None at all.
FORTY-SEVEN
“ The sun! Oh, my God! Quick, you’d better—”
Manny came fully awake in midair: Evidently, he’d leaped out of bed, taking the duvet and several pillows with him, and they all landed at once, his feet, the comforter, and the quartet of puffies.
Bright sunlight was streaming in the glass windows, flooding his bedroom with brilliant illumination.
Payne was here, his brain told him. She was here.
Looking around frantically, he rushed into the bathroom. Empty. Ran through the rest of the condo. Empty.
Rubbing his hair, he went back to the bed . . . and then realized, holy shit, he still had all his memories. Of her. Of Jane. Of the Goateed Hater. Of the operation and the . . . that incredible shower hookup. And of Glory.
What the hell . . .
Bending down, he picked up a pillow and put it to his nose. Yeah, she’d definitely been lying beside him. But why had she come? And if she had, why hadn’t she scrubbed him?
Marching out into the front hall, he grabbed his cell phone and . . . Except it wasn’t as if he could call her. He didn’t have her number.
He stood there for a moment like a planker. And then remembered he’d agreed to meet Goldberg in less than an hour.
Pent-up and strangely panicked over nothing he could really point a finger at, he changed into his running gear and hit the elevator. Down in the gym, he nodded at the three other guys who were pumping iron or doing sit-ups, and got on the treadmill he usually used.
He’d forgotten his damn iPod, but his mind was churning, so it wasn’t like there was silence between his ears. As he fell into his pace, he tried to recall what had happened after he’d taken his shower the night before . . . but he just came up with nothing. No headache, however. Which seemed to suggest his black hole was a natural one, courtesy of the alcohol.
Through the course of the workout, he had to juice the machine a couple of times—some jackass had obviously tuned the damn thing up and the belt was sluggish. And when he reached the five-mile mark, it dawned on him that he didn’t have a hangover. Then again, maybe he had so much buzzing through his head, he was too distracted to care about any ow-ow-ow.
When he stepped off the treadmill about fifteen minutes later, he needed a towel and headed for the stack by the exit. One of the lifters got there at the same time, but the guy backed off in deference.
“You first, man,” he said, holding his hands out in offering.
“Thanks.”
As Manny mopped up and headed for the door, he had a moment’s pause as he realized no one was moving: Everybody in the place had stopped whatever he was doing and was staring at him. Quick check downward and he knew he wasn’t suffering from a wardrobe malfunction. What the hell?
In the elevator, he stretched his legs and his arms and thought, Hell, he could go another ten . . . fifteen miles easy. And in spite of the hooch, he’d had a cracking night’s sleep apparently, because he felt wide-awake and full of energy—but that was endorphins for you. Even when you were falling apart, a running buzz was better than caffeine . . . or sobriety.
Undoubtedly he was going to crash at some point, but he’d worry about that when the exhaustion hit.
Half an hour later, he walked into the Starbucks on Everett that he and Goldberg had first met in years ago—only, of course, back then the little café hadn’t been taken over by the chain yet. The guy had been an alum of Columbia and applying for an internship at St. Francis and Manny had been on the recruiting team that had been convened to snag the bastard—Goldberg had been a star, even back then, and Manny had wanted to build the strongest department in the country.
As he got in line to order a venti latte, he looked around. The place was packed, but Goldberg had already gotten them a table at the window. No surprise there. That surgeon was always early for meetings—he’d likely been here for a good fifteen, twenty minutes. He wasn’t scanning for Manny, though. He was staring into his paper mug as if he were trying to psychically stir his cappuccino.
Ah . . . he had a message.
“Manuel?” the guy behind the counter called out.
Manny accepted what he’d ordered and threaded in and around the caffeine addicts, the displays of mugs and CDs, and the triangled whiteboard that announced specials.
“Hey,” he said as he took the seat across from Goldberg.
The other surgeon glanced up. And did a double take. “Ah . . . hey.”
Manny took a sip of java and eased back in the chair, the curved back rail biting into his spine. “How you been?”
“I’m . . . good. God, you look fantastic.”