The Sudden Star Read online

  "Simon, it's me." It was Jeanne's voice. He turned on the small screen and saw her pug-nosed face peering at him. "Marvin will be away on Sunday. You may come over here then." She sounded calm enough. He looked over at Yola, who still slept.

  "I can't," he said recklessly. "I don't want to meet you there. I don't want to meet you here."

  "When, then?"

  "I don't know." He paused, suddenly apprehensive, trying to think of an excuse. "I've been busy lately. I haven't slept well. I need to rest up."

  "Who is there with you?" Jeanne lifted her head, pointing her chin at him.

  He felt a movement next to him and looked over his shoulder. Yola was awake, staring at the screen. Her eyes widened a bit.

  "I'll talk to you some other time, Jeanne," he said at last. Jeanne's image watched him unblinkingly, silently. Then she shrugged.

  "Very well," she said, and the screen went blank.

  Simon hung up, worried. Jeanne was rarely calm. He turned over on his back.

  Yola was still watching him. "Jeanne Steinman?" the young doctor said. Her green eyes narrowed.

  "You know her?"

  "I know of her." The words sounded flat. "I saw her at a party just after I arrived. She didn't leave with her husband." She lay down again, her back to him.

  He was tired. He reached over to grab the bottle of gin at the side of the bed, and swallowed two mouthfuls. He could not tell whether Yola was upset or simply disappointed. But he did not care what she thought. He reached toward her and grabbed her arm, digging his fingers into the flesh. She pulled her arm away and curled up tightly, pulling her knees to her chest.

  He did not feel up to forcing her. He burrowed under the covers, hoping he could sleep. He tried not to think about Jeanne and what she might have told Marvin. But Marvin didn't care about Simon and had nothing to gain from him. He stretched out his legs, trying to relax.

  He was not going to sleep if he kept thinking about Jeanne. None of it would matter soon, anyway. He would leave and go south; he'd have enough money soon. Once he got out of New York, he could get help from Titus Echeverria. He'd made a good bet with Titus, and it hadn't cost him much: helping him steal when they were kids, taking an exam for Titus so Titus could get a civil service job and make connections. He had known helping his friend would pay off eventually. Now Titus was down south, in business for himself, and he had promised Simon he'd help him if he ever followed. Titus had in fact planted the idea of escape in Simon's mind, of going south, away from the cold, the dirt, the clouds.

  He dreamed of sunshine warming his body, warm air brushing his face, and at last fell asleep.

  Simon awoke feeling thirsty. His mouth was cottony and his eyes were sore. It was still dark outside.

  Yola stood by the sink, washing up. From the back, she looked like a tall, redheaded boy, with her flat ass and muscled legs. He found himself noticing her feet for the first time. They were big, ugly feet, with stubby toes and flat arches. She lifted one leg for a moment and he saw the calluses on her heel.

  He said, "Could you get me a glass of water?"

  She filled a glass and handed it to him wordlessly. Abruptly, she crossed the small room and picked up the clothes draped on the chair.

  "Where are you going?"

  She pulled her blue sweater over her head. "I want to go back to my apartment." She stepped into her underpants, balancing unsteadily first on one leg, then the other. "I don't have a change of clothes for tomorrow." She reached for her skirt, not looking at him.

  "Are you upset about something?"

  "What could I be upset about?"

  He looked at his watch on the night table and saw that it was two o'clock. She probably wanted him to persuade her to stay. He was suddenly bored with her, irritated by her big feet and vulnerable eyes. "I'll call you a cab. There's probably a copter headed your way with some passengers. You might have to wait a bit."

  "That's quite all right." Her voice was high.

  The phone buzzed again. He pushed the black-out button and picked it up.

  "Julio 204, Karenga," the deep voice said. Simon switched on the screen and the broad, dark face of Sam Karenga appeared.

  "I'm busy now, Sam. Why don't you take some time off, relax a bit." He needed time to decide what to do about Sam.

  "This time it's René," Karenga said. "And he wants you now, at his place. I'll bring my bag. I think you'd better get dressed. See you in an hour." The receiver clicked in Simon's ear as Karenga's face faded from the screen.

  "A patient?" Yola asked.

  He did not reply.

  "You're treating people illegally, aren't you?"

  His head jerked up. "Don't be foolish."

  "I don't care, Simon, really. I get so angry about the list sometimes. It keeps us from helping and from learning. Already we know less than doctors did years ago."

  "Sure," he muttered, trying to stay calm. "Ever seen a diabetic?"

  "No, it's pretty rare."

  "It's not rare. You just don't see the ones that have it." He paused; "Why don't you come with me to see my patient? He's an interesting fellow, a businessman of sorts." Yola would be an accomplice then, he thought, and if René's people thought she might be unreliable, they would take care of her for him. It would be out of his hands.

  Yola said nothing.

  "Not afraid, are you? I thought you were the noble creature who wanted to set up a practice with the people."

  "I'll go," she said. "Call the cab." She clenched her hands and waited for him to pick up the phone.

  The helicab transported them to the rooftop of an office building. They got out, paid the driver, waved goodbye to the drunken partygoers with whom they had shared the cab, and walked over the debris-covered roof to the entrance. They went in, took an elevator to the second floor, and got out.

  "A friend of Sam's works here," Simon said to Yola as they walked down the hallway. He removed a key from his pocket, opened a door, and they walked through a cluttered office to one of the windows. He opened the window and looked out. "They don't patrol these fire escapes too closely at night," he whispered.

  From the window, the noise in the street was almost deafening. "Why didn't we just go over the roofs the rest of the way?" Yola asked.

  "Because we can't get there over the roof. It isn't that kind of place. You've been sheltered." He climbed out, helped Yola onto the ledge, and closed the window. They climbed down into an alley and ran quickly toward the street. Simon heard gunfire. He grabbed her arm and peered around the side of the building.

  The patrolmen in front of the building were practicing with their guns, using three dogs in the street as targets. A group of young people stood across the street from the patrolmen, cheering them on. "Kill the motherfuckers!" a small boy yelled, dancing lightly on his toes. The dogs raced back and forth, yipping; one fell, and the others ran off. Simon and Yola plunged into a crowd of people moving up the street.

  "Where are we?" she shouted at Simon. She clutched his arm. "Is he near here?" A tank rolled by them in the street. The crowd of people around them moved toward a subway entrance. Simon stopped and turned toward Yola as people pushed around them.

  "We have to take a train," he yelled. "Don't hang onto my arm, and stick close."

  "But—"

  "Come on." He pushed the woman in front of him as they descended the stairs. They moved onto the platform just as a train rumbled by and screeched deafeningly to a halt. The mass of humans pushed forward. He realized that Yola was no longer with him.

  "Simon!" He turned toward the voice and saw Yola behind him, wedged in among three husky young men. One of them was pulling at her clothes while the other two held her arms. The people near her looked away or continued to push toward the train. Yola began to scream.

  The police would not be on duty in the subway for another three hours.

  Simon, rid of at least one problem, wedged himself into the train. The doors slid shut behind him. As the train began to move, h
e saw the men drag Yola behind the stairs. One of them seemed to be laughing as he pulled out a knife.

  Simon held his own knife close to his body as he turned from the window to face his fellow passengers. They stared in front of themselves vacantly, swaying slightly as the train shrieked through the underground tunnel. The subways, the streets, the entire city seemed more crowded than ever, though that had to be an illusion; there had been more people in New York when he was a boy. But there had been more of everything then; now everyone crowded around what was left. The old train shook and rattled ominously; it had probably not been repaired for some time. Simon remembered hearing of the cave-in in Boston, and how they had walled off that whole section of subway, leaving the long-dead passengers waiting to arrive at their stations. He wondered how long it would be before there was a cave-in here.

  At the other end of the car, a man began to scream. "I can't breathe!" he shouted. "Let me by, give me some air! I'm smothering, goddamn it, I need air!"

  "Shut up, you bastard!" a woman yelled. The man was silent. Simon peered toward the other end of the car, but couldn't see the man. Someone must have slipped a knife between his ribs, he thought, and good, quick work, too, or there'd be a riot in this car.

  The subway stopped and Simon leaped out. He ran through the crowd on the platform, pushing people aside, took the stairs two at a time, reached the street, and relaxed his stride only when he saw a street patrol of ten armed police officers ahead of him. He walked briskly. When he reached the corner, he saw Sam Karenga standing beside three other armed black men, waiting for him. The police officers passed Karenga and his men without a glance and crossed to the other side of the street.

  "Come on, man," Karenga muttered. "René passed out earlier. He just came to." The five men began to walk up the street. A group of young boys and girls, all of them whores, stood in the street, telling soldiers in a tank where they would be when the soldiers came off duty.

  Simon finished giving René an insulin injection and examined him while Karenga stood by with the instruments he had brought.

  The three men who had arrived with them had disappeared. Only two people besides himself and Karenga remained in the room with René. One was an androgynous-looking girl who sat next to René's bed with a book on her lap. Her black woolly hair was clipped close to her head; her lean, undeveloped body slouched gracefully in the chair. Her skin was dark, almost as dark as Karenga's; her face, with its large brown eyes, straight nose, and full lips, was distracting.

  The other person was Kathleen Ortega. René's second- in-command, she had always been present during Simon's visits. Ortega stood behind the young girl, not moving a muscle, never taking her eyes off Simon. Her black hair was pulled back into a knot on her neck. A long scar ran down her face from her temple to her chin. Her yellowish eyes were like a cat's. Simon hated those eyes; they made him nervous. She would protect René, at least until she decided it was time for him to die so she could take over.

  "Negron," René said, interrupting the examination, "I want to tell you something."

  "Go ahead."

  The gray-haired man cleared his throat. "I want a cure."

  Simon chuckled. "You've got to stop going off your diet," he answered. "You'll have to be more rigorous about your insulin injections. Stop drinking. Keep a regular schedule and rest. You're an old man. You've got to be more careful."

  "Can't do it," the old man said. "I have to look after things. And I didn't come this far so I could lie around watching other people enjoy themselves." René's voice still retained the lilting tones of his West Indian birthplace.

  Simon walked over to the window where Karenga was standing. René was able to live on the first floor of his building because he knew that his personal guards would protect him. In front of the building stood fifteen armed men; others patrolled the street. The police usually avoided René's building, and the pushers, runners, and whores who were René's employees avoided the police. The street on which René's building stood was one of the safer streets in the city.

  He noticed two tanks coming down the street and was curious. "What's going on?" he asked Karenga quietly. Karenga looked out.

  "I don't know. They don't usually—" Karenga pulled away, reaching for his gun, then dropped it to the floor. Simon turned and saw that Ortega had her pistol pointed at them. His stomach knotted. They were coming for Sam, he thought. He and Toby and the other kids had just seen the truck standing there, and nobody was looking, so they just grabbed some stuff and started running. ...

  "I think we had better not trouble them too much," the old man said. "I have tried to keep my relations with our police force peaceful." He pushed a button near his bed. Three men entered the room with guns and pointed them at Simon and Karenga.

  Simon moved behind Sam and away from the window. So Simon had seen the guards coming, and pushed Toby in front of him when they fired, and ran like hell, but they would have gotten Toby anyway, he was so fucking slow ...

  "Disarm yourselves, please," René was saying. "I'll give you your weapons back when these police have gone." Simon put down his knife. He felt unbalanced, and quickly sat down. His knees were shaking. Karenga stared in front of himself and dropped his own knife next to his gun.

  Three policemen were approaching the armed men at the door. They talked for a few seconds and then entered. Simon heard their heels clatter in the hallway. The door opened and they entered the room.

  "Simon Negron and Samuel Karenga," one of the men said, "you are under arrest. The charge is the illegal practice of medicine. You have the right to remain silent unless asked a direct question about this charge, you have a right to have an attorney present only after questioning has taken place, you do not have a right to contact anyone until after charges have been filed—"

  Simon listened, not hearing, dizzy and stunned.

  "—I said, do you understand your rights?"

  Simon started, then nodded.

  René sighed. "Well, Lieutenant Morris, I suppose you'll have to take my insulin as evidence."

  "We can leave you most of it." Morris motioned to one of his men, who began to pour some of the insulin into a smaller bottle.

  The old man looked at Simon. "I'm truly sorry, Doctor. I had a feeling they might pick you up soon, but I certainly didn't think they'd do it this quickly." Simon tried to stand, but could not. His hands shook. But Toby was better off dead. They would hang you at the prison farms, after they practically worked you to death first....

  "We've been following Karenga for a while," the lieutenant was explaining. "Too many people know about him now. And this Negron doesn't have any friends who can help him here. The hospital knows, the center where he works, I think they suspected for a while. I think we can put him away without dragging you in. Better be careful what doctor you pick next."

  Kathleen Ortega smiled.

  Karenga shouted. He dove through the window, shattering the glass. Simon watched the tall man run into the street. A machine gun chattered. Karenga, who was moving more slowly now, jerked, lunged forward, and fell, face down.

  Simon felt a hand on his wrist, and turned away.

  Three

  Aisha Baraka

  The images moved on the large screen, life-size figures swirling: Aisha Baraka felt the drums in her abdomen as their sound pounded against her ears. The golden man in the center seemed about to leap from the screen, away from the circle of silvery women. A group of children had gathered in front of the screen—some dancing, some seated on the sidewalk, others passing small bottles of pills to one another. Three policemen, holding their rifles carelessly, stood leaning against a tank in the street, watching the children.

  Aisha stood next to Ildico Hannes. She glanced at Ildico and saw the blond girl sway her hips, look obliquely at the three militiamen, then turn back to the screen. Three boys near the screen were performing acrobatic feats, balancing on their hands, flipping backwards, turning cartwheels.

  "They're good," Ildic
o said. "Somebody'll find them. They'll be on the screen, rich." Aisha was silent, thinking about money and fame. The three boys were working hard, sweat rolling down their bare chests, hoping that they would be seen by someone with connections.

  Aisha toyed with her favorite daydream: Someone would find Ildico, maybe a rich customer or someone seeing her in the street. Ildico was beautiful and had presence; Aisha did not know what else to call it. And Aisha would be with her, since they were almost never apart and looked good together, fair and dark. They could not dance as well as the boys in the street, but they could learn, or they could be actresses. They would live in a penthouse and have parties and be friends forever and never have to fuck policemen and perverts ever again. They would not have to think about Lono or worry about what Ortega might do. Aisha would buy lots of books and both of them would have closets full of gowns. Juan could live with them and be the butler.

  One of the policemen, muscular, brown hair in ringlets around his face, approached Ildico, watched her, glanced at Aisha, then looked back at the blond girl. Ildico grinned at him, shook her thick, fair hair, tapped her feet.

  "How much?" he said to her.

  "Ten credits," Ildico replied. She looked over at the other two policemen. "Twenty-five for the three of you."

  "That's fucking high."

  "So go find someone else."

  The man walked back to his friends. They talked, then began to pull money from their pockets, handing it to the man who had spoken to Ildico. He walked back toward the two girls.

  "Come on," he said. He looked at Aisha. "You, too," he said to her. "One of the guys likes your looks. You get ten for yourself."

  Aisha said, "I'm taking the day off."

  "Whores don't have days off."

  "It's my birthday."

  "It's her fucking birthday," Ildico said to him.

  For a moment the man tensed, then relaxed and shrugged. No one ever seemed to stand up to Ildico—which, when Aisha thought about it, was strange. Presence, that was what Ildico had; she could sidestep trouble or melt it away. I wish I had presence, Aisha thought. Maybe it was just that Ildico, who was fifteen, was older and more experienced.