Where Fools Dare to Tread

by David William Pearce

  The attackers took off.

  “MONK!”

  It was Joanie, but I couldn’t see her. My left eye was swelling shut and the right eye was covered in blood. I couldn’t breathe. The vomit was collecting in my mouth, and I gagged as she tried to roll me over. It was then that I realized I couldn’t breathe through my nose; it was bloody too. I tried to blow the crap out of my mouth so I wouldn’t suffocate.

  “They’re coming, they’re coming; hold on!”

  “Who’s coming?” I whispered. The pain was intensifying now that the beating was over. Any movement made it worse.

  “The medics.”

  “I’m not going to the fucking hospital!” I spit this out along with more blood and vomit.

  “I don’t care if you don’t want to go to the fucking hospital, you’re going to the fucking hospital!”

  Joanie was holding my hand. I was passing in and out of any coherent consciousness. I heard a siren in the distance, then people talking to me. I didn’t know who they were, Medics? Something was put in my mouth and I could breathe again. The pain was exquisite as they put me on the gurney and then in the ambulance. I don’t remember much else. There was a blur of activity once we arrived at the ER. The thing I remember most, other than wanting to die, was the euphoria as the morphine did its magic. After that I fell into a beautiful stupor. I knew I was fucked up but didn’t care. The pain had receded. I was wheeled to several different places, and I think I remember being in a tube. I didn’t care. It didn’t matter; I was completely disconnected from reality. The pain, writhing in the background, was far enough away that I could stand it. At some point I fell asleep or passed out.

  Joanie and a black man in a white coat were staring at me when I came back to earth.

  “Mr. Buttman, how do you feel?” The doctor had the quiet demeanor and grace of a man not beaten to a pulp.

  “I don’t know how to answer that in a way that won’t sound peevish or sarcastic. I’m numb and sore, it hurts to talk, and I feel like shit. But other than that, I feel like shit.”

  The man with the quiet demeanor smiled. “It’s a good sign that you haven’t lost your sense of humor. My name is Doctor DeMarius.”

  “When can I leave?” My voice was nothing more than a croaking whisper. I could barely make out the doctor’s features. He was tall with what I assumed was a West African heritage. He reminded me of James. For a brief moment I thought to ask, but held back. He came closer and sat by the bed. Joanie hovered behind him. She looked both beautiful and sad which frightened me.

  “Not for a while. On the positive side, given how badly you were hurt, we found no significant fractures or internal damage. However, you do have a concussion, lacerations, and a broken nose. We’ll need to keep you here for at least another day or so.”

  “I see.” I didn’t want to be here, but I was stuck. Joanie would stand between me and the door. There was also the not so insignificant problem of how I was even going to get out of the bed. “So, I’m not going to make the orgy tonight?”

  “No, I’m afraid you’ll have to hold off on any sexual activity for a while.”

  “You’re a killjoy, doc, a killjoy.” He laughed at that.

  “Sometimes it’s a difficult job, Mr. Buttman. In any event, Marta is here to keep you on the straight and narrow till you’re well enough to go home. I’ll check in on you tomorrow.”

  The doctor with the quiet demeanor left. Joanie was next.

  “I have to go too, sorry. I have a show, but I promise I’ll be back later to make sure you’re ok. You scared the shit out of me, Buttman. You look really bad, but I’m glad it’s not worse. Get some sleep, I’ll be back.”

  The woman I once wanted to marry left. Marta approached. She had the sincere face of a woman who’d been doing this for a long time. Having ensured the wires and tubes attached to me were as they should be, she put her hand gently on my shoulder.

  “If you need me push this button.” She put the nurse call box in my hand.

  “Thanks.”

  She smiled and left me to my idiotic thoughts and beat-up body. I gave a moment of thanks that this didn’t happen yesterday. If nothing else I had the memories of Judith and Agnes to get me through the next few days.

  I lay there…

  I hate hospital beds, you can’t move! I’m a compulsive roller in bed. The fact that everything on my left side was battered made the night one long torture session. I couldn’t sleep. The drugs kept me on just this side of consciousness. I concentrated on the sounds in the room; the air coming out of the diffuser, the clicks from the monitors; the muffled discussions I couldn’t make out from the staff on the other side of the glass wall. Joanie did not come back, but I didn’t expect her to. It was late and she would be tired after singing and having to put up with me. My thoughts drifted from place to place and person to person. Moses. Rebekah. Astral. Joanie. Judith. Agnes. Even the farm and Virginia came along for the ride.

  James and Miguel. I pushed the button.

  Marta came in, patiently listened to my whine about sleep, gave me a little something, and advised that I rest. Whatever she gave me did the trick. I awoke to find Joanie, Jones, and Mallory looking down upon me.

  13

  “I didn’t do it.” Nobody laughed. I was losing my touch.

  “How are you feeling?” Joanie was the first to pipe up. Jones and Mallory stood back, both stone-faced. Marta was monitoring the bulk of company from just outside the door.

  “Couldn’t be better, but that might be the drugs talking. You?”

  “You know, it’s ok to say you don’t feel good, Monk.”

  “I thought the fact that I’m black and blue and stuck in the ICU would pretty much confirm that, but if it makes you feel more sympathetic to my plight, then yes, I don’t feel very good.”

  That got a smile from Jones. “You’re being a dick, Buttman.”

  “I do what I can. And the rest of you, are you as concerned for my well-being?”

  “I’m here to find out what happened. I expect the detective is too.” Jones had his sunglasses on. That made me smile. It hurt to do so.

  “I just have a few questions, Mr. Buttman. I’ll talk to you later once you’re more lucid.” Mallory’s voice hinted at a certain glee in seeing me in my present state.

  “I’m lucid enough, fire away.” I thoroughly wanted Jones and Mallory gone. If I had to be tied to this bed, better to have Joanie than the other two.

  “Do you know who attacked you? Can you describe them? Any idea why they attacked you?” Fire away he did.

  “Unfortunately, the answer to your questions is no. All I remember is that the door was open and when I went in the beating started. I don’t know who they were. I didn’t get a good or even a crappy look at them. I know they were wearing jeans because of how the kicks felt on my arms. They were screaming something about staying away, but I don’t remember if they said from whom. That’s all I know, sorry.”

  “It’ll do for now. Good day, Mr. Buttman.” A quick nod and Detective Jackson Mallory departed. Jones, he of the monotonic expression, watched the detective make his exit before moving in my direction.

  “Is what you told Mallory for real, or do you know more than you’re telling?”

  “And what did you tell Mallory, Shaft?”

  “He didn’t ask and I didn’t tell,” he said this with some exasperation.

  “Then, with one exception, what I told Mallory was true. I don’t know who they were or why they were there to kick the shit out of me.”

  “And the exception?” His veneer of cool was back.

  “Are you worried? Maybe yo
u’re next.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not a babe in this business like you, Buttman. I know how to handle myself and know better than to enter a room if things don’t look right. Are you goin’ to tell me or not?”

  For some reason I thought to shift my weight; it was a stupid thing to do. A sharp pain shot through the left side of my body and I visibly jerked. “Goddammit!” I cried, trying to catch my breath. Joanie came over and took my hand.

  “Are you alright? Do I need to call the nurse?”

  “No, I don’t need the fucking nurse!” A wounded look crossed her face and a pang of regret joined the pain in my side. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to yell at you. I’ll be alright. I just need to remember to ease into any new movement or change of position. It hurts, a lot.”

  Jones was unmoved. “Well?”

  Joanie frowned at him but he didn’t seem to care. He didn’t want to be here any more than I did.

  “Fine. I won’t swear to it, but I’m almost certain I heard the name Rosarita while they were kicking the shit out of me.”

  He rubbed his chinny-chin-chin. “Do you think the Dahlia woman had anything to do with this?”

  “I don’t know, I never saw her. I guess it’s possible.”

  “I’ll find out.” He turned towards the door. “I’ll let you know when I know.”

  “You know where to find me?” He wasn’t biting.

  Joanie started to say something as Jones was walking away, but no sound came out. After he left she turned to me. “Who is that guy?”

  “Mr. Jones. He and I are Jones and Buttman, hard-boiled private dicks.”

  “Really? I don’t think you should hard-boil your dicks, but what do I know.”

  “Very funny.”

  “I thought so.” She released my hand. “Now that I know the score, what are you two dicks up to?”

  “Is that all you’ve got, dick jokes? Sad. I thought you’d have better material.” I laid back on the bed and moaned. “But if you must know, we were thrown together as patsies in order to find a woman who took some money and to whom a number of rather powerful and connected men would like to talk.”

  “She’s the one that killed that guy?”

  “That’s her.”

  “Is she this Rosarita?”

  “Probably.”

  Joanie moved her chair closer to the bed so she could see the TV, which she promptly turned on. She liked the news. I detested it, corporate pablum for the masses hyping non-issues while ignoring the real problems percolating throughout this big country.

  “You’re a lot more interesting now that you’re a hard-boiled private dick. Before you didn’t have much in the way of stories. I guess that’s pretty common for a nobody, huh?”

  “I guess.”

  She turned towards the TV just as the good doctor arrived. He stood by the bed in all his serenity.

  “Good news, Mr. Buttman, you no longer have to stay here in the intensive care unit. I’m having you moved to a regular patient room and if all goes well, and it should, you’ll be able to go home soon, maybe as early as tomorrow.”

  “I’m thrilled, doctor.”

  “As you should be, Mr. Buttman. Marta tells me you got through the night without any additional pain medication. That’s a good sign. Anything odd or different you’ve noticed since we talked yesterday?”

  “No, the misery has been fairly consistent.”

  The good doctor smiled. “Excellent. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I watched the doctor leave as Joanie watched explosions someplace in the Middle East. Death and destruction, the boilerplate of humanity was never stopping, never ceasing; a firmament on which we endlessly trod. Maybe it was the meds, the pain, or the never-ending cycle of war for the sole purpose of inflicting one group’s insecurities on another that was getting to me. Whatever it was, I found it depressing.

  “Isn’t there anything else to watch, like a monster movie or a good old-fashioned white bread comedy?”

  “No! Besides it’s important to stay informed,” she huffed.

  “Informed of what? Who’s popular, and who’s killing who?”

  “Exactly! Now be a good boy and shut up for a few minutes while I catch up on the latest, as you would say, trends, fashions, and fabrications of the ruling class.”

  This wasn’t the first time we’d clashed on the topic, so the pickings for argument were lean. “And if I refuse?”

  “I’ll smack you where it hurts.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say to a man in my condition.”

  “It sure is. Now be quiet.”

  It was during these exchanges that I found her achingly beautiful. I thought about that; it hurt more than I thought it would. The next excruciating hour was filled with the usual dross of local and national bed-wetting, bad weather, sports, and a story of a valiant young man helping the poor by collecting teddy bears. I hate the news. This was followed by a syndicated comedy from the Nineties about nothing in particular.

  I wanted a drink, whiskey in a tall glass. What I got was a slow drip through the tube in my arm. I was assured I should be able to have real food soon. I didn’t care that my jaw was bruised and sore, I didn’t care that some of my teeth were loose; I wanted something to eat! Joanie had a sandwich, chips, and a bottle of water. Envy crept into my heart.

  She got up. “I have to go, Mr. Buttman, some of us have to work for a living.” She graced me with that beautiful smile. Maybe it was the drip.

  “Parting is such sweet sorrow, my love. It is with a heavy heart that I watch you depart from me this fine day.”

  She held my hand and softly kissed the cheek that wasn’t purple and puffy.

  “You’re full of shit, Monk, but thanks anyway.”

  “I do what I can. See you tomorrow?”

  “I suppose. How the hell else are you getting home?”

  “Such sweet music do I hear; till then, my love, till then.”

  “Uh-huh. Get some sleep and easy on the meds.” She let go of my hand and left me to my internal soliloquy. At the desk Joanie stopped to talk to Marta for a moment. Two young dudes in scrubs pushing a stretcher came to the room. Joanie disappeared in the distance.

  “It’s time to move you on out of here, Mr. Buttman. These fine gentlemen will do the driving.” Marta disconnected me from the forest of monitors festooned around the room. “Is everything all right?”

  “As long as I don’t move, I don’t feel too bad.”

  “Then you’ve discovered the keys to a good life. Take care, and don’t let me see you in here again.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The dudes carefully slid me from bed to stretcher, eased me out of the room, and delivered me to another part of the hospital.

  It was a room for two.

  Behind the curtain that separated us, I could hear the loud guttural snore that would keep me up all night. I tried earplugs to no avail. The only time the snoring ceased was when he coughed and gagged in hideous syncopation. Daylight brought no relief and death did not save me. The sunlight, filtered through the curtain, sprinkled the bed with the grim news that I did not get any sleep. Finally, in mid-morning, reprieve came in the person of the snorer’s wife, who awoke him. She spoke softly, and it was then, mercifully, I fell asleep.

  The bad motherfucker was standing by the bed, shades on, dome glistening in the fluorescent light. The nurse, needing my vitals, disturbed my restful bliss. My head ached with a feverish vengeance. As a remedy, a tablet and water was carefully ingested. Codeine and Tylenol began the work of soothing the pain radiating abou
t my head like a crown of thorns. I wondered what my mother would think of such an analogy, blasphemy no doubt. It occurred to me that I hadn’t talked to her in some time. Maybe I should. Kind of like the old man, out of sight, out of mind. Mr. Jones waited patiently for the nurse to finish before sitting down in a folding chair. We both noted the resumption of the sonorous deviltry from the man behind the curtain.

  “That’s some powerful noise! I don’t know if I could deal with that for long,” he said with some alarm.

  “Yeah, it makes sleeping impossible.” We took a couple minutes to truly appreciate the racket emanating from the other side of the room. It was an angry grate like metal on bone. “What’s up? Did you find that woman Dahlia?”

  Mr. Jones grinned at his favorite reference. “I did. Someone gave her a beating too, though not so bad. A couple of guys she said. Other than that she didn’t say much. Or, I should say to me. She still wants to talk to you. Any idea why, Buttman?”

  “I do have a few ideas, but you and I have to come to an understanding,” I said as I twisted myself so that I could sit up in the bed. I uttered a few well-placed groans for effect. Jones made a half-hearted attempt to steady me, but I waved him away.

  “You sure you should be doing that?” he asked.

  I focused on him with my one non-swollen eye, “Probably not, but I’ll survive. Since I’m expecting to be released today, I’m going to have to get moving whether I want to or not.” The gown I was wearing came undone. Primly, I covered up my legs so as not to embarrass Jones assuming such things embarrassed him.

  “And our understanding?” It was back to business.

  I gave myself a moment to craft my response.

  “I don’t like getting the shit kicked out of me! I don’t like it when I can barely see. I don’t like it when every breath hurts or when sitting up is a fucking exercise in existential pain. It’s one thing when we’re flopping around like Abbott and Costello, but it’s another when I come a few kicks from being a brain dead invalid. So you and I are going to come to terms over this little adventure of ours or I’m out, understand?”