Flood - Andrew H. Vachss [83]
When Pansy came down I gave her the hand signal for friends and she ambled over to her spot on the Astroturf and lapsed into the semicoma that’s her normal waking state. I got out my medical kit and told Flood to give me a hand.
With everything laid out on the desk I turned on the overhead light so Flood could see what she was doing and leaned way back in my chair. Flood looked at the equipment. “You’ll have to tell me what to do.”
“First, spray some of this Xylocaine completely over the area.”
“What does it do?”
“It’s a nerve deadener. You may have to probe around in there and I know how clumsy you are.”
“I wish you had some real anesthetic here.”
“Flood, let me tell you something. Anesthesia isn’t like going to sleep the way the goddamned doctors tell you—it’s a disease the body eventually recovers from, that’s all. I’ve got some stuff like that but it’s not for working on myself, you understand?”
She said nothing, just tested the spray against her hand, then turned and shot it into my face where she’d kicked me. The spray stung, burned, then turned cold like it was supposed to. I reached in and removed the upper right-side bridge. It came out easily, covered with blood and some flesh, so she was right about me needing some stitches.
“Flood, take the swabs and the orange stuff there and clean out the whole thing so you can see what you’re doing.”
She did what I told her. She was breathing shallowly through her nose, and I tried to match my rhythm to hers. She saw what I was doing and gave me a quick smile of encouragement.
“Now take those little scissors and trim away anything that’s hanging loose. Just the part that looks like it’s going to be dead skin.”
Flood worked carefully but quickly. She would have made a great surgeon, but I guess her calling in life was to make work for the medical profession—or the undertaker.
“See if you can press the edges together—do they match up?”
“Almost.” She grimaced.
“Okay,” I said out of the good side of my mouth, “can you hold the edges together and sew with one hand?”
“I don’t think so.” She sounded upset.
“All right, all right, no big deal. Take my hand and show me where to put it, I’ll hold everything together. You take this needle”—I pointed to the tiny curved piece of shiny steel—“and put some small stitches in as careful as you can, okay? Remember, they have to come out. Make sure the edges are together firmly so it’ll knit. You understand?” Flood nodded, still concentrating. She threaded the tiny needle as easily as putting a pencil in a donut hole. “Work from one end across to the other. Don’t overlap, I’ll have to take them out later. Tie a big knot at the end. That’s where we’ll cut them off.”
Flood put the stitches in silently, occasionally motioning me to move my hands so she could see better. When she finished I held up the mirror to check. Lovely work. I smeared the gauze pad liberally with Aureomycin ointment and put it in place. It didn’t taste too sporty but it would drain well and stop any infection in its tracks. I poured alcohol over my bridge and let it sit in the glass—I wouldn’t be using it for a while—then flicked off the overhead light and lay back in the semidarkness with my eyes closed. Flood lit a cigarette from my pack. “Can you smoke?” She touched her own mouth. I nodded, took it from her. Smoked silently, watching the red tip glow illuminating Flood’s blonde hair.
She shifted her hips, sat down on the desk next to me and asked in a matter-of-fact tone what was next. She was still afraid I’d panic. I took another drag, handed the butt to her, and she stubbed it out for me. “I have to call someone about Goldor. Can’t do it until seven in the morning when they open up.”
Flood glanced toward the still-open back door. “That’s still a couple of hours, just about. You have any pain-killers here?”
“No good—they put you to sleep,