“They call it by different names,” he said. “Some people call it HG, or so I–”
That was when I heard the small sound from behind me. It was nothing much, probably the sound of loose gravel moving under somebody’s shoe, but it was enough to tell me that I was in serious trouble.
I started to turn, very fast, my right hand pulling the Beretta from its holster. But I wasn’t fast enough to avoid the impact of something hard on the back of my skull, and the next thing I knew the ground rose up to smash me in the face. Then somebody’s knee, with the weight of a good-sized body behind it, came down on my spine. I would have screamed aloud if I’d been capable of any sound at all.
I heard voices, coming as if from a long way off.
“Get his wallet, and don’t forget the watch, too,” one of them said. “They said make it look like a robbery.”
Rough hands went through my pockets. I was vaguely aware when they found and removed my wallet and unbuckled the watch from my wrist. Then I felt a tug as the Beretta came out of its holster.
“Use his own gun,” a voice said. “And hurry the fuck up, before somebody comes.”
I thought I heard the hammer go back on the Beretta, but I might have imagined it. But I didn’t imagine the sound of the shot that followed, or the two more shots that came almost immediately afterward. Shooting me three times did seem kind of excessive – overkill, even.
Wait – I’m supposed to be dead. So why am I making dumb jokes? If this is what the afterlife’s like, it really sucks.
I was still trying to figure it all out when the dim light in my head slowly narrowed to a pinpoint and then went out completely.
The pain woke me up. Or maybe the pain had been there all along, patiently waiting for me to become aware of it. My head hurt, my nose throbbed, and my back felt like a company of Irish clog dancers had been using it for a practice stage.
“I think he’s coming around,” somebody said. The voice was female, but not familiar.
No sense making a liar out of her, so I opened my eyes – or tried to. The lids felt like they were stuck together with Super Glue. Finally I got them separated, but a second later I was closing them against the light. I tried again, opening my lids slowly to let the eyes adjust. After a few seconds, I was actually able to see my surroundings. The first thing I was able to make out was a pleasant-faced woman – mid-forties, black, very thin, wearing green hospital scrubs – standing at the foot of my bed.
No, it wasn’t a bed. I was on one of those hospital gurneys with steel rails along the sides. Half of it had been raised, to put me in a seated, upright position. I saw that I was in one of the treatment bays in Mercy Hospital’s ER. I’d been here plenty of times – sometimes as a visitor, and other times, like now, as a reluctant guest.
“Welcome back to the world, Stanley,” the woman in scrubs said. “Or do you prefer Stan?”
“Stan’s fine,” I said. My voice sounded like I’d been gargling with drain cleaner. “Who’re you?”
“I’m Nurse Jenkins,” she said. “You’re at Mercy Hospital. How are you feeling?”
“Tell you the truth, I hurt like hell.”
“Where’s your pain located?”
“Back of my head’s pounding like a motherfu… uh, I mean it’s really pretty bad.”
She gave me a gentle smile. “You can say ‘motherfucker’ if you want, Stan. I’ve heard the word before – in this job, I hear it quite frequently.”
“Good to know.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how bad would you say the head pain is?”
“Hard to be objective, when you’re a tough guy like me,” I said. “But I’d give it about a six.”
“OK,” she said, and made a note on the clipboard she was holding. “Do you have pain anywhere else?”
I moved around a little, and winced. “My back hurts some, too. Not as bad as the head, though.”
“How bad is it?”
“About a four, I guess.”
Another notation. “We’ll have that checked out. What’s the last thing you remember?”
I thought for a few seconds. “Somebody with his knee in my back, going through my pockets. Oh, and shots. Three shots. Seems like none of them got me, though.”
“No, you’re not exhibiting any gunshot injuries.” She looked at me for a moment. “You’re a police officer, is that right?”
“Uh-huh. Detective Sergeant Stanley Markowski, at your service,” I said. “Well, I could be at your service, if my head didn’t hurt so much.”
She gave me another half-smile and wrote on the clipboard some more. “No retrograde amnesia,” she said. “That’s a good sign – probably means you’re not concussed.”
She flipped through the papers on the clipboard and paused at one. “The head X-ray that was performed when you were brought in shows no damage to the skull. You’re a lucky man.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”
“Any dizziness?”
“No.”
“Ringing in the ears?”
“No.”
“Try not to blink for a second.” She produced a penlight and shined it in one of my eyes, then the other.
“OK, good.” She turned the penlight off, then asked me, “What day is it?”
“Um… Sunday . I think. At least, it was, last I remember.”
“What’s your mother’s first name?”
“Eleanor.”
“Who’s President of the United States?”
I told her, then added, “Don’t blame me, though – I didn’t vote for him.”
She smiled at my feeble joke and said, “I’ll let Doctor Reynolds know you’re awake. He should be in to see you shortly.”
Nurse Jenkins walked away, her tread muffled by what looked like expensive running shoes. She slid the privacy curtain open a few feet, slipped through the gap, and closed it behind her.
I thought I was alone now. But then I remembered that Nurse Jenkins had said something like “He’s awake now.” Who had she been talking to? That was when I turned my head to the left, which hurt like hell, and saw Lieutenant McGuire sitting in the corner.
He was sprawled in a low-slung armchair that had seen better days, holding a tattered copy of Reader’s Digest. As I watched, he tossed the magazine onto a table and stood up.
“I just finished the ‘Increase Your Word Power’ quiz,” he said. “Only got seven out of ten.”
“That’s better than I usually do.”
“Do you know what a fucking ‘clowder’ is?”
“Sounds like something you’d order in a seafood restaurant,” I said.
He tossed the magazine aside, stood up, and came over to stand a few feet from my gurney. “It’s the term they use for a bunch of cats,” he said.
“Yeah? I’ll try to work that into conversation, next time I’m talking to Karl. He’ll be impressed.” My voice sounded better now.
McGuire looked at me for a few seconds. “Your guardian angel’s been putting in some overtime.”
“You mean, because I’m not dead?”
“Because you’re not dead, and because three other guys are.”
“The ones who jumped me? I only saw two of them, but the third guy left me a souvenir.” I gently touched the back of my head and found it covered with a thick bandage that had been taped in place.
“They were all carrying ID that turned out to be fake, but we ran their prints, and the State Police got back to us pretty quick.” He took a notebook from his pocket and flipped through some pages. “Avery Dalton, Peter Amico, and Steven ‘Thumbs’ Milbrand. All three of them leg-breakers from downstate, each one with a rap sheet as long as my arm.”
I looked at McGuire. “How far downstate are we talking about?”
“Philadelphia.”
I nodded, and then the pain taught me that I shouldn’t do that. “Wiseguys?”
Even though the Delatasso family was headed by a vampire, that wouldn’t prevent them from having some “warm” members. A lot of vampire gangs had humans on the payroll, to guard their resting places during the day.
“Uh-uh,” McGuire said. “Day labor. The kind of muscle loan sharks hire to beat up on some guy who’s a couple of weeks behind on the vig.”