Walter’s father had trailed blood out of there and Walter had been very worried. He knew that his father had high blood pressure and also knew that having high blood pressure could make a wound worse for a person, maybe make him bleed more, maybe make him more prone to shock. In the car he had looked at the wound in his father’s leg, exposed as it was just below the line of the Bermuda shorts, and Walter was stunned by the realization of how frail his father’s legs looked, how skinny they were, how the flesh just hung helpless on the bone. Walter was surprised, too, that such a small wound could leak so much blood. His father had stopped the bleeding by ramming a wadded handkerchief in against the hole in his bare thigh, but the wadded handkerchief hadn’t stopped Walter’s worrying.
Charlie would say, “Don’t worry, just get out of here,” whenever Walter asked him about the leg. Charlie had said it while Walter helped him out the antique shop door, and he said it while Walter helped him into the car, and he said it as Walter drove out Dubuque Street toward the Interstate 80 approach. And then Charlie passed out.
Walter had pulled into a driveway that led down to a tree-sheltered fraternity house and backed out and headed back on Dubuque toward the downtown. He stopped at a Standard station to use the pay phone. He found Sturms’ number in the phone book and dialed.
“Yes,” a voice had said. A bored tenor voice.
“Mr. Sturms?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“You don’t know me, but we have mutual friends.”
“Really.”
“I was told you could help out in a pinch. I have a man with me who needs help. He needs a doctor.”
“Who is this?”
“We have mutual friends.”
“You said that before. What kind of mutual friends?”
“Chicago friends. Milwaukee friends.”
“Name one.”
“Harry in Milwaukee. Now listen, I’m not screwing around. We need some help here.”
“How bad do you need the doctor?”
“I don’t know. Not bad I hope. But bad enough to bother you when I rather wouldn’t.”
“The guy isn’t dying or anything, is he?”
“Not unless it’s from old age, waiting on you to make up your mind if you’re going to help us or not.”
“Shit. I guess you better bring him out to my place. Where are you now?”
Walter told him. Sturms gave Walter directions.
And so now Walter was pulling into the oversize driveway of the house that was dark wood with light stone. He stopped the blue Olds alongside the red Mercedes, his foot on the brake, the car still in gear. He stared at the dark rough wood of the double garage doors and after ten seconds honked the horn once. He reached a hand over and patted his father’s shoulder, as if to reassure the unconscious man.
The garage door swung suddenly up and out of view and a man motioned at Walter to pull the Oldsmobile inside and Walter did. The man shut the garage door and walked over to meet Walter as he got out of the car.
The man was thirty-five years old and had light brown hair that was stylishly long and had been shaped by an expensive barber. He wore a long sleeve rust-color shirt, with slightly puffy sleeves, a pale yellow scarf tied around his neck. His trousers were brown and flared. His skin was tanned and he was handsome in a standard sort of a way, except for a broad, flat nose. He was five ten and built like a linebacker.
Walter said, “Is the doctor here?”
Sturms said, “I haven’t been able to get him.”
“Jesus. What’s the problem?”
“Out on a house call. What happened anyway?”
“My father’s been shot.”
“How?”
“Never mind how. You don’t really want to know how, do you?”
“I guess not. How bad is he?”
“Caught a bullet in his thigh. He’s unconscious.”
“Let me take a look at him.”
Walter led Sturms around to the other side of the car. Sturms just peeked in the window, then turned to Walter and said, “Let’s go inside.”
“You going to help me move my father?”
“He’s all right where he is.”
“Well...”
“Moving him inside won’t help him any. Come on. We’ll try the doctor again.”
Walter followed Sturms into the house. The first room was the kitchen, where all the appliances were pastel green and the wood was maple brown. Dozens of bottles of pills sat on the counter. Walter’s surprise registered on his face.
Sturms grinned, said, “Wondering why I’d leave my stock out in the open like that, kid?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.”
“That’s not merchandise. Those are vitamins I take. I wouldn’t touch that shit I sell. Haven’t even touched grass in years.”
Walter was led into a large living room with an open-beam ceiling of the same dark rough wood as the outside and pebbled plaster walls the same rust color as Sturms’ shirt. The carpet was burnt umber, and thick and fluffy like whipped egg whites. There was a sofa, a recliner and a chair with an ottoman, all dark brown imitation leather with button-tufted seats and backs. Cocktail table, end tables, even the stereo and television complex were dark Spanish-style hand-carved wood, looking lush and expensive. It was an attractive room, only slightly marred by two out of place abstract paintings over the sofa, a red spattered on a field of white, and a white spattered on a field of red. Sturms told Walter to sit, and Walter went to the sofa so he could sit with his back to the paintings. Air whooshed out of the cushion as Walter settled his ass uneasily down.
Sturms left the room momentarily and came back with a yellow telephone, which he plugged into a jack behind one of the sofa’s end tables. He brought the phone around in front of Walter and sat it in front of him, on the cocktail table, next to a bowl of artificial fruit.
“Now call Harry in Milwaukee,” Sturms said. “I want some proof of who you are.”
“You haven’t even called the doctor yet,” Walter said.
“I’ll get you something to drink while you’re doing that. What would you like? A beer? Maybe a Pepsi?”
“You haven’t even called the doctor yet, have you?”
“You call Harry. Then I’ll call the doctor.”
“You son of a bitch,” Walter said, and jumped up off the sofa.
Sturms showed Walter the gun. Walter didn’t know where the gun had come from, but Sturms most certainly did have it. It was an automatic, silenced, smaller than the ones Walter and his father had carried earlier that day. Those nine millimeters were under the seat of the Olds right now, not doing Walter a hell of a lot of good.
“What’s going on, honey?” a female voice said.
AA tall woman with a shag brunette haircut and dark tan skin was standing in the background. Like Sturms’ gun, she’d popped up from nowhere. She was wearing purple hot pants and a matching halter, though the halter was of a lighter material than the pants. Her breasts bobbled braless under the skimpy halter and Walter sat down again.
“Nothing, baby,” Sturms said. “Go get my friend and me a couple of beers, will you?”
“Sure thing, honey.”
“My wife,” Sturms explained, as she took her time bobbling out. “Sweet kid. She painted those pictures there, on the wall, behind you.”
“Talented,” Walter said.
“Now why don’t you call Harry?”
“I don’t know his number.”
“I thought he was a friend of yours.”
“He’s a friend of that man bleeding out there in your fucking garage.”