Her breathing was much heavier and she was completely still. He thought of Romey. Where was he now? Where was the chubby little body with the bald head? He remembered the sweat and how it poured from his shiny scalp and ran down in all directions, some dripping from his eyebrows and some soaking his collar. Even his ears were wet. Who would get his car? Who would clean it up and wash the blood off? Who would get the gun? Mark realized for the first time that his ears were no longer ringing from the gunfire in the car. Was Hardy still out there in the sitting room trying to sleep? Would the cops return tomorrow with more questions? What if they asked about the garden hose? What if they asked a thousand questions?
He was wide awake now, staring at the wall. Lights from the outside trickled through the blinds. The Dalmane worked well because his mother was breathing very slow and heavy. Ricky had not moved. He stared at the dim light above the table, and thought of Hardy and the police. Were they watching him? Was he under surveillance, like on television? Surely not.
He watched them sleep for twenty minutes, and got bored with it. It was time to explore. When he was a first-grader, his father came home drunk late one night and started raising hell with Dianne. They fought and the trailer shook, and Mark eased open the shoddy window in his room and slid to the ground. He went for a long walk around the neighborhood, then through the woods. It was a hot, sticky night with plenty of stars, and he rested on a hill overlooking the trailer park. He prayed for the safety of his mother. He asked God for a family in which everyone could sleep without fear of abuse. Why couldn’t they just be normal? He rambled for two hours. All was quiet when he returned home, and thus began a habit of nighttime excursions that had brought him much pleasure and peace.
Mark was a thinker, a worrier, and when sleep came and went or wouldn’t come at all, he went for long, secret walks. He learned much. He wore dark clothing and moved like a thief through the shadows of Tucker Wheel Estates. He witnessed petty crimes of theft and vandalism, but he never told. He saw lovers sneak from windows. He loved to sit on the hill above the park on clear nights and enjoy a quiet smoke. The fear of getting caught by his mother had vanished years earlier. She worked hard and slept sound.
He was not afraid of strange places. He pulled the sheet over his mother’s shoulder, did the same for Ricky, and quietly closed the door behind him. The hall was dark and empty. Karen the gorgeous was busy at the nurses’ desk. She smiled beautifully at him and stopped her writing. He wanted to go for some orange juice in the cafeteria, he said, and he knew how to get there. He’d be back in a minute. Karen grinned at him as he walked away, and Mark was in love.
Hardy was gone. The sitting room was empty but the television was on. Hogan’s Heroes. He took the empty elevator to the basement.
The cafeteria was deserted. A man with casts on both legs sat stiffly in a wheelchair at one table. The casts were shiny and clean. An arm was in a sling. A band of thick gauze covered the top of his head and it looked as though the hair had been shaven. He was terribly uncomfortable.
Mark paid for a pint of juice, and sat at a table near the man. He grimaced in pain, and shoved his soup away in frustration. He sipped juice through a straw, and noticed Mark.
“What’s up?” Mark asked with a smile. He could talk to anyone and felt sorry for the guy.
The man glared at him, then looked away. He grimaced again and tried to adjust his legs. Mark tried not to stare.
A man with a white shirt and tie appeared from nowhere with a tray of food and coffee, and sat at a table on the other side of the injured guy. He didn’t appear to notice Mark. “Bad injury,” he said with a large smile. “What happened?”
“Car wreck” came the somewhat anguished reply. “Got hit by an Exxon truck. Nut ran a stop sign.”
The smile grew even larger and the food and coffee were ignored. “When did it happen?”
“Three days ago.”
“Did you say Exxon truck?” The man was standing and moving quickly to the guy’s table, pulling something out of his pocket. He took a chair and was suddenly sitting within inches of the casts.
“Yeah,” the guy said warily.
The man handed him a white card. “My name’s Gill Teal. I’m a lawyer, and I specialize in auto accidents, especially cases involving large trucks.” Gill Teal said this very rapidly, as if he’d hooked a large fish and had to work quickly or it might get away. “That’s my specialty. Big-truck cases. Eighteen wheelers. Dump trucks. Tankers. You name it, and I go after them.” He thrust his hand across the table. “Name’s Gill Teal.”
Luckily for the guy, his good arm was his right one, and he lamely slung it over the table to shake hands with this hustler. “Joe Farris.”
Gill pumped it furiously, and eagerly moved in for the kill. “What you got — two broke legs, concussion, coupla puncture wounds?”
“And broken collarbone.”
“Great. Then we’re looking at permanent disability. What type work you do?” Gill asked, rubbing his chin in careful analysis. The card was lying on the table, untouched by Joe. They were unaware of Mark.
“Crane operator.”
“Union?”
“Yeah.”
“Wow. And the Exxon truck ran a stop sign. No doubt about who’s at fault here?”
Joe frowned and shifted again, and even Mark could tell he was rapidly tiring of Gill and this intrusion. He shook his head no.
Gill made frantic notes on a napkin, then smiled at Joe and announced, “I can get you at least six hundred thousand. I take only a third, and you walk away with four hundred thousand. Minimum. Four hundred grand, tax free, of course. We’ll file suit tomorrow.”
Joe took this as if he’d heard it before. Gill hung in midair with his mouth open, proud of himself, full of confidence.
“I’ve talked to some other lawyers,” Joe said.
“I can get you more than anybody. I do this for a living, nothing but truck cases. I’ve sued Exxon before, know all their lawyers and corporate people locally, and they’re terrified of me because I go for the jugular. It’s warfare, Joe, and I’m the best in town. I know how to play their dirty games. Just settled a truck case for almost half a million. They threw money at my client once he hired me. Not bragging, Joe, but I’m the best in town when it comes to these cases.”
“A lawyer called me this morning and said he could get me a million.”
“He’s lying. What was his name? McFay? Ragland? Snodgrass? I know these guys. I kick their asses all the time, Joe, and anyway I said six hundred thousand is a minimum. Could be much more. Hell, Joe, if they push us to trial, who knows how much a jury might give us. I’m in trial every day, Joe, kicking ass all over Memphis. Six hundred is a minimum. Have you hired anybody yet? Signed a contract?”
Joe shook his head no. “Not yet.”
“Wonderful. Look, Joe, you’ve got a wife and kids, right?”
“Ex-wife, three kids.”
“So you’ve got child support, man, now listen to me. How much child support?”
“Five hundred a month.”
“That’s low. And you’ve got bills. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll advance you a thousand bucks a month to be applied against your settlement. If we settle in three months, I withhold three thousand. If it takes two years, and it won’t, but if it does I’ll withhold twenty-four thousand. Or whatever. You follow me, Joe? Cash now on the spot.”
Joe shifted again and stared at the table. “This other lawyer came by my room yesterday and said he’d advance two thousand now and float me two thousand a month.”
“Who was it? Scottie Moss? Rob LaMoke? I know these guys, Joe, and they’re trash. Can’t find their way to the courthouse. You can’t trust them. They’re incompetent. I’ll match it — two thousand now, and two thousand a month.”