“Let go of me, goddamnit. We’re taking this man to the hospital.”
Martin was watching him from the door, Ellison and Metzger behind her. Talley released the doctor’s arm.
“When is he going to wake up?”
“I don’t know if he’ll ever wake up. You get bleeding between the skull and brain, the pressure can build to such a degree that brain death can result. I don’t know. Now stay in or get out, but just let us go.”
Talley looked at Smith again, feeling helpless. He climbed out of the ambulance and pulled Metzger aside.
“Who’s still here? Which of our guys is still here?”
“Jorgy. I think Campbell is still-”
“Then Jorgenson stays here. I want you waiting in this guy’s lap. I want to know the second, and I mean the second, that he wakes up.”
Metzger turned away, keying her shoulder mike for Jorgenson.
Talley walked back to Maddox’s car for the rest of his gear. His chest heaved. He felt angry and closed. He had put everyone at risk, and Smith was beyond him. Smith couldn’t talk. He stared at the house, wanting to do something, but there was nothing to do.
Talley felt himself hating Dennis Rooney, and wanted to kill him.
He turned away and saw Martin watching him. He didn’t care.
DENNIS
None of it looked reaclass="underline" Talley and the other guy in their underwear, carrying Smith away; Smith being loaded into the ambulance; the searchlights from the helicopters crisscrossing each other over the ground like light sabers. The pools of light were so bright that all the color was washed from the picture; the cops were gray shadows, the ambulance pink, the street blue. Dennis watched the ambulance work its way from the cul-de-sac, thinking only then that the ambulance could have been his ride out, that he could have made it a part of the deal, grab the suitcase with the money, tape his hand to a gun and the gun to Smith, then take over the ambulance and make them drive him south to the border. Why did all the best ideas come when it was too late?
Mars stepped up beside him with the same look he had for the Mexicans at work: I can see inside you; I know what you’re thinking; you have no secrets from me.
“They would have killed you as soon as you got into the ambulance. Better to stay in here.”
Dennis glanced at Mars, then walked away, pissed that Mars found him so obvious. Mars was getting to be a pain in the ass. Dennis sat at Smith’s desk and put up his feet.
“Staying here sucks, Mars. You might like it, but I want to get the hell out. I bought us some time, now we’ve got to figure this out. Any ideas?”
He looked from Mars to Kevin, but neither of them answered.
“Great. That’s just fucking great. If anyone decides to help, just speak up.”
Dennis turned to the girl and spread his hands.
“All right. Your old man’s out. You happy now?”
“Thank you.”
“I’m fuckin’ starving. Go back in the kitchen and fix something else. This time don’t throw it on the floor. And make some coffee. Make it strong. We’re gonna be up all night.”
Mars took the girl back to the kitchen.
When they were gone, Dennis noticed that Kevin was staring at him.
“What?”
“We’re not going to get out of here.”
“For chrissake! Please!”
“Mars and I don’t care about the money. You won’t let go of it and that’s why we’re still here. There’s no way to get away with it, Dennis. We’re surrounded. We’re on fucking television. We’re fucked.”
Dennis pushed out of the chair so quickly that Kevin jumped back. He was sick of dealing with their negativity.
“We’re fucked until we think of a way out, asshole. Then we’re not fucked, we’re rich.”
Dennis stalked around the desk and went to the den. The smell of gasoline was strong there, drifting in from the hall, but he wanted a drink, and he wanted to be in the den. The den was his favorite room. The dark wood paneling and plush leather furniture made Dennis feel rich, like he was in the lobby of a fine hotel. And the bar itself was beautifuclass="underline" beaten copper that looked bright and shiny and a thousand years old, bar cabinets inlaid with frosted glass, and stainless steel fixtures gleaming with the overhead light. Dennis selected a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, then found ice in a small refrigerator and glasses on a smoked glass shelf. He poured a short one, then went back around the bar to sit on a stool. Dennis peeled a hundred-dollar bill from the roll in his pocket and tossed it on the bar.
“Keep the change, m’man.”
Dennis drank most of the vodka, loving the way it raked his throat, a stiff belt that pushed its way into his head. He refilled his glass. The clean cold vodka burned his nose and made his eyes water. He rubbed his eyes, but couldn’t make the water stop.
They lived in a one-bedroom apartment above an Exxon station, Dennis, age eleven, Kevin, two years younger, and their mother, Flo Rooney. Dennis didn’t know her age then or now; their father was long gone, a pothead named Frank Rooney who fixed transmissions and didn’t pay child support. Well, fuckit, they weren’t married anyway; common-law.
Dennis shoved Kevin toward the bedroom, Kevin with big bug eyes like they were gonna pop from his head, scrambling backwards because he was scared. They were supposed to be sleeping; the world was dark.
“They’re doing it.”
“Nuh-uh. Stop saying that.”
“Can’t ya hear’m? They’re doin’ the nasty. Let’s go see.”
They had lived in more apartments than Dennis could remember, some for just a week or two, once for almost a year; dingy places with stained ceilings and toilets that ran. Flo Rooney usually worked a job, once she worked two, and more than once she had none. There was never enough money. Flo was a short woman with a body like a bowling ball, Q-Tip legs, and bad skin. She liked her gin and smelled of Noxzema. When she got in her mopes and had too much gin, she would bitch to the boys that she didn’t have enough money to keepthem, that she would have to put them in a home. Kevin would cry, but Dennis would pray: Please, please, put me in the fuckin’ home. It was always about money.
Dennis shoved Kevin toward their mother’s bedroom door. Both boys were trying to be quiet because she was with a man she had brought home from the bar. This month she was working as a barmaid, next month it would be something else, but there was always a man. She called them her “little pleasures.” Dennis called them drunks.
“Don’t ya want to see’m doin’ it?”
“No!”
“You said you did! Listen to what he’s doin’ to her!”
“Dennis, stop! I’m scared!”
The scent of sweat and sex hung sharp in the air, and Dennis hated her for it. He was jealous of the time she gave them, and humiliated by what she let them do, and by what she did to them. He was ashamed, but at the same time excited. Her gasping, grunting curses drew him.
He pushed Kevin again, this time more gently.
“Go on. Then you’ll know.”
This time Kevin went, creeping to the door. Dennis stayed on their sleeper couch, watching. He wasn’t sure why he was pushing Kevin so hard to see; maybe he wanted Kevin to hate her as much as he did. With their father on the bum and Flo working, Dennis usually had to see after his younger brother, making their breakfast and getting them to school, seeing that Kevin got home okay and making dinner. If Dennis had to be Kevin’s father and mother, there wasn’t room for another. Maybe that was it, or maybe he just wanted to punish her.
Kevin reached the door and peeked inside. Dennis knew that something nasty was going on because he could hear the man telling her what to do. She hadn’t even bothered to close the door.