I tightened up, looked away. “It’s him.”
Karaoke Mike, Mickey Sandoz, Michael Sanderson—the lead singer would sing no more.
Coroner nodded once, zipped up, and pushed the body back.
I said, “Can you—can you tell me what happened to him?”
Coroner forced a half-smile, to press comfort. “Well, we know he overdosed. We don’t yet know that the overdose killed him.”
“How do you mean?”
“The scabs on his arm tell us he was an experienced addict, and the blood levels of heroin were not quite lethal.”
“Is it possible that—that someone…could have assisted in stopping his breathing?”
At this, the jolly fell off Coroner in an instant. “It’s not my job to speculate, but there were no signs of a struggle. That doesn’t quite answer your question, though. A big enough dose of narcotics and a plastic bag over the head could kill someone, even a seasoned user. We’re still waiting for the histology on the lungs.”
“So you’re saying—”
“Final autopsy is pending.”
I staggered out of there, down the stairs and back into the car in a fever nightmare, drove west like a man aching to return to innocence—but I knew the gates were closed. I parked outside the Shalom Terrace and sat in the car for a while, listening to The Daily Telegraph CD, staring at the entrance. And two brutal weeks had knocked it out of me. I’d been smacked around, sucker punched, bonked, clobbered, drugged, and dragged to the edge. I’d stared into the eyes of the dying and the dead. Four band members…gone. But none of it was as hard as what I had to do now—tell Charles Elkaim I’d hit the brick wall.
I had nothing—and I was done.
I cut the music, got out of the car, and headed in.
Inside, I found Nurse Rosa at her station. “You are here to see Mr. Charles?”
“Yeah. Hopefully I won’t take much of his time.”
“He’s not in good health today. And he has a visitor.”
I turned the knob softly—the room was late afternoon dark. Charles was asleep, slightly curled and peaceful under the pale brown blanket. In the chair at his side, lit only by the orange curtain, Cinnamon Persky sat in her patchwork coat, hair up, reading glasses on, a paperback at her knee—she took me in without alarm and raised a finger to her lips.
37
She looked more alive than before, ignited and clear-eyed, and the glow of it doubled down on my shock. She was truly among the living now—even stranger here in this familiar dark, dank little corner.
In silence, she got up and motioned for me to follow.
She slid the glass door quietly and we passed through the curtains, into the gloomy nursing home courtyard by the ancient soda machine under dark afternoon clouds. Greek statue lady didn’t pour water from her urn, but the sky threatened rain.
At first, we spoke in whispers.
“What are you doing here, Cynthia.”
“I came down.”
“I can see that. Have you lost your mind?”
“No,” she said. “The opposite. I—I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t stay away.”
“Well, okay but—”
“I had to see him, be with him. After you told me—” She cast a strained glance to the sliding glass door. “He’s almost gone.”
“You must have freaked the living hell out of him.”
“I think he thought he was dreaming at first. He smiled and reached out to touch my face.”
“Okay but—isn’t this dangerous being here? For you I mean.”
“Adam, I don’t care anymore.”
“You could have sent him a message, through me, you could’ve—”
“No. That’s not good enough.” She studied me with all her piercing intelligence, and in an instant I saw her as she must have appeared to the band—fearless, determined, the true believer. “He’s the only person who ever looked after me, Adam, do you understand? Ever. When nobody else would.”
“Yeah, but that was a long time ago—you yourself said somebody really dangerous is out there right now, someone that seems to hate this band. Your band.”
She didn’t react.
I added, “Mickey Sandoz is dead.”
She bristled. “Am I supposed to be surprised about that?”
“The coroner thinks it was an overdose.”
