Free Sandman by Sean Costello Page A

you.”
    “You’re right, Jack. Look, I’ll be fine.”
    “You want to go home? John Barkham’s babysitting your case; why not let him finish it up for you.”
    “No, I’ll do it. I’m on call tonight, anyway. Thanks, Jack. Thanks a lot.”
    “Go home,” Jack said. “Talk to your wife. Settle this thing before it gets out of hand. I’ll look after your call tonight. I’m on Wednesday. If you’re feeling better by then, you can return the favor.”
    A cornered anger flickered across the big man’s face, then dissolved into resignation. “I’m a good anesthetist, Jack.”
    “I know you are. That’s why I’d hate to see you fuck it up.”
    Jack let him walk to the door alone.

6
    AT THREE O’CLOCK THAT AFTERNOON Jenny pushed her grocery cart through the automatic doors of the air-conditioned Billings Bridge Plaza into the damp, oppressive heat of the parking lot. She loaded the groceries into the trunk and climbed into the car, cursing her busted air conditioner and her suddenly reckless obstetrician, cursing the Lord on high. She belted herself in, started the car and buzzed open all the windows. Then she checked the lane behind her and started to back out.
    The crash was surprisingly violent, considering she’d barely gotten the car rolling when it came. She’d glanced again in her rearview, caught a flash of dark metal and jammed on the brakes—an instant too late.
    Jenny shifted into PARK and got out, noting with satisfaction that the vehicle she’d slammed into was a Porsche. A new one.
    Good , she thought. Stupid bastard.
    She marched to the driver’s door, jammed shut by her Chevy’s rear bumper, and tried to get a look inside. The windows were tinted and Jenny could make out only a motionless silhouette. She had a bad moment when she thought the driver was seriously injured...but at this speed? Then the window hummed partway open.
    “Where in the hell did you come from?” Jenny said, fuming. “I checked before I backed out, Mister, so if you think I’m going to pay...”
    What? Was the son of a bitch smiling? Sitting there smug and cool in his dented Porsche, gawking at her through a pair of night-black Vuarnets —and smiling ?
    Then it struck her. The familiarity. There was only one person in the world with a smile like that. Those milk white teeth, dimples you could sip champagne out of, a smile that brought an otherwise plain face alive in a way that had always made Jenny’s heart jog just a few beats faster.
    “Richard? Richard Dickerson?”
    The smile widened. The glasses came off. The blue eyes twinkled, a little impishly.
    “The very one,” Richard said. “Good to see you again, Jenny.”
    What followed was one of those moments which, in retrospect, seem to have spurned the imperative of time; it spun out with a kind of lightheaded constancy, and Jenny forgot about the heat, her pique with Craig Walsh and her upsetting session with Paul. She even forgot she was pregnant. She stood there under the beating sun, staring at the man whose nose she would have cheerfully bloodied only a heartbeat before, and grinned like a heat-struck clown.
    “You okay, Trix?” It was a nickname he’d given her a long time ago.
    “Sure,” Jenny said, “I’m fine. I’m just so surprised to see you. How long has it been? And look what I’ve done to your car.”
    Still smiling, Richard climbed out the passenger side and strolled around the hood. He wore a strappy T-shirt with a spot of blue oil paint on the breast and wash-faded Lee jeans. Jenny couldn’t be sure, but she thought they might be the same pair he’d worn when they were dating, sixteen years ago.
    Richard said, “So you admit you’re at fault.”
    Jenny’s grin widened. “Not likely,” she said, and then just stood there, remembering. He’d had a beard back then, and “hair down to his asshole,” as her father had been fond of complaining. The beard was gone but he still wore his hair on the long side. If it hadn’t been