The Daisy Ducks Read online

  "What have you been eating mostly?" I asked.

  "You know, bar food. Peanuts, salted pork rinds, chips—stuff like that."

  "Why don't you let me buy you a square meal?"

  "Yeah. Maybe later."

  I looked at my watch. In twenty minutes I had to proceed to the gate. I looked at Summers, slouched in the chair, then back at my watch. Then I realized I had already made the decision. That's what I get for hanging around with Moe Abramson.

  "Wait here a minute," I said.

  "Is there another seat available on my flight?" I asked the receptionist. She tapped some keys on her computer terminal and said there was. I snapped my credit card down on the desk and asked her to reserve it for Mr. Summers. In less than a minute we had adjoining seats in the smoking section of first class.

  Then I called home to touch base with Mary. Nobody answered; she was out somewhere. Maybe it was just as well. It took a third round of drinks to get Summers to even listen. But then he stared down at his big, puffy brown hands and considered his options. He had none. And so at the appointed time we left the airline club and walked toward the gate, only half a mile distant. We already had our boarding passes—another benefit of the club—so there was no waiting at the gate. In the airliner, Mike Summers eased back in the seat and directed the overhead stream of cold air on his face. The stewardess poured him another champagne.

  "Don't you want another one?" she asked me.

  "No thanks, I already gave him mine. What's for dinner?"

  "Chicken Kiev or beef Bourguignon."

  After liftoff, Summers smoked a cigarette and had two more Scotches. These did the trick. He seemed to shrink back into the cloth of the seat. His hands ceased their endless drumming and trembling, and his breathing became deep and regular. In a jiffy he was out cold. I woke him up for chow. At first he dabbled at his chicken. Then he ate two genuine mouthfuls. Then he inhaled the remainder in less than a minute. I snagged the stewardess and said that if at all possible, my friend who'd just gotten back from the wars would really appreciate a second meal. Did they by chance have one left over? Soon it was placed in front of him and he inhaled that one, too. After a cup of coffee he crashed again.

  He slept like a baby all the way to Boston.

  * * *

  I never realize how much I love Boston, or how homesick for her I've really been, until the plane breaks below the cloud cover (that's there ninety percent of the time I fly in) and begins its steeply banked descent over the bay. From a plane's height, the water of the bay and harbor have the wrinkled appearance of avocado skin when the waves are up, except the color is bluish gray. I look down at the fishing boats trailing their comet-like white wakes across it. Then I see Boston Light, or even Minot's Ledge if I'm lucky, and Spectacle Island and old Fort Warren, and the old warehouses that seem to be sliding right into the water, and I'm glad to be back in Beantown.

  Mike Summers awoke when the passengers were filing out. We walked up the ramp into the gate area and headed for the baggage claim. The bags came snaking around on the conveyor belt. I grabbed my big suitcase and we waited, and waited, for Summers's big duffel. It didn't appear.

  "Sheeee-it!" he growled under his breath. "I know what went down, man. I checked the bag late, you know? It didn't make the flight, is what went down."

  But just then two men with wide shoulders, mustaches, and bulky sport coats came up to us and flashed their badges. The bigger of the two looked at Summers.

  "You Michael Summers?" he asked. Mike nodded, and the man asked both of us to accompany him. It then flashed through my mind that perhaps Summers, in his recent life, had had a brush with the law. Chicago's South Side being what it is, anything's possible, especially to a guy down on his luck. If this were so, then I, Dr. Charles Adams, was guilty of aiding and abetting a fugitive from justice.

  Swell.

  The men led us into a baggage locker, a room with wooden tiers on which rested all kinds of suitcases, overnighters, steamer trunks, and cartons. Smack in the middle on a table sat Summers's army duffel. He grinned with relief and made a beeline for it. But before he'd gone two steps the tall security guard grabbed him by the arm. I saw a gleam of metal in the guard's hand. Not a gun. Handcuffs. Summers looked momentarily confused. Then the look of surprise was transformed into a bearlike glower.

  And then all hell broke loose.

  With speed that was unbelievable in such a big man, Summers grabbed the guard's outstretched arm with his left hand and jerked him forward violently. At the same instant he threw a short, straight right at his jaw. The poor guy was snapped right into the punch, and the effect was devastating. Still holding the guard's arm, Summers pulled him down and across his outstretched leg, tripping him. Before the guard could rise, he chopped him hard on the nape of the neck. The guard oozed down onto the floor and didn't even twitch. But during this brief encounter his buddy had been circling behind Summers. Now he reached up, wrapped his arms around Summers, and tried to put a bear hug on him. Dumb. Even I know enough never to do that. Almost faster than the eye could follow, Mike swung back his left foot and hooked his toe around his attacker's left ankle, locking it. Then he threw his fullback weight backward and slightly to the left. The oflicial landed with a thud that shook the floor, and the poor security guard—make that former security guard—happened to be underneath. The guard's face knotted in pain. His breath hissed between clenched teeth, like a steam engine. An electronic paging device on his belt began to beep.

  "Time to fade," Summers said, grabbing his duffel bag. I stayed put. As far as I could tell, Mike Summers was infinitely more dangerous than the two goons he'd cold-cocked. I'd just have to explain myself to the authorities and take my chances. But Summers was scarcely out the door when he rushed back in again. He didn't even look in my direction—just dropped his duffel, flung open the zipper, and began to rummage through it as fast as he could. Three more men came through the door, men with real, honest-to-goodness Boston Police uniforms on. All the men had their revolvers drawn. I felt like sinking right into the floor.

  "You won't find the gun in there, Mr. Summers," said the man in front. "We discovered it in your luggage, that's why you're being held." The man stopped to stare down at the two fallen plainclothesmen. His mouth opened in disbelief and fear. I saw Summers looking at the first fallen man, whose sport coat had flipped up to reveal a small holstered revolver.

  "Mr. Summers, you're being held in violation of the handgun law of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts- "

  But he didn't get a chance to finish his little speech because Summers dove for the gun in the fallen man's belt, and I discovered, not particularly to my surprise, that I was also in midair, diving for that same gun so that Summers would not get it. I knew, in the millisecond I was airborne in my horizontal dive, that Mike and I would collide. I also was aware that when we did—the laws of physics being what they are—I would emerge the loser. That is, gf I emerged. It did not surprise me that I was doing this fool thing. I seem to have a knack for stepping into a big pile of you-know-what every chance I get. I'm gifted that way.

  Well, I arrived at the gunbelt just ahead of Summers and in enough time to grab the small revolver from the holster and spin it along the floor to a far corner. Meantime, the fuzz had all jumped on Summers at once. One bluecoat smacked him on the side of the jaw with a big, flat sap. It went poimf! against the side of his open mouth, and Mike was going down. They manacled him then, and sat him on the edge of a table.

  One of the cops helped me to my feet. I was dizzy from the collision with the big man and from the combined weight of three other men on top of us. I was a wreck.

  "Mr. Summers, you are being held in violation of the handgun law of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts," began the cop again. But Summers told him to go fuck himself, and they hauled us both off to the pokey.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I was sitting across from my traveling companion in the interrogation room at the Hanover Stre
et branch of the Boston PD. We'd gotten there in the back seat of a squad car. A lieutenant came into the room and placed a forty-five automatic on the table. The action was back and the magazine was out.

  "Don't go for it, Summers—it's empty."

  "So's your head."

  "It's a fluke the baggage handler discovered it, I'll admit. Many airports have metal detectors that scan checked baggage, but what tipped him off was feeling this piece through the canvas of the duffel. You put it in there so you could get to it quickly. Why?"

  "Habit I picked up in the service."

  "We checked your service record. Very good. Perhaps you should have stayed in."

  "I get one phone call," I said. "And so does Mr. Summers."

  Mike called Roantis, who had returned to his job the previous week, at the BYMCU number I'd given him. I didn't think this was a hot idea, but I said nothing.

  They handed me a phone. Luckily, Joe was in his office at State Police Headquarters. I explained the situation. As I feared, he was not overly sympathetic.

  "Doc, for Chrissakes, how many times do you expect me to bail you out? Violation of the Fox-Bartley gun law is serious. It's a year in the can. No ifs, ands, or buts."

  "Okay. One: Mike didn't know about the gun law. I know it's what everybody says, but I hauled him out here at a moment's notice. Two: he wasn't packing the piece for any special reason. He just had all of his worldly belongings in his duffel, including the gun. And they rode in the cargo hold, not the cabin."

  "And you say this guy's a friend of Roantis?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "That's all we need. Listen, I've got good friends at the Hanover Street station. I'll come over and see if we can straighten it out.”

  Well, he got us off the hook, but I think Summers's military career helped as much as anything. Cops like soldiers, especially good ones. Fortunately, the two meanies Mike assaulted weren't policemen. They were airline employees. Summers was instructed to stay put until charges, if any, were filed. I told the Boston Police that, for the time being, anyway, he was staying with me in Concord.

  We got into Joe's cruiser and he drove us back through the Callahan Tunnel to East Boston so I could retrieve the car at the airport. Right in the middle of the tunnel, amid all the roaring and rushing, honking, and deadly CO fumes, he dropped a bombshell on me.

  "Who's your lady friend, Doc? Sure was a knockout."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Don't play dumb with me. I know you're not telling because I'm your wife's brother. Who in hell is she and where did you run into her? San Antonio?"

  "Huh?"

  "Okay, clam up. I'll find out eventually. And so will Mary. You can't keep it secret forever, you know. After all, this Mystery Lady is the one who sprung you and your friend."

  I stretched my feet out to relieve the numbness and cramping brought on by the plane ride, the scuffle in the baggage room, and sitting under the hot light at the BPD. I let out a weary sigh. The recent events had all the earmarks of a Kafka novel. I wasn't having much fun.

  "Joe, what the hell are you talking about? You know there's no woman in my life except Mary."

  "And that blonde you were glomping on to at your party the other night."

  "No, not even her. Now, who's this other lady?"

  "I don't know, that's why I'm asking you. She looked Mexican a little bit, so I guessed maybe you met her in San Antonio. But actually, I thought she looked more Japanese or Chinese. But she was too tall for any of them."

  I stared ahead and saw light at the end of the tunnel. I remembered the tall, gorgeous, sandalwood-scented woman in the ski parka who had glided by me on the hospital stairs. But it couldn't be.

  "Did she, uh, have her hair back in a bun?"

  "Naw. In a single thick braid down one side of her head. God, those eyes! So where did you meet her?"

  "I've never met her. But I have seen her. Once. And that's a face I'll never forget."

  "Haw-haw-haw!" roared Summers from the back seat. I turned and looked at him. He wore a big grin, and the laugh was genuine. It was the first time I'd seen him even smile. I turned around again and stared at the tunnel exit. Summers seemed to know something I didn't.

  "Well, this woman, whoever she is, showed up at the station ten minutes after I got there. She waltzed in there and snagged Captain Catardi. They were in the next room for maybe twenty minutes. Then Catardi comes back in alone and says let them go. He wouldn't tell me doodily-squat. So who the hell is she, Doc?"

  "I wish I knew, Joe. I wish I knew . . ."

  11

  FOR SOME STRANGE REASON, Mary was not overjoyed that I had brought Mike Summers home with me.

  "You've got to be kidding, Charlie! " was all she managed to say as Mike clomped around above us in the guest room, a double Scotch in his huge mitt, unpacking his duffel.

  "I tried to call from Chicago and tell you my plans. By the way, where were you this afternoon?"

  "Since when do I have to report to you?" she snapped as she stormed off. Ten minutes later, after a brief phone call to Janice DeGroot, she left to go shopping. I wanted to ask her when she planned to return, but I didn't push it. It was a hell of a way to treat a war hero like Mike Summers. But I could see her point. One doesn't exactly expect one's spouse, who's blown a sizable wad of the family savings on rehabilitating an ex-mercenary, to bring another one home. I knew that Mike couldn't stay at the Adams homestead longer than a day or two without disastrous consequences. I sat down in my study and thought for a few minutes. Why had I volunteered to bring Mike Summers home with me? What had gotten into me that I would take this man, one step away from the gutter—or jail—and whom I'd met only minutes before, under my wing? Why?

  Because he needed help, that's why. And he had nowhere else to turn. And I knew who was really behind it: Morris Abramson. Dammit! I'd been hanging around Moe too much; I was becoming a bleeding heart sap, just like him. Moe Abramson, the sucker who'd let a grizzly take his leg off and then stop to lecture the critter because eating meat was bad for its health.

  There was only one course of action at this point: I was going to take Mike up the road to Carlisle and put him in Glendale Hospital, a posh detox clinic. Lord only knew what Mary was going to say when she heard this plan; the cost was astronomical. But I solved that problem: I decided I wasn't going to tell her. But another difficulty loomed. What if he didn't want to go? A man of Mike's background and disposition wouldn't want to be confined or restricted, even if it was for his own good. And if he didn't, how could I persuade him? It'd be like telling King Kong to get off that building right this instant—or else.

  There were only two men I knew who would even have a chance at handling Mike Summers. One was Roantis, of course. But although he'd returned to work, he was still disabled. The other was the giant affable Irishman, Tommy Desmond. But I liked Tommy too much to send him on a suicide mission. There was only one answer: I had to persuade him myself.

  I went upstairs and knocked on the guest room door. No answer. I opened it; Summers was asleep on the bed. The clock-radio was playing loud soul music. I turned it off, drew down the blinds, and tiptoed out. He slept through the night. After Mary got back from shopping, at nine, I promised her Mike would not stay long. We had a late snack together and watched part of an old movie before she said she was tired and went up to go to sleep. I followed, and we snuggled for a bit. I thought I was going to get lucky and have a chance to put all the disagreements in the past. But then she rolled over to her side of the sack and froze there in a fetal position. I reached over and stroked her flank.

  "Don't, Charlie. I'm tired and . . . and confused. I want to sleep now."

  "Sorry about Mike Summers being here. He's leaving tomorrow."

  "Charlie, I need to get out of this place for a while. I need to get away."

  "We'll talk about it later," I said.

  "It won't change," she said.

  * * *

  The next morning, Mary was up a
nd out of the house early for hospital duty. As a relief RN, she works two or three days a week. I wasn't hungry, but I ate a small breakfast and called Glendale Hospital. The director, Mr. Clarence Featherstone, answered.

  "Now let me get this straight, Dr. Adams, you say the patient is from out of state, has no health insurance plan or means of payment, and you want to have him admitted at Glendale?"

  "That's correct. I am prepared to pay the full week's charges in cash, in advance." This changed his attitude considerably.

  "This, uh, man is a relative, then?"

  "No."

  "He is then a—harrrumph—a friend, I presume?"

  "No, not exactly. I just met him."

  He cleared his throat again a couple of times and made sucking mouth noises.

  "Are you trying to ask me why I'm bringing him in?"

  "Uhhh. Yes."

  "Because I can't let him die. Does that sound reasonable?"

  "Oh, of course, Dr. Adams. Do you have him on medication now?"

  "No. But he should be on something for hypertension, and soon. I assume your attending physician will probably prescribe it."

  "Of course, doctor. Now, when can we expect you both?"

  "That's a good question. Whenever we get there."

  I hung up and heard a heavy tread on the front stairs. I met Mike in the dining room. I thought I might as well get it over with, even if it meant a knee drop to my kidney and a broken spine.

  "Mike, I'm taking you to a hospital, a private clinic, for you to rest and recover for a week. After you're sprung, you can do whatever you want. But for the next seven days you're going to rest in bed, eat good food, take the right medicine, and get sober."

  He raised his head and stared at me.

  "It's a nice place," I continued. "It's just up the road, in the country, and peaceful. You won't have to pay anything."

  "What's the gig, Doc? Why you doin' this?"

  "Somebody's got to. It might as well be me."

  "This gotta be some kinda bullshit."

  "The only thing bullshit is the way you've been treating yourself. Roantis says you've got great potential. You're not living up to it."