“I got the symptoms once,” Tom said, which was true. He’d been on that island learning how to keep the insects alive, feed them, pack larvae. He’d instructed the guards on what artwork to buy from Indians. Not baskets. They were too permeable. Ceramics. Anything with hard surfaces and space inside.
Tom said, rubbing his intestines, “I got the stomach pain. Joint pain. But I never got really sick.” He shrugged. “I had the blood test but the doctors found no parasites. Probably I just had a cold.”
The guy put down the blowgun. Then his eyes went up to the TV, muted now, still showing Joe Rush and the Asian guy, Nakamura. Watching them, the inspector oozed hope.
“I remember those two on the news last year, when they ended the outbreak in Washington,” the inspector said.
“Real American heroes,” Tom said.
Suddenly the man slumped. “I just hope someone figures this thing out. I mean, all us inspectors got antimalarial medicine at the department. But my mom and sisters don’t have any. So I shared with them. There’s not enough for all of us.”
Tom realized that there were no microphones here. No agents. This man was who he said he was.
The guy sagged against a table holding cheap wooden boxes from Ecuador. “Midtown South almost had a riot two days ago at a drugstore on Broadway. A rumor spread that the pharmacist was selling his supply to friends.”
“It’s bad all over,” Tom agreed. “I say bomb those ragheads back to the Stone Age.”
“Well, I hope you sell some merchandise today,” the inspector said. “And clean your gutters. The forecast is for rain. I’m supposed to give you a citation. But let’s just call this visit a warning, okay? I’ll be back.”
The buzzer sounded when the man left. Tom felt the ball in his chest ease. Rush was gone on the television.
Singh is two hours late!
Someone was coming around the corner. A woman. Tom saw who it was and cursed. Not now, he thought as the door opened. He had to get rid of her, but then he saw the blood on her face and his equilibrium fell away. He had no idea why she had such an effect on him. He had no problem killing strangers, but a trickle of blood on her cheek put him into a paroxysm of rage. She doesn’t even wear long clothing against bites, like everyone else. She’s dressed normally. Her coffee-colored legs poked out from beneath white tennis shorts. Her sneakers were pink. She was a child wandering across a battlefield. Why isn’t she home like everyone else?
Now Tom saw spots of blood on her leg.
“There was a riot in the subway,” Rebeca said.
“I was on my way to the citizenship test study group.”
“Hold still while I clean out this glass, Rebeca.”
“We’re going over Civil War history,” she said. “Abraham Lincoln against Douglas debate. Slavery.”
“This will hurt.”
“The subway was half empty. Then it got stuck. The lights went off and we were sitting there. At first it was okay. But in the dark a girl started shouting, ‘Something bit me!’ Everyone went nuts!”
Tom envisioned riders screaming and banging at the windows, piling up by the door linking cars. It was the sort of thing he wanted to happen. It was what he’d prayed would happen. He just didn’t want Rebeca there when it did.
She said, “We were trying to push into the next car, but the people there kept us out. They were afraid that if we came in, so would mosquitoes. Then the train started moving again. The light came on. You know what? It turned out to be a horsefly in there! Not even a mosquito. And then I got to study group and it was canceled.”
He looked at her face and tried to control himself. Another blood stain lay directly over the black-and-blue mark, still fading, left from last week. Clearly, she guessed his thoughts.
In a tiny voice, she tried to lie. “It wasn’t Greg.”
He watched her eyes brim.
“I know you know,” she said.
Tom said nothing. Stay out of this. She took his silence for condemnation, which it was, but not of her. He thought, A big American who hurts innocent people. Who thinks he can do anything he wants all over the world. A brute who destroys weaker women and children…
She said, “He’s been under pressure. He has bills to pay but he’s lost clients. He had a few drinks that night. He’s kind and generous when you get to know him.”
“It’s none of my business,” he said.
“He supports kids in Haiti, sends checks every month.”
What Tom should have said — he knew — was nothing. What he heard himself say was, “Rebeca, you’re smart and pretty. You’re kind. You could be with a thousand guys who would treat you better.”
She clearly appreciated it, but shook her head, defending Greg. “You don’t understand. When I met him I was a cleaning girl at his office. I’d been in the U.S. for two months. I lived with six girls in a tenement. I slept in a bathtub. He talked to me. He was the only one who was nice. It was a long time before we were together. He only changed recently.”
Because he liked you better when you had no money and slept in a bathtub. He wants to feel big, and if you achieve things he feels small. That’s who they are.
“He stuck with me during my bad time, and now I have to stick with him in his,” she insisted, chin up, eyes down.
“Yeah, I see that,” he said, looking out the window, watching for the damn delivery truck, but suspecting now that it was not going to come today. It had been delayed. Or stopped by the FBI.
Rebeca was saying, as if from far off, “Sometimes I think he is irritated when I talk to you. He acts like you’re a threat to him, and I tell him you’re just the friendly guy across the hall.”
“That’s me,” he said. “The friendly guy.”
“Oh my God! I’m sorry! I forgot because of the subway! I didn’t come here because of that. I came because Greg wants to have the locksmith break into your apartment!”
Tom Fargo stared into her face, stupefied, controlling the stupendous rage coursing inside him with the greatest effort. He could only hope that his face betrayed none of the fury. The emotion froze his intestines and dragged razor blades down his throat. He could not have heard right. He could not imagine his neighbor hiring a locksmith to break into his apartment. This could not be happening.
“Locksmith?”
“He called me an hour ago, angry. He said everyone in the building got the notice that there will be an exterminator in the building today, to spray against mosquitoes. He says everyone has to leave a key with the doorman but you didn’t, and the exterminator can only come today. So if you don’t open up Greg will have a locksmith do it, and you will have to pay the bill.”
“You forgot to tell me this until now?”
“I’m sorry. I was upset because of the subway!”
“He can’t do that,” Tom said.
“Greg said that in an emergency the co-op board can break into an apartment. You know, for a plumbing leak. Or police issue. It’s in the building bylaws.”
Did I lock the darkroom? Is there anything outside the darkroom that gives things away?
“The exterminator is in the building now?” he asked. “What is Greg’s number?”
She called her boyfriend, and Greg picked up instantly, furious. “This is exactly what pisses me off about renting units to outsiders, Cycle,” Greg complained loudly, over the line, as if other people listened in. He was being the building “Captain.” The co-op board leader. “You were given a copy of the bylaws when you moved in. You must have seen the notice under your door last night. You were supposed to leave a key with the doorman. The locksmith is here. This is a health issue. We need to get in! We’re out of time.”