Free Nerve Damage by Peter Abrahams Page B

lobby of the Hobbes Institute. He saw it once, at a reception, not long before the Venezuela trip, a fountain with Neptune, cherubs and coins winking on the bottom. All the women wore black, except for Delia, in red. Delia was a great one for circulating at parties, but on this night she didn’t leave Roy’s side, her hand on his arm almost the whole time.
    â€œThis is my husband, Roy. Roy, I’d like you to meet Paul Habib.”
    â€œHi.”
    â€œHi, Roy,” said Habib. “Heard so much about you.”
    â€œLikewise. Looking forward to Venezuela?”
    â€œVenezuela?”
    â€œMy mistake,” Roy said. “I thought you were part of this pineapple caper.”
    Paul Habib smacked himself on the head. He was a big guy with closely trimmed hair and a full beard, a consultant to the Hobbes Institute, on loan from somewhere Roy couldn’t remember at the moment, or maybe hadn’t been told in the first place. “The pineapple caper, of course, of course,” he said. “A little jet-lagged right now, but, yes, I’m on the trip. Looking forward to it, in fact. Delia’s work on this has been brilliant.”
    â€œThink they’ll buy it?” Roy said.
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe Venezuelans,” Roy said. “Growing pineapples.”
    â€œRight, the Venezuelans,” Habib said. “The numbers work, no doubt about that, thanks to your wife. So it’s a matter of getting them comfortable with the idea. Never easy, though, is it, Delia?”
    Delia’s hand tightened a little on Roy’s arm. “What isn’t?” she said.
    â€œRewiring people’s heads,” Habib said.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” Delia said. “Isn’t that your job?” She turned to Roy. “I’d love a glass of champagne.”
    â€œAnd one for you, Paul?” Roy said.
    â€œThanks,” Habib said.
    But when Roy returned with the drinks, Habib was gone.
    â€œSome problem between you and Paul?” he said.
    â€œNo,” Delia said. “He gets on my nerves sometimes, that’s all.”
    â€œIn what way?”
    â€œThe usual workplace way,” Delia said. “It’s nothing. Let’s have fun tonight.”
    â€œI’m your man,” Roy said. “Here’s to Venezuela.”
    â€œNo,” said Delia. “To us.”
    They drank to themselves, Delia downing her glass in one gulp. “Got a penny?” she said.
    Roy fished one from his pocket, handed it to her. Delia made a wish, her lips moving silently—he saw how she’d looked as a little girl—and tossed it in the fountain. The penny spun in coppery slow motion to the bottom.
    â€œLet’s go home,” she said.
    â€œNow?”
    They went home. In bed, she said, “You can do anything you want to me tonight.”
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    â€œTime’s up.”
    Roy found he was staring at the water flowing over those honey-colored rocks in Dr. Chu’s fountain. He turned his head, saw Netty standing beside him. It was almost like waking up.
    â€œThat wasn’t so bad, now, was it?” she said.
    â€œNo,” Roy said. He glanced up at the IV bag, now empty except for a few last drops clinging to the plastic. Roy resisted the impulse to ask her to squeeze them into the tube, to coax every last microscopic warrior into his body. “It was good.”
    She nodded as though she’d heard that before. “We’ll need you back at the same time tomorrow,” she said. “Here’s an after-hours number to call, just in case.”
    â€œJust in case what?” Roy said.
    â€œYou have some sort of bad reaction,” she said. “But you won’t—it’s never happened.”
    â€œNot with this cocktail, you mean?”
    â€œNo, not with this cocktail.”
    Roy took the card she handed him, saw her name was really Annette. “Netty,” he said. “I’ve got a