16
Darryl noticed right off how the chatter on the Lodge’s front steps died as soon as he showed up.
As usual a bunch of Kickers were hanging out in front smoking—no smoking inside on order from the Septimus folks, so they gathered out here. Some stared, some didn’t look at him.
Did it show on his face how sick he was? All he’d been able to think about on the subway back downtown was his AIDS and what he was going to do with the little time he had left. After all, he had cancer too.
He couldn’t go back to Dearborn. What for? His ex hadn’t wanted anything to do with him when he was healthy—well, other than his alimony and child support checks, and he’d been skipping those—so she sure as hell wouldn’t want nothing to do with him sick and out of work. Same with his ma. Hadn’t spoken to her in years, and she had a new husband who wouldn’t want him around.
He’d stay here. The Kickers were the only family he had. And it was a good family. They took care of each other. They’d help him out if he was sick, but he couldn’t tell them why he was sick. They wouldn’t understand. They’d think he was queer or a junkie. Didn’t want nobody thinking that.
Why now? That was what he wanted to know. Just when he was getting his act together and settling himself in a new life, why’d it all have to get ruined by this? Wasn’t fair.
He walked inside and found the usual half dozen or so Kickers hanging out. They got quiet too. Really noticeable in the echoey marble foyer. His footsteps sounded like he was walking down a long, empty hallway.
He spotted Ansari, the unofficial head of security for the building, and caught his eye.
“Hey.”
Ansari looked away, then looked back. “Hey.”
“What’s going on? Seems kinda weird around here.”
“You look like crap, man.”
That took Darryl by surprise. He knew he looked ailing, but not like crap.
“I love you too.”
Someone behind him snickered. “I bet you do!”
That got a laugh, and Darryl spun to see who’d spoken.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Word came in you’re sick,” Ansari said.
Darryl felt his blood turning to ice as he looked back at him. “Word? Word from who?”
Ansari shrugged. “Got a call.” He pointed to the phone on the slim foyer table against the wall. “Said you got the virus.”
Darryl reeled. Someone had called? Who? Why? Wasn’t that kind of stuff supposed to be private?
“The virus? What virus?”
“You know. AIDS. How long were you going to live here with us and eat with us and not tell us?” His face reddened. “How many of us have you spread it to, you mother—”
“It’s not true!” He’d begun to say he’d just found out, but that would be admitting it. And he couldn’t admit it. “Whoever he was, he was lying!”
Who’d call? Had to be someone who knew the doctor. And that left Drexler, the bastard. Why would he—?
“Wasn’t a he. Was a her.”
Her? Orlando’s assistant?
“Yeah, well, it’s still not true.”
Ansari stared at him a moment, then said, “I might believe you if you didn’t look so bad.”
“Just been off my feed is all.”
“Yeah. And now we know why.”
Darryl had no answer for that. He looked around and found everybody—including a bunch of guys who’d come in from the front steps—staring at him. He saw no pity, no caring in those eyes, only anger and distrust.
He turned and fled upstairs to his room.