CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

The night was young, Al told himself as he pulled into the parking lot of a tame-ish nightclub in an upscale corner of downtown Orlando. The night was young, and he didn't exactly have a running start on it. Quite the opposite. He felt like he'd been hog-tied around the axel of a semi driving in the wrong direction, and was now obliged to somehow get back into the race.

Couldn't think about that. Focus on the mission objective. Operation: Bingo-Bango-Bongo.

He was out of practice, but you never really lost the touch. If Charlie hadn't been able to beat it out of him sixteen months of matrimony weren't going to do it.

He parked the Ferrari near the door, so it was nice and visible—chicks loved a guy with a hot car. He had to pause to cough, but was soon on his way again. Couldn't let that little things stop you. Besides, liquor would help. The whiskey he'd had back at the house was helping already.

Inside, he paused to take in the scene. Scantily clad bodies gyrating on the dance floor. Too long since he'd had this kind of fun. Emboldened and a little tipsy, Al sidled into the crush of young and happy people in bright clothes. A couple of seminude beauties were doing the Bird together, and he zeroed in with all the precision of an automatic missile. He caught a dubious glance from one of the girls as he started to move along with them.

"Hello, hello," he cooed. A cough tried to bubble up his throat, but he swallowed it resolutely. He raised his voice to be heard over the din. "Who clipped your wings?" he asked.

"Wings?" one of the girls said, frowning in puzzlement.

"Well, you must've fallen from heaven, 'cause I've never seen the likes of you on Earth!" Al said.

They giggled, clearly flattered. The music changed, and so did the rhythm of their swaying. It took Al's muddled mind a moment to adapt to the moves. He reached out an exploratory hand, running it up the silky back of the girl to his left. She shivered seductively against him, and he grinned. "You seraphim have names?" he asked.

"Crystal," said the one he wasn't touching, moving closer so that her shoulder brushed his as they shimmied up and down to the music.

"Louise," said the other. "What about you, handsome?"

"Al," he said.

"You look familiar," Crystal shouted. "Come here often?"

"Not really," Al said. His chest was aching, and it was getting harder and harder to keep time. "You girls heard of a little project called Apollo?"

The reaction was incredible. They both squealed in delight, bouncing up and down with excitement. One of them—Al couldn't quite sort out which one through the pounding of the bass line in his sore head—thoroughly butchered his last name.

"Calavicci," he corrected, then doubled over on himself as a fit of coughs that he couldn't stifle sent waves of fire through his torso. Crystal bent over and helped him straighten, hugging him supportively.

"Are you okay?" she cooed, petting his hair. Louise, apparently jealous, took hold of him from the other side and stroked his cheek. Al realized abruptly that his skin was rough with stubble. He hadn't remembered to shave before leaving the house.

He grinned, slipping one arm around each supple waist. "Just dandy," he said. "But a bit thirsty. Can I buy you girls a drink?"

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It was easier to breathe like this, leaning back against the bar with a pretty lady at each elbow and a vodka-and-tonic to sip from. Always best to drink vodka when you didn't know how your company felt about liquor: it left hardly any smell on the breath. He wasn't really comfortable: he was tired and sore, and the flashing lights hurt his eyes… but it was a necessary preliminary to the goal of the evening, and judging by the way these girls were fawning over him, asking inane questions about space and making lewd comments about the Saturn V, he was heading in the right direction.

It didn't take Crystal very long to get bored, though Louise seemed content to nurse her Margarita and stroke Al's neck. "You wanna dance?" Crystal asked.

"Do ducks like rain?" Al countered, draining his glass in one long quaff. As he stood he stumbled a little, coughing wetly. He hoped more of that green gunk wasn't going to start coming up. Talk about your major turn-offs. Crystal giggled and he slithered after her onto the dance floor. Louise, annoyed, watched them go.

After about ninety seconds of mad gyrating Al's head was spinning so badly that he wasn't a hundred percent sure that he was still on his feet. Despite the mass of humanity around him and the poor ventilation that always seemed to characterize places like this, it was freezing cold in here. And the liquor wasn't working. He knew he was tipsy, drunk, he was drunk… but it wasn't supposed to be like this. Alcohol was supposed to make him happy, buoyant. Instead he felt sore and exhausted and sick to his stomach. It was too hard to breathe this thick air, especially when you were exerting yourself this way. He started to cough again, thickly and painfully.

Black spots occluded his vision and he sank to his knees, wheezing and choking. A jiving calf caught him in the kidney, and he fell forward with a grunt of pain. The air trying to work its way into his inflamed lungs wheezed and gurgled. He tried to get to his feet, groping wildly for some kind of support. He found a soft, silken hand, and struggled up, still coughing.

" 'M fine," he mumbled between laborious gasps. "Jus'… jus'…" He couldn't continue. The coughing worsened. Damn it, the alcohol should have helped. Damn it.

"It's pretty smoky in here," Crystal said, letting him cling to her shoulder for support. "Maybe some fresh air?"

Al tried to tell her that this would be one heck of a good idea, but he couldn't get the words out. It was like being in that expended suit all over again. No matter how hard he tried to breathe, there was nothing his lungs could handle. So he coughed, striving futilely to drag in sufficient air to ease the fit, or at least to feed his brain, which was beginning to panic.

Somehow they got through the crowd, Crystal supporting him as he stumbled. Then they were out in the night, the sky pink above them and the sidewalk dingy and deserted in the light of the streetlamps. Al pulled towards his car, falling against the hood and clutching at the smooth enamel, arching his back as he tried to breathe. The girl was rubbing his back and clucking inanely. Al drew in a sharp inhale of air so cold that it triggered a whole fresh cough, a violent, shaking one that erupted from his navel, up through his tormented chest, and out in an explosion of phlegm. His tongue twitched and convulsed, trying to expel the sticky mass from his mouth with about as much success as his body was having with the pollutants congesting his lungs. His gag reflex started up, and Al had to ram his fist against his teeth to keep from bringing up all the alcohol that he'd ingested over the last few hours.

Crystal pressed her hand to his head, then withdrew it sharply. "God, you're hot!" she cried.

"Th—anks—" Al choked out, still struggling against his body's unacceptable desires. "You—oo—"

"No, I mean, like, you have a fever!" she exclaimed. "Are you sick?"

If most coughs were missiles, this one was an atom bomb. Al's whole body spasmed, and he almost slid off the hood of the Ferrari. Up came the mucous that had been clogging his mouth, a cohesive mess almost as green as the vehicle it spattered. Crystal pulled back with a squeal of disgust.

"Ew… have you got leprosy or something?" she cried. "Ew!"

Al couldn't answer her. He fell forward, not caring that he landed with his cheek in the stinking, pus-laced mess. He struggled to breathe as shallowly as he could, desperate that the coughing should not begin again. His shoulders rose and fell in painful jerks. Convulsions jerked his stomach. He was so distracted by hypoxia and pain that he didn't even bother to wonder why his eyes closed against the spattering water that fell upon them.

Dimly, on the very edge of his narrow universe, he could hear Crystal's soft sounds of consternation and disgust. Then she spoke. "Uh… look… thanks for the cocktail, but, like… I gotta go, okay?"

Al couldn't answer her. If he tried to talk he was going to start coughing again, and his chest already felt like someone had run a jeep over it. He'd seen that happen once… a jeep… God, it hurt!

He shivered. It was cold out here, and it didn't help that he was wet… wet? Rain. Rain! It was raining!

The effort was enormous, but instinct overrode good sense and the instinct to avoid the pain at all costs. There were some things that were more important than lying still, and this was one of them. Rain! His prayers… his prayers had been heard. The Devil had turned his back just for a minute, and it was raining. Al rolled onto his back with a soft moan of agony, turning his head towards the heavens so that the plump, cool drops fell upon his upturned face. They soothed his aching head, easing the fires that raged there. He didn't feel his shivering body, only the blessed torrents pouring from the sky. With another febrile cough, he opened his mouth.

The water fell in, drop by heavenly drop, soothing his throat, easing his suffering. He wasn't going to die today. Not today. He had water. Clean, cool rainwater. As long as he had a little water there was nothing that could kill him.

Al tried to open his eyes in praise of the clouds that were finally banishing the wretched summer inferno, but the rain in his already sodden eyelashes drove them closed again. He didn't care. He could feel the rain battering his body, soaking through his ragged clothes, washing the blood from his hair, easing the pain…

Slowly the water brought him back to his senses, and he realized that he was lying on the hood of his car, drenched to the skin, his shirt clinging to his ravaged chest. Ashamed of the moment of disorientation, and shivering violently, he sat up, coughing a little. His head was so sore…

As he stood he stumbled, and the ground rose up to meet him. He barked his hip against the curb and landed on his hands and knees in the gutter, the runoff chilling his legs and bringing on another bout of coughing. Frantically, he looked around, but there was no one to witness his disheveled helplessness.

Somehow he writhed out of the sodden suit jacket and pulled off the vest. His feet were wet, and he wrestled off his shoes and socks, too. Then his hand found his keys and he crawled across the asphalt towards the door, afraid to stand lest the coughing should start up again. He hauled himself up into the driver's seat, gagging a little on the phlegm clinging to the back of his throat. He gripped the wheel and rested his head against it. His head… he wondered if he was still running a fever. Maybe he should just head home and go to bed.

Home? Hah. Not a chance. He was going to find a woman, remember?

He remembered. He disgusted them. He was coughing up slime, he couldn't keep his feet. No girl would sleep with him like this, not if you paid her.

Maybe if you paid her.

He fired up the engine and backed away from the nightclub. There was a nice little bordello fifteen miles out of town. He'd heard some good things, but never actually sampled the wares. He'd never needed to. Not 'til tonight. If this was the only way, so be it.

Coughing fretfully, he zipped out onto the freeway, and so to the highway. It was deserted at this time of the night, which was just as well, because between the liquor and the fever he wasn't really in the best shape for driving. He drew in a thin, whistling breath and the phlegm bubbled in his lungs. Two glimmering pinions of light appeared in the distance, and Al tried to square his leaden shoulders. Another car, coming in the opposite direction. Hacking a little, he squinted, trying to make his muddled brain focus. He coughed again, missing the fluctuation in the other set of headlights as the approaching vehicle swerved deliberately into the wrong lane.

He could hear hoots and laughter from the approaching convertible, and the heavy thrum of expensive bass speakers. Kids out for a cruise. They'd probably taken him for one of their own, in his pricy sports car. Looked like they wanted to play a little chicken…

Al chuckled. He'd never been much for chicken. Not in cars, anyway. Cars were too expensive to throw around like that. Now, motorcycles, that was a different matter. There wasn't a biker in the city who could outdo Calavicci at chicken…

A cough ripped painfully through him, and his tires fluctuated as he reefed awkwardly on the wheel. The pain shooting through his chest as he struggled fruitlessly for air woke him up to the present. Looking out the windshield, Al suddenly realized he was aligned for a head-on collision, and the repercussions of this didn't take long to strike home. But by then the headlights were blinding him, his watering eyes unable to adapt.

He dragged on the steering wheel and swerved out of the way, but his foot was slow to find the brake and he careened off into the ditch, stopping with a concussive shudder as the Ferrari collided with the hillside. His chest bounced off the steering wheel and his head cracked against the windshield. Behind him the vehicle full of inebriated young daredevils streaked past with a Doppler fading of their victory yell.

The impact had winded him entirely. Al lay there, staring into the darkness, absolutely unable to breathe. His stomach roiled and he could no longer control himself. Somehow he threw his arm onto the door. It opened and he fell out, landing with a soft plop in the ditch. He dragged himself away from the vehicle, and started to retch. He closed his eyes against the wretchedness, as his stomach seized and clenched, expelling liquor and mucus and acid and blood—except that he thought maybe the blood was coming from his nose. The agony that vomiting caused in his diaphragm and chest was worse even than the pain of coughing, which Al wouldn't have thought possible. He forced his aching legs to move, propelling his body away from the vile-smelling mess, then he fell forward into the mud, unable to move, unable to breathe, and unable to fight any longer. Shivering violently, he drew his arms in towards his chest and let go of reality.