Blood Test Read Free Page A

here.”
    He held out ten large-knuckled, bruised fingers. There
was an oversized turquoise and Indian silver ring on each ring finger, one in
the shape of a scorpion, the other a coiled snake.
    “You unnerstan’, Doc, you grab what I’m tossin’ at
you? Those kids are my life, I carry the burden, not nobody else, that’s what I
tol’ the lady judge, the bitch in black. I carry it. From me, from here.” He
grabbed his crotch. “My body into hers when she was still decent—she could be
decent again, you unnerstan’, I get hold of her, speak some sense, straighten
her out, right? But not with that Conley there, no way, no fuckin’ way. My
kids, my life.”
    He paused for breath and I took advantage of it.
    “You’ll always be their father,” I said, trying to be
reassuring without patronizing him. “No one can take that away from you.”
    “Right. Hunnerd procent right. Now you go in there and
tell that to the bitch in black, straighten her out. Tell her I got to have those
kids.”
    “I can’t do that.”
    He pouted like a child denied dessert.
    “You do it. Right now.”
    “I can’t. You’re under a lot of stress. You’re not
ready to take care of them.” You’re going through a full-fledged manic episode,
Mr. Moody. You’re a manic-depressive and you need help badly…
    “I can handle it, I got plans. Get a trailer, get a
boat, take ’em outta the dirty city, outta the smogclouds, take ’em to the
country, fish for trout, hunt for meat, teach ’em the way to survive. Like Hank
Junior says, country boy will survive. Teach ’em to shovel shit and eat
good breakfasts, get away from scumbags like him and her until she gets
straightened out, who knows when it’ll come she keep up with him, humpin’ him
in front of them, a disgrace.”
    “Try to calm down.”
    “Here, watch me calm down.” He inhaled deeply and let
the air out in a noisy whoosh. I smelled the stench of his breath. He cracked
his knuckles and the silver rings sparkled in the sun. “I’m relaxed, I’m clean,
I’m ready for action, I’m the father, go in and tell her.”
    “It doesn’t work that way.”
    “Why not?” he growled and grabbed the front of my
jacket.
    “Let go. We can’t talk if you keep doing that, Mr.
Moody.”
    Slowly his fingers parted. I tried to edge away from
him but my back touched the car. We were close enough to slow-dance.
    “Tell her! You fucked me up, you fix it, Headshrinker!”
    His voice had taken a decidedly menacing tone. Manics
could do damage when they got worked up. As bad as paranoid schizes. It was
obvious that the power of persuasion wasn’t going to do the trick.
    “Mr. Moody—Richard—you need help. I won’t do anything
for you until you get it.”
    He sputtered, sprayed me with saliva, and jacked
upward viciously with his knee, a classic street brawler’s move. It was one of
the gambits I’d figured him for and I swiveled so that all he made contact with
was gabardine.
    The miss threw him off-balance and he stumbled.
Consciously sad, I caught his elbow and threw him off my hip. He landed on his
back, stayed down for a quarter second, and was at me again, arms chopping like
a thresher gone mad. I waited until he was almost on me, ducked low, and hit
him in the belly just hard enough to knock some wind out. Moving out of the way
I let him double over in privacy.
    “Please, Richard, calm down and pull it all together.”
    His response was a growl and a snivel and a grab for
my legs. He managed to get hold of one cuff and I felt myself going down. It
would have been a good time to jump in the car and tool out of there, but he
was between me and the driver’s door.
    I contemplated a move for the passenger door, but that
would mean turning my back to him and he was strong and crazy-fast.
    As I contemplated, he bounded up and charged toward me
shouting gibberish. My pity for him had made me too careless and he was able to
connect with a punch to the shoulder that made my body