I didn’t have a clear memory of getting back to my own apartment. Ten hours later I wished I didn’t have a clear sense of waking up, either. Someone was running an artificial surf machine inside my head. It swooshed and swirled when I tried standing. Even if I hadn’t drunk the champagne, I would have felt awful—my hike around the Ryan had stiffened up my legs. My shoulders felt as though I’d spent the night on a circular saw. With the better part of a bottle swelling my cytoplasm, I wished I could spend the next twelve hours unconscious.
Instead I staggered into the kitchen looking for orange juice. The maid or wife or whoever looked after these things hadn’t been to the store yet. I thought about going out myself, but the idea of being in direct sunlight made me feel so ill that I had to sit down. When the spasm passed I went into the bathroom, located the Tylenol, and took four, extra-strength, with a couple of glasses of cold water. After a long soak in the tub with the water as hot as I could tolerate, I shuffled back to bed.
When I woke up again it was past noon. I didn’t feel like running a mile but I thought I could manage getting dressed and going to the grocery. When you feel really lousy, puppy therapy is indicated. I stopped at Mr. Contreras’s to pick up Peppy.
“You look terrible, doll. You doing okay?” He was wearing a red shirt so brilliant it hurt my eyes.
“I feel like death. But I’m going to get better. I just want to borrow the dog for a while.”
His faded brown eyes were bright with worry. “You sure you even oughta be dressed? Why don’t you go back to bed and I’ll fix you something to eat. You shouldn’t of got out of the hospital so soon. I don’t know what Dr. Lotty would say if she could see you.”
I swayed slightly and caught hold of the doorjamb. Peppy came over to lick my hands. “She’d say I got what was coming to me. This is just cork flu—it doesn’t have anything to do with my injuries, or at least not much.”
“Cork flu?” He cocked his head to one side. “Oh. You been drinking too much. Don’t do that, doll. It’s no way to solve your problems.”
“No, of course it isn’t. Who should know that better than you? I’ll bring Peppy back later.”
I wobbled off with the dog while he was squawking righteously about how knocking back a few with the boys was not the same as me drowning my sorrows in whiskey, I should know by now it was bad for my system. Peppy was totally uninterested in these fine points of ethics, or the different morality prevailing for men who drink than for women. She was staggered that we weren’t going running. She kept looking up at me to see if I was watching her, then looking very pointedly to the east to say we should be going that way.
When she saw it wasn’t going to happen she took it like a lady, waiting sedately outside the grocery on Diversey and staying fairly close going home. She’d run a half a block ahead of me, come back to see if I was still there, tree a squirrel a few yards back, then move ahead again. Back at my apartment she placed herself on the kitchen floor between the stove and table. In my stupefied condition I kept stepping on her tail but she didn’t move—what if some food fell?—she wanted to be able to get to it before I tripped on it. That’s what a guard dog is for.
I squeezed some orange juice and fried hamburgers for the two of us, hers without rye or lettuce. The hamburger raised my blood sugar to the point that I thought I might even manage to live another few days.
I’d intended to go back to the Recorder of Deeds office to look up Farmworks; if it wasn’t a partnership, I’d have to drive to Springfield to see whether they’d been incorporated. Halfway through the second bottle last night, though, as Rick described in hilarious detail the collapse of a set he’d designed for the La Brea Tarpit Wars, I’d remembered the Lexis system. If you had a pal who subscribed to it, you could find out who the officers of a closely held company were as long as it had filed to do business in Illinois.
I wasn’t up to taking the first step, visiting the Recorder’s office in the old county building, but I went to the living room to call Freeman Carter. He’s my attorney, not exactly a pal, and he wouldn’t get me the information for nothing, but it still beat driving to Springfield.
Freeman expressed himself pleased at hearing from me—his secretary had brought in the news clips about my near death. He’d been waiting for me to feel better before seeing if I wanted to start a civil action against anyone.
“You mean the way you have to do if the Klan murders your kid?” I asked. “What is it you do—sue for being deprived of your civil right to life?”
“Something like that.” He laughed. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m coming along, but I was too ambitious yesterday— I’m not going out today. I was wondering if you’d do something for me.”
“Maybe, if it relates to my proper professional role in your life and if it is very clearly marked ‘legal.’”
“When have I ever asked you to do something illegal?” I demanded, stung.