Page 18 of Fade Out
I set that aside and picked up the file labeled Gloria Silver. I could have looked at this quite a while ago. But first I’d been shot and wasn’t exactly thinking about the files and then, well, there was always something going on. Besides, Gloria wasn’t really a problem. I mean, yeah, she saw me outside Jimmy English’s funeral and said something shitty about Ross. Admittedly, he had been her husband’s lover so I was kind of used to—
I’d opened the file and was staring at a single sheet of paper. It was a page from Gloria’s medical file. It was not the first page. Her name was at the top of the sheet. It was a form and the doctor had filled it in by hand. It was a challenge to read. The important part was DIAGNOSIS. Next to that it said: The presence of herpes simplex, candidiasis, bacterial pneumonia and wasting compel a diagnosis of AIDS. Patient admits to possible exposure.
I stopped. Earl Silver, Ross’ former lover, had given his wife AIDS. I couldn’t breathe. I tried inhaling through my nose—it sometimes helped, just not this time. I slid to the edge of the booth, turned sideways, and put my head between my knees. I concentrated on breathing. Tried not to think about my racing heart or the waves of nausea that kept coming.
Jesus fuck. I didn’t even like Gloria, but this wasn’t about her. This was about all of it. Everyone we were losing, the good and the bad. And the way it didn’t seem to bother—
“Honey, are you okay?”
I looked up and there was my waitress holding my drink. I sat up and took the Coke from her. I drank half of it in one gulp. The sugar would help settle me.
“Could you bring me another one of these?”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Your burger will be ready in a minute. Do you still want it?”
“Yes, please.”
She walked away. I kept breathing. It wasn’t just that Gloria had AIDS, it was that Gloria had AIDS and I’d barely eaten all day. Lunch at Cook County Jail hadn’t come with any gravy to hide its disgusting-ness. I drank the rest of the Coke. I couldn’t read any more. I was done.
The waitress came back with my dinner and another pop. I stared at the burger for a bit, then I tried a french fry and it went down okay. I tried a few more. I took a bite out of my cheeseburger. It was amazing. I was starting to feel better. Then I ate everything in front of me like I’d never seen food before. I even ate the parsley. I ordered desert: apple pie a la mode.
The waitress brought the check and I took a twenty out of my pocket to cover it. I didn’t need any change. It was just over five bucks, but I thought she deserved it since I’d kind of scared the crap out of her.
As I gathered up my binder and files, I realized something. Something pretty important. I had nowhere to go.
Chapter Six
I rangthe buzzer to Brian Peerson’s condo hoping he wasn’t home. Well, yes, I also hoped he was home—but if he was at home it meant that Ross was alone in his hospital room and I didn’t want to think about that.
As I waited, I tried to calculate how long I’d known Brian. Four, four and a half years. Hard years. The kind of years that make your friends decide you’re some kind of Calamity Jane and they start avoiding you. As though tragedy were contagious; as though it could be passed by a handshake or a kiss on the cheek.
The intercom popped on.
“Hello?” It was Brian. He was home.
“It’s Nick.”
“Thank God.”
The door buzzed, a sound more appropriate to an electric chair than a door, and I walked in. The building was three stories, made of dark red brick and had a nicely landscaped courtyard. There were dozens of buildings just like it in Boystown. It also happened to be right around the corner from mine.
When I got to the third floor, Brian stood in the doorway. He was still a blond-haired, blue-eyed little twink, so pretty he nearly glowed. As I got closer I noticed the dark smudges under his eyes and the way the skin around them cracked when he tried to smile at me.
“How’s Ross?” I asked.
“He had a pretty good day. His breathing sucks, but he was smiling. I was there until about an hour ago. Walter and his boyfriend came, so I decided to come home.
“Walter? Who’s Walter?”
Brian giggled a little. “Nick, you don’t know Miss Minerva’s real name?”
“Um, no, I guess I didn’t. Is she still with that short little white guy?” The last time I’d seen Miss Minerva Jones, she had a diminutive, middle-aged, white boyfriend who followed her around doing her bidding.
“There was a short white guy with her, but I don’t think it was the same one. I think she trades them in regularly.”
We were in the living room. I glanced at the very uncomfortable sofa I was planning to ask if I could sleep on. I didn’t have what you’d call fond memories of it, but it was better than my shredded mattress.
“I’m out of vodka. Would you like a glass of white wine?”
