oh, God! I’m dying!”

The cops glanced at him, and then back at the TV set. So much for creating a good distraction. I pressed the wall switch and the double doors popped open. I strolled inside—the cops didn’t move a centimeter. I was golden.

A nurses’ station was in the center of the pen. I headed for it purposefully, hoping they’d assume I belonged there. I scanned the faces of the patients in their beds along the way. Most were old-timers with IVs, NGs and other tubes sticking in various holes. One painfully thin young man lay on his bed wheezing for breath. Just as I passed, he began a long coughing fit that didn’t end even after I’d walked the entire loop around the emergency room. I didn’t spot Leeza, but there were a couple screened off beds in the back. No one had yet questioned my presence. I figured I might as well take a look.

The first curtain I peeked behind housed the kid the cops had just brought in. A doctor was attempting to stick a needle in his arm, but the kid fought her off. Behind curtain number two: pay dirt. I recognized Leeza’s yellow hair pulled into a ponytail. My first feeling was relief. She was alive and no tubes were sticking out of any of her orifices. She lay unconscious on her back. There were bandages on her throat, and some patches on her cheek. A fiftyish doctor in hospital greens was giving her a chest examination. He seemed to enjoy it more than he was supposed to. He was rubbing himself under his lab coat. I stepped back, shocked by the sight. I looked again, and he’d turned her on her side. He took an anal thermometer out of his pocket. I swallowed hard and threw back the curtains.

The doctor shrank at the exposure. He recovered and looked me over. Okay, so maybe my tattered sundress and sandals didn’t project an air of authority. “Cop a nice feel?” I asked. “Is that part of the regular exam?”

His face dropped, knowing he was busted. “Visiting hours aren’t for another thirty minutes, young lady.”

“That’s certainly enough time for you to get a nice long look at my sister’s ass. And maybe you might even find the time to fiddle around a bit.”

He flinched and I knew I was right on target. “I’m going to call security,” he said.

“You’ll save me the trip.”

The doctor harrumphed and stormed off. I watched him to see if he’d report me at the nurses’ station. He didn’t. I made a mental note to get his name before I left. I closed the curtain behind me and slapped Leeza gently on her nonbandaged cheek. Her eyes fluttered. I said, “Leeza. Wake up. You’re okay. You’re in the hospital.”

She stared up at me. Her face was puffy and bruised. She eked out, “Hi, Wanda.” I remembered her missing teeth. Speaking sounded painful for her. My heart sank. I was responsible. And all she was trying to do was make a few friends.

“You don’t need to worry about making friends, Leeza,” I said. “You’re too good-looking to worry about anything.” Even with the bruises and wraps, she looked decent.

“Women hate me because of my looks, Wanda. You do.”

Guilt settled on me like a tire iron. I wondered if Leeza had ever met my old friend Santina, a veritable expert at inflicting guilt. I said, “Did you see who attacked you?”

“No.”

“Why did you go up to the suite?”

She had to think about that question. “I wanted to help with the investigation. So I agreed to make a date with a john.”

Jeez, I thought. Janey worked fast at recruiting. “With who?” I asked.

“Van Owen,” she said.

I asked, “How did you get up there?”

“Janey gave me a key.”

Another key? “Did Van Owen show?”

“He never did. I felt rejected in a way. I really wanted to be dangerous like you for a while.”

Leeza drifted a bit. She wanted to be like me? Poor, misguided fool. Her head rolled to the side. I wondered if she’d been given too many tranquilizers by that molesting doctor. It was enough to make me never want to get sick. Her eyes cleared suddenly and she said, “I think I need to throw up now.”

“Relax,” I suggested. I found a bedpan on a nearby shelf. I handed it to her. “Use this.” I rubbed her forehead and tried to pull her forward so she wouldn’t soil herself.

She coughed a little. Over the sound, I heard a voice on the other side of the curtain say, “When I find out who let her in here before visiting hours, heads will roll.” The bastard doctor. I dropped the bedpan on Leeza’s chest. I had only seconds to hide. With nowhere else to go, I'slipped behind the curtains to the third sectioned-off bed in the row.

A man lay there. He looked horrible. His face was broken out in a ghastly rash with red sores and large strips of white skin flakes. A large boil grew mercilessly on his chin, puffing out from his straggly goatee. His hands were meaty, wide and somehow familiar. “Freddie?” I asked in a whisper. His hair had partially fallen out on one side of his head, but those stubborn sideburns and big floppy ears remained unchanged.

He opened his eyes and looked at me. “Wanda?” he asked.

“My God. What happened?”

“I’m surprised you recognized me.” His lips cracked as he spoke.

“I never forget a haircut.” Well, half a haircut. “I suppose this was your destiny,” I said.

“To look like my big screen namesake?” he asked. “You’re only the twelfth person to say that. These nurses have a real adorable sense of humor.”

I blocked out Freddie’s voice for a second and tried to listen to what was going on in Leeza’s section. The male doctor I’d thwarted was talking to someone with a Jamaican accent, perhaps Annabelle. He said, “An impertinent young woman interrupted me while administering care to this patient. I’d like to know how you let her slip in here.”

Annabelle said, “It must have been when I was saving someone’s life.” The pause I heard was in its second trimester. Finally, Annabelle said, “I’ll find her and be sure she gets what’s coming to her.”

The doctor said, “Good. See to it this patient gets to X-ray. And she may need a sponge bath—arrange that with those other women.”

“You mean the staff of highly trained certified nurses?”

I heard some mumbling, and then silence. I risked peeking out of Freddie’s curtains into Leeza’s area. Annabelle sat on the edge of her bed, staring right at me. I smiled and pulled back the curtain. “Sorry if I got you in trouble.”

“The nurses usually keep an eye on him—especially around the younger, female patients. They’re crazy busy, so I’ll thank you for your sister’s sake.”

“Am I hereby ejected?”

“Visiting hours start in five minutes. You can stay for twenty minutes, and then I’m hoping you’ll leave and not come back until my shift is over.”

“Deal. Has anyone reported that asshole?” Annabelle sighed. “He’s the chief of staff’s son. He’s got an ‘offspring of God’ complex. Whenever anyone says, ‘Jesus Christ’ in his presence, he says, ‘Am I being paged?’”

I gestured with my head for Annabelle to step outside the curtains with me. Once in the main room, in view of the countless beds, I whispered in her ear, “What’s wrong with the guy in here?” I pointed toward Freddie’s area. Annabelle hesitated. I said, “Turns out he’s a friend. Small neighborhood.”

Her pause was premature. Then she said, “He came in this morning. Overdose. Anabolic steroids. Only problem is that we have no idea what kind. Until the lab guys figure out what he took, we can’t help him much.”

Poor slob. “Will he die?”

“He won’t die—at least I don’t think so. I’ve never seen an overdose of steroids before—and I’ve never seen this kind of dramatic facial degeneration either. Whatever he took must have been powerful.. He’s growing a coat of hair on his back, and his skin continues to peel away. His penis might shrivel beyond repair. I hope for your sake, he isn’t a special friend.”

“God, no.” Larry’s notebook burned a giant hole in my purse. If I turned it over to Annabelle, I could save Freddie. But the lab people might then take the formula and market it themselves. Then I’ll be out my cut of the fortune. Then again, the stuff obviously doesn’t work. One look at Freddie was enough to convince me of that. I took the notebook out of my bag and gave it to Annabelle. “Take this before I change my mind.”

Annabelle was puzzled. I said, “The steroid formula is in there.” I turned to go.

She said, “Wait—what about your sister?”

“She’s not really my sister.”

Annabelle rolled her black eyes like eight balls. “I know that. But don’t you want to visit with her?”

“Not really. Long story.” I waved good-bye. I hit the waiting room. It was just time for official visiting hours. Alex was chomping at the bit to go inside. I told him I’d see him later: I was on a mission.

Alex asked if he should call Max and tell him what happened. The words were barely out of his mouth when Max burst into the waiting room. He was wearing work clothes: A blue summer suit with a white shirt and paisley tie. His cheeks were redder than his hair, and from the glisten on his forehead, I got the idea he’d run all the way from the subway. When he saw me, he lunged forward and circled his arms around my waist. He hugged me so hard my spine bones cracked. It felt swell.

“What’s going on?” he blurted after he dropped me. “I got a call at the office that someone got hurt and was in the emergency room at Brooklyn General. I thought it was you. I thought you got shot. God, I hate your job.”

I loved him when he was desperate and upset. “I’m fine, honeybunny. It’s not me. Alex is fine, too.” Alex came up behind me and waved sweetly at Max. Max didn’t even acknowledge him.

Max asked, “Leeza?” We nodded. I figured he’d last at least a few seconds before erupting. “God damn it. I knew this would happen,” he fumed immediately. “And I’d love saying ‘I told you so’ if Leeza weren’t in the emergency room, clinging to life by a thread for all I know. Didn’t I tell you to keep her out of this? She was totally unprepared to deal with guns and violence. And look at you—you don’t even care.”

I didn’t know what to say. I knew Leeza was all right. I also knew I wasn’t the one who gave her the bright idea to meet a john up in Ameleth’s suite. That was her own idea. Sure, I felt lousy that she got pummeled, but I’m not about to forget everything else that happened so I can cry at her bedside. I said, “Hold on one second. If you got a call, Leeza herself must have given them your number. She’s pretty bashed up. Most people in that condition can barely remember their own names, much less the work phone number of an ex-boyfriend.” Obviously, it was a number she knew well. It must be burned into her cerebellum. “Not to turn this around, Max, but how does Leeza know your number at the bank?” I tapped my foot impatiently and waited for Max to answer that one.

He couldn’t. He just stared at me, dumbfounded. My heart sank. That could only confirm that Leeza had been calling Max pretty often at work. And he’d told me that they hadn’t seen each other or talked for years before she called him just last week to say she’d be in town. Ergo, Max was a liar. I felt tears rising, but managed to squelch them by thinking about how uncomfortable I felt in my tattered dress and trashed platforms. Was it possible that Max and Leeza had been planning her return? Was I paranoid?

I had to go. “I’m leaving.” To Alex, I said, “Try and get some more information out of Leeza.” To Max, I said, “Try to get your shit out of my apartment by nightfall.” If he really loved me, he’d know that I meant it—unless he made some lavish apologetic display. And came up with a damned good explanation. I wondered, not for the first time, if I were an impossible girlfriend.

I split like a banana for the gym. A slow banana. I took my time walking down Atlantic Avenue. The sun was bright. Some kids rode by on Rollerblades. Max and I had once talked about buying a couple of pairs so we could roll off into the sunset together. That’s shot to hell, I thought. I shook off a pang of depression. Max had been talking to Leeza all that time. He lied about it. I remember reading a* survey in Mademoiselle that said the number one thing women want from their boyfriends was honesty.

I felt a crushing pain where there once was a heart. The feeling was familiar. Shit, I practically wrote the book on heartbreak. I got a flash of Detective Falcone. I wondered how many disappointments she’d had with men before choosing ham sandwiches over hot dogs. Was it possible that I could ever make that choice? I vowed for three blocks to never put myself in the position of being hurt again. This pain was no gain. And there was no way to cure it. I didn’t care what women’s magazines said. They were all bullshit anyway.

I approached the Brooklyn Detention Center on my right. Jack must be inside. I pictured him, bare chested, running in circles in his cell like a well-oiled hampster, his blond hair cutely matting. I felt a powerful pull to see him. I wanted to find out what happened at the club after I made my break. I trotted up the steps of the Detention Center like a pony and opened the heavy doors.

The guards inside were the same from the last time 1 visited this fine correctional facility. I said, “Watson. Jack. Now.”

The male guard with the short neck laughed at me. “What, you want me to bring him out here like a plate of french fries?”

“Nah. Just bring the fries.”

The guard scoffed, stared.

“Then Jack would be fine,” I relented.

Another guard, a woman—Officer Martinez, if I remember correctly—wore her shiny black hair twisted in a bun. She approached the desk. “Wanda Mallory?” she asked.

“Ameleth Bergen, actually.Jack Watson’s wife.”

“Too bad. Detective Falcone said only Wanda Mallory was allowed to meet with the prisoner. You’ll have to go, Ms. Bergen.”

I stammered briefly. I must be losing my cool, I thought. I regrouped and said, “I am Mallory. It’s just that my boyfriend and I broke up, and I wanted to pretend to be someone who’s married for only a minute. Not that getting married was ever a goal, per se. But with this guy, this latest guy, I thought I could do it. Maybe I would have cheated a few years down the road—longing for some fresh sex, that initial passion of new relationships—but in the end, I probably wouldn’t have gone through with it. I have a particularly keen recall. I could just dredge up a few fantasies about what our sex used to be like. Even the memory of the other night. That would do.”

The guards looked at each other, and then back at me. Finally, the female guard said, “I often use fantasy when having sex with my boyfriend.”

“Me, too,” said the male guard. “With the wife.” We stood silently and smiled at each other. A trio of closet fantasizers, sharing an intimate moment. I said, “So where’s Jack?”

Back to business. The woman asked to see some ID. I gave her my college food card—ten years old at this point. It was the only photo ID I owned. She stifled a giggle (so college wasn’t my peak glam period). It was good enough to get me in. She took me through some electric doors to the cell block. Jack was back in his old space at the end of the long row. When he saw me, he said solemnly, “Wanda, it’s good to see you.” Martinez hovered nearby. Jack eyed her suspiciously. I said, “Take a hike, okay?” She smiled and didn’t budge. To Jack, I whispered, “What happened?”

He approached the bars and took my hand. Closer now, I could see he didn’t look good. What I thought were dark circles under his eyes were bruises. I felt a chill. Jack put his hand on the back of my neck and pulled my head toward the bars. He whispered in my ear, “You’re not safe here, Wanda. They’re after you—the cops, Ameleth. They know you’ve got some notebook—whatever it is. You’ve got to run, now.” He let go of my neck.

I stared at him. He mouthed, “Now.” If what he said was true and Ameleth knew I had the notebook (which I no longer had anyway), she’d come after me with a vengeance. I could always tell her I was on the way to drop it off, but that whole deal I’d made with her was crap from the beginning. For the notebook, she’d have dumped me the same way she dumped Barney. She might have told Falcone I’d stolen it from her. I did, actually, but so what? I tried to organize my thoughts. No wonder those guards indulged me in my heartbreak speech when I came in. They probably had instructions to keep me here, no matter what. Falcone was probably steamrolling over from the precinct this second.

Hell hath no fury like a woman cornered like a rat. I turned toward the guard. I smiled and pointed down the corridor. “Dear God! What on earth is that?” I asked in horror.

Made her look. I stitched my fingers together to make a ball of power, swung at her jaw and hoped. I always close my eyes when I punch—involuntary reflex. I’m often surprised when I actually make contact. My fingers crunched against the hardness of bone. The vandals and drunks in the neighboring tanks cheered. When I opened my eyes, she was out cold on the floor, her shiny black hair knocked loose.

Jack was able to grab hold of a few strands to restrain her. He yelled, “Take the keys and run.”

I struggled to work my throbbing fingers, barely managing to unhook the key chain off her belt. Then I was off. I unlocked the electric cell block door, slipped out and closed it as quietly as possible. The cheers from the prisoners must have been audible. I didn’t spot the guard with the short neck, though.

Edging around the front hallway, I stuck to the walls like Velcro. I saw and heard nothing. I took Mama from my bag and held her in front of me. I kept moving, slowly by carefully, until I saw the front entrance. I smiled. Just twenty feet and I was golden. “Don’t move a muscle, lady.”

I turned around anyway. The male guard was standing ten feet behind me, his gun pointed squarely at my nose. I put my hands up. He said, “Drop the gun on the floor and kick it over to me.”

He seemed nervous but confident. For a second, I wondered if I was sunk.

But then, the Goddess smiled.