“Express that then, Mo. Don’t hold back.”
“If you were in church, would she be texting you?”
“Tia? Probably.”
“Fine, read it. Then tell her we’re on our way to a really great titty bar.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll do that.”
Mike clicked and read the message:Need to talk. Something I found in computer report. Come straight home.
Mo saw the look on his friend’s face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“Good. So we’re still on for the titty bar tonight.”
“We were never on for a titty bar.”
“You one of those sissies who prefer to call them ‘gentlemen’s clubs’?”
“Either way, I can’t.”
“She making you come home?”
“We got a situation.”
“What?”
Mo didn’t know from the word “personal.”
“Something with Adam,” Mike said.
“My godson? What?”
“He’s not your godson.”
Mo wasn’t the godfather because Tia wouldn’t allow it. But that didn’t stop Mo from thinking he was. When they had the baby-naming, Mo had actually come up to the front and stood next to Tia’s brother, the real godfather. Mo just glared at him. And Tia’s brother hadn’t said a word.
“So what’s wrong?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“Tia is too overprotective. You know that.”
Mike put down his cell phone. “Adam quit the hockey team.”
Mo made a face as if Mike had suggested that his son had gotten into devil worship or bestiality. “Whoa.”
Mike unlaced his skates, slid them off.
“How could you not tell me that?” Mo asked.
Mike reached for his blade protectors. He unsnapped his shoulder pads. More guys walked by, saying good-bye to Doc. Most knew to give Mo, even off the ice, wide berth.
“I drove you here,” Mo said.
“So?”
“So you left your car at the hospital. It’ll waste time to drive you back there. I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Tough. I want to see my godson. And figure out what the hell you’re doing wrong.”
4
WHEN Mo turned down their street, Mike spotted Susan Loriman, his neighbor, outside. She was pretending to be doing a yard chore—weeding or planting or something like that—but Mike knew better. They pulled into the driveway. Mo looked at the neighbor on her knees.
“Wow, nice ass.”
“Her husband probably thinks so.”
Susan Loriman rose. Mo watched.
“Yeah, but her husband’s an asshole.”
“What makes you say that?”
He gestured with his chin. “Those cars.”
In the driveway sat her husband’s muscle car, a souped-up red Corvette. His other car was a jet-black BMW 550i, while Susan drove a gray Dodge Caravan.
“What about them?”
“They his?”
“Yes.”
“I got this friend,” Mo said. “Hottest chick you’ve ever seen. Hispanic or Latina or some such thing. She used to be a professional wrestler with the moniker Pocahontas, you remember, when they had those sexy numbers on Channel Eleven in the morning?”
“I remember.”
“So anyway, this Pocahontas told me something she does. Whenever she sees a guy in a car like that, whenever he kinda pulls up to her in his muscle wheels and revs his engine and gives the eye, you know what she says to him?”
Mike shook his head.
“ ‘Sorry to hear about your penis.’ ”
Mike had to smile.
“‘Sorry to hear about your penis.’ That’s it. Ain’t that great?”
“Yeah,” Mike admitted. “That’s pretty awesome.”
“Tough to come back from that line.”
“Indeed it is.”
“So your neighbor here—her husband, right?—he’s got two of them. What do you think that means?”
Susan Loriman looked over at them. Mike had always found her gut-wrenchingly attractive—the hot mom of the neighborhood, what he had heard the teens refer to as a MILF, though he didn’t like to think in such coarse acronyms. Not that Mike would ever do anything about it, but if you’re breathing, you still notice things like that. Susan had long so-black-it’s-blue hair and in the summer she always wore it in a ponytail down her spine with cut-off shorts and fashionable sunglasses and a mischievous smile on her knowing red lips.
When their kids were younger, Mike would see her on the play-ground by Maple Park. It didn’t mean a thing but he liked to look at her. He knew one father who intentionally picked her son to be on his Little League team just so Susan Loriman would show up at their games.
Today there were no sunglasses. Her smile was tight.
“She looks sad as hell,” Mo said.
“Yeah. Look, give me a moment, okay?”
Mo was going to crack wise, but he saw something on the woman’s face. “Yeah,” he said. “Sure.”
Mike approached. Susan tried to hold the smile, but the fault lines were starting to give way.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi, Mike.”
He knew why she was outside pretending to garden. He didn’t make her wait.
“We won’t have Lucas’s tissue typing results until the morning.”
She swallowed, nodded too fast. “Okay.”
Mike wanted to reach out and touch her. In an office setting he might have. Doctors do that. It just wouldn’t play here. Instead he went with a canned line: “Dr. Goldfarb and I will do everything we can.”
“I know, Mike.”
Her ten-year-old son, Lucas, had focal segmental glomerulosclero- sis—FSGS for short—and was in pretty desperate need of a kidney transplant. Mike was one of the leading kidney transplant surgeons in the country, but he had passed this case to his partner, Ilene Goldfarb. Ilene was the head of transplant surgery at NewYork-Presbyterian and the best surgeon he knew.
He and Ilene dealt with people like Susan every day. He could give the usual spiel about separating but the deaths still ate at him. The dead stayed with him. They poked him at night. They pointed fin- gers. They pissed him off. Death was never welcome, never accepted. Death was his enemy—a constant outrage—and he’d be damned if he’d lose this kid to that son of a bitch.
In the case of Lucas Loriman, it was, of course, extra personal. That was the main reason he took second chair to Ilene. Mike knew Lucas. Lucas was something of a nerdy kid, too sweet for his own good, complete with glasses that always seemed to be sliding too far down his nose and hair that required a shotgun to keep down. Lucas loved sports and couldn’t play them a lick. When Mike would take practice shots at Adam in the driveway, Lucas would wander over and watch. Mike would offer him a stick, but Lucas didn’t want that. Realizing too early in life that playing was not his destiny, Lucas liked to broadcast: “Dr. Baye has the puck, he fakes left, shoots for the five- hole . . . brilliant save by Adam Baye!”