Colby called while Don was in the shower, and told Alan that he had talked with the cab driver, who took Charlie to Amita's apartment, and that's all. While he was talking to dispatch, though, he found out that another driver took someone — someone who matched Charlie's description — to Amita's apartment around 4. That ride had been picked up at an all-night liquor store, and he was carrying a bottle in each hand. He was drunk enough that the driver had to instruct him how to let go of one bottle in order to find his wallet and pay, once they got there. Colby had gone by the office and grabbed Charlie and Amita's engagement photo off Don's desk. Now he was going to show it to the clerk at the liquor store, and the second cab driver, who was still on duty.
Alan passed all this information to Don when he emerged from the shower, and finished just in time for Don to catch the next call. Megan. He wandered off pacing while he was on the call, and Alan couldn't hear it all. Finding Don on the living room couch, he waited. "Well?"
"She missed her," Don answered gloomily. "Flight took off 10 minutes before Megan got there. Amita was definitely on it."
Alan studied his son, then reached for the cell phone again. "Give it to me, Don. Lay down and take a nap. I'll wake you when…I'll wake you in a couple of hours."
Don looked at his watch. Almost 8:30 now. Charlie had been out for three hours. "Two hours, Dad, that's it. Then we'll try again to wake Charlie.'
He dreamed again of gelatin.
Since Charlie's bone marrow stem cell transplant last year, this had become a recurring theme. It happened when he was stressed, embroiled in a case he could not solve. He was beginning to take gelatin dreams as signs that it was time to call in Charlie to consult.
This time, the gelatin was lemon. All of it. There was one large mold of gelatin sitting in the middle of a table, which was otherwise empty, except for that damn spoon. There was always a talking spoon. The spoon poked at the gelatin with fingers it did not have. "Watch it wiggle," it said. "Gelatin never stands still." The spoon wandered around to another point in the gelatin and poked at it again. "Pay attention," it said, angrily. In his sleep, Don was surprised. The spoon had never been angry before. "You can't catch it," it said. "Stop trying." Suddenly the gelatin mold began to split, and even though it was yellow, it seemed to be bleeding something red. A thin, high whine came out of it, and the angry spoon covered its non-ears. "Knock it off," the spoon begged. The gelatin began to reform, into something Don couldn't quite identify. Salsa music started to play, and the spoon began to dance. "I need a woman," it said. Then it reached out to Don. "You dance with me instead," said the spoon, and Don tried to jerk his arm away.
"Donnie! You're dreaming. Wake up, now!"
Don's eyes popped open, and he stared at his father. He blinked a few times, then sat up slowly, and rubbed his hand over his face. "What time is it?", he finally asked.
"Almost 11," said Alan. "Should I have let you sleep longer?"
Suddenly the last 30 hours washed over Don and he reached out and grabbed his father's arm. "What's happening? Did Colby call again?"
Alan joined his son on the couch. "Yes," he started, "about an hour ago. The liquor store clerk ID'd Charlie. The cab driver thought Charlie turned him in for stealing his jacket, and panicked. Colby had to chase him down…I guess he's got a record he was hiding from his employers."
"Then he ID'd him too."
"Yes. And returned the jacket. Also the bottle of scotch."
Don looked at his father. "He was drinking scotch with one hand and tequila with the other?"
"Apparently." The two sat for a moment, contemplating that feat. "Oh," Alan suddenly added. "The driver said he tripped getting out, fell on his knees."
"Well that explains that much, anyway," said Don. "Knees down, shin to go. What else did Colby say?"
"Well, he was already drunk when he got to the liquor store. The clerk never should have sold him more. Colby's checking all the bars between Amita's and the store, trying to figure out where he started drinking."
"Scotch with one hand and tequila with the other," Don said wonderingly. "Damn."
Alan stood. "Let's go wake him up. He's been sleeping over five hours. Maybe he can fill in some of the blanks now."
He grasped Don's hand and helped pull him off the couch, and the two headed for the bedroom. Once there, they approached the bed silently. Charlie was on his stomach, face down in the mattress. Literally — the bottom sheet was lying on the floor, and the pillows were at the foot of the bed. Alan sat down on the edge. "Charlie?" he called softly.
"Charlie!" Don spoke more loudly, and pushed at his brother's shoulder. "Watch it wiggle," said something in the back of his brain, and he shook his head a little.
Charlie groaned.
"Roll over, son," instructed Alan, using the special father voice he saved for moments like this, and it worked again — Charlie awkwardly pushed at the mattress with his hands and flopped himself over.
"Turn off the light," he whispered.
"It's not on," Don studied him. He didn't like the way he looked. True, he had leant new meaning to the phrase "two fisted drinker", and he had just had his face planted in a mattress, but still…he leaned over and placed a hand on Charlie's forehead. "He's really warm," he said to his father, who pushed his hand away with his own.
"You're right. It's been awhile since I had a hangover, but I don't remember them causing fevers."
Don had moved to the end of the bed and started to lift up the sweats to check on Charlie's leg. His brother hissed and jerked away from him.
"Don't," he whispered. "Stop stabbing me."
Alan helped hold Charlie's leg down then, and Don finally got a look. Even beyond the white bandage, he could see an angry red swelling. He touched the leg and jerked his hand back. "Wow," was all he could think of to say. He reached in his pocket for his cell phone, but Alan still had it.
His father handed him the phone and then placed his own hand on Charlie's leg.
"Hahsem-yisborekh ariber". He slipped into Yiddish again and looked at Don with frightened eyes.
Don heard him, and the Yiddish registered somewhere in his brain, but he didn't see him. He was scrolling through the phone's address book, finally finding what he wanted.
He put the phone to his ear, and his free hand on his father's shoulder.
"Katie! Thank God…it's Don."
"Don, hello! I just heard about Charlie and Amita! The wedding planner called me and told me it's been cancelled. Are they all right?"
"Listen, Katie, I don't have time for details right now, but Charlie showed up at my door early this morning, drunk, and hurt a little. I don't really know everything that happened, Anyway, my Dad and I just came in to wake him up, and he's got a fever. The leg that has a cut is red, and swollen, and really hot…"
Katie was all business, now, he could hear it in her tone. "He has a cut on his leg?"
"Yeah. I cleaned it up and put something on it before I poured him into bed…"
"Don, this is serious. He's still making new bone marrow, infections are still life threatening for him. Take him to the ER. Do it right now, Don. If you and your Dad can't get him to the car, call an ambulance. I'll call Dr. Stevens, and then I'll meet you there. Tell me where you're going."
"Huntington Memorial is the closest to my apartment," Don said, and he saw his father blanch.
"Good. Go. Go now."
"Hahsem-yisborekh ariber" "God Above"
