MONA SUFFERED TERRIBLY in the car. She was flooded with fluid. It came out of he r nose and her eyes and clogged her lungs. Her lungs actually itched. Whoever heard of itching lungs? She knew she could die before she got to the emergency room. And right in the middle of this catastrophe, selfish Cassie would not give up her rage. Mona had never seen anything like Cassie on a rampage. She was really pissed off. It seemed to Mona that she was driving two miles an hour on purpose just so Mona would expire before they got to the hospital. Then she drove right by.
"You're crazy. What are you doing? You passed the hospital," Mona cried.
"I did?" Cassie said.
"Where are you going?"
"To the walk-in."
"The walk-in?" Mona was horrified. She didn't want a walk-in clinic. She wanted to go to North Fork, where Mitch was. "Why?"
"It's faster," Cassie replied, driving the Mercedes one mile an hour. She'd actually slowed down.
Mona made a few death rattles. "Please, Cassie. Take me to North Fork," she pleaded.
"It takes too long. All those people waiting with their headaches and broken arms. This will be faster." Cassie drove to the walk-in on Forest Avenue. When they got there, Cassie speeded up.
"Cassie, there's the walk-in."
"Okay, okay." Cassie slowed down and pulled into the parking lot. "You're here. You're not going to die, you faker. You never do. Get out."
Uh-oh. Mona realized she had a problem. She had only Cassandra Sales credit cards in her wallet. She could not use one of those in front of Cassie. She'd wanted to make a scene to document the danger to which Cassie in her evil jealousy had subjected her. But if she collapsed in the waiting room, Cassie might take over the situation, get her credit cards out of her purse and see them. For a second Mona was stymied. She always anticipated everything, but she hadn't anticipated this. She hadn't changed the cards when she came back from Paris.
Never mind. She stayed in the car, trying to catch her breath. "Leave me here," she said. "I'll go in alone."
"No, no, I want to go with you." Cassie got out of the car and came around to the passenger side.
"Please Cassie, you're scaring me."
"Oh yeah? Well, keep away from my husband. He deserves to die in peace." She opened the door.
"I don't know what's happened to you," Mona sputtered.
"Figure it out, Mona. I found out what you did to me." For a second Mona thought Cassie was actually going to hit her. She cringed in the car seat.
"Get out." Mona's show of fear caused Cassie to stand aside.
Mona crawled out of the car.
"Go get your Adrenalin," Cassie told her. "I'd be very surprised if you really need it."
Mona dragged herself into the horrid walk-in. She felt triumphant. Cassie drove away, but she was still the weakling. Cassie had responded to the cues and spared her rival. Therefore, Cassie was the one defeated. Mona hated her. As soon as she was inside the building, she found her inhaler. She took it out of her purse and used it. Inhalers were magic. They really were. Her inhaler cleared her bronchial tubes in seconds. She coughed up the dangerous phlegm and spit it out. Her lungs cleared. By the time the nurse called her name, she was feeling a lot better. She didn't think she needed to see the doctor after all. But she was careful to have the visit documented by the receptionist just for the record anyway.
A nice old gentleman who'd recently been widowed drove her home. All the way he told her about his high blood pressure. Then, just before he let her off where she directed, several doors down from where she lived, he asked her out for a date.
CHAPTER 24
CHARLIE SCHWAB DROVE HOME to his regular Monday night tennis date with Taj Rau, the proud owner of five blue Lincoln Town Cars in the APlus Car Service. Only ten years in America and already a total success in his world, Taj had taken up tennis-the better to nag his nine-year-old daughter, Sonia, whom he fully expected to be the next Venus Williams as soon as she could serve into the right box. Charlie was bolstering Taj's own lessons with a weekly hitting session that included vicious volley, lob to the moon, quadrant splitting, slice and spin. Working on the finer points of the game, however, was a waste of time since Rau lacked any hand-eye coordination whatsoever.
Mostly Charlie was supporting his neighbor's dream to be a real American in possession of a sport, sports equipment, clothes, and a club of his own, with all the outrageous monthly expenses the endeavor necessitated. Every bill was a joy to him. Every weakness on the part of his U.S. government agent neighbor thrilled him even more. He nagged Charlie about his beat-up car almost as much as he nagged Sonia about her tennis and Taj Jr. about the awful music he played so loud, it made him want to cry, and the oversized pants that were falling off his skinny rear end.
Charlie's old Buick was coughing again. For the last week the muffler had been attached to the underside of the car in a complicated way that involved a piece of laundry rope provided by his father, Ogden. But now the laundry rope had come loose, and the muffler was sparking along on the highway to a chorus of honking from other drivers to let him know about it. As if he didn't know about it. His car was a sore point with everyone. Disgruntled taxpayers were always doing things to it, and he couldn't get the Service to compensate him for the damages. Still, as long as the car got bashed and he didn't, he was cool. A car was just the means to get around.
But it was not the car or the ridiculous tennis game that was on Charlie's mind right now. He was in a state of obsessional seething over the events of the day. In almost equal measures, Charlie loved his job, prided himself on his work as a top snooper, and was dogged by the profound humiliation of knowing that his private life was a flop. On the occupation front, all the news was good. He was productive and, as long as he didn't step on anyone's toes, he had job security.
He was such a fine detective, in fact, that the Brooklyn District Director, Mel Arrighi, was always telling him he should transfer to the special agent branch and top the ranks there. As a special agent, he'd have a lot more power in the field. He'd have bigger cases, mob related, drug related. He'd get more juice. He'd be on the road all the time. That was a plus. And life would be exciting. That was another plus. Special agents who worked for the Treasury and the Justice Departments had almost unlimited power stalking their prey, much more power than FBI agents.
But Charlie couldn't do it. He had to stay close to home for Ogden. He hopped around the tristate area with no problem, but treks to God-knew-where every single week would be too stressful for his father. Charles Schwab was one of 120,000 employees of the IRS. As a revenue agent, he was part of the main snooping body in the federal tax force. Revenue agents carried out routine audits and tax examinations. When they suspected tax evasion or fraud, they worked with special agents and the CID to build the cases that the Justice Department would prosecute. His was a safe path for a careful person who had sustained a couple of losses so great that even an accountant such as he could not calculate the damage.