by Chris Bauer
He turned the gun around, stuck the barrel to his temple and squeezed the trigger. The other side of his head splattered against an abandoned candy machine and the white wall next to it.
The blond jock jerked his head up, was conscious again, but now his forehead wore the red laser dot meant for Philo. Philo grimaced while he tucked and rolled, let the semi-automatic gunfire slice through Blondie’s head, his gray matter and hair and blood and bone fragments spraying the back of Philo’s shoulders.
Stop rolling, ankle gun, go to a knee, draw, owww, point, SHOOT—
Pfttt, pfttt, two slugs, head and chest, dropped the punk with the gun into a rumpled pile. Philo advanced stealthily past the shooter, was wobbly now, his handgun sweeping the darkness until he found a door. He peeked on its other side, entered and remained in the shadows, his eyesight drawn immediately to the far corner of the warehouse brightened by kettledrum lights hanging on rigid tethers from a metal framework ceiling.
From this distance he counted four men in scrubs, two of them in microgoggles, the number of nurses tripling that, and six thug-types on the unlit perimeter. On gurneys under the lights were two patients, their surgeries in progress, the surgeons and nurses hovering, murmuring. Also on gurneys in the dim lighting that skirted the area were four more patients with drips attached but no staff attending them. Closer to the operating theater, one patient lay on a gurney, also unattended.
Philo had to decide, the group of four or the single person—how to get close without being seen—
A gun went off in another corner, interrupting his decision. Everyone jumped, a few nurses squealing, all eyes focusing on a room to Philo’s far right, a string of hanging job lights illuminating its interior. In it were two seated figures, one teetering sideways from the gunshot until it dropped out of Philo’s view.
Someone else’s problem. He needed to find Miñoso, needed to take advantage of the distraction. Multiple thugs scrambled to that corner of the building and entered the room, their guns drawn.
Time to move. He decided on the group of four gurneys. He leaned over one, then another, whispering between them—“Miñoso? You here? Miñoso?”
A lolling head grimaced with pain, another snored. Donor patients, all post-procedure, none of them Miñoso. Over there, closer in to the surgery in progress, was the single gurney. He arrived alongside.
“Miñoso?”
“¿Qué? Si. Si! Miñoso! Campeón?”
“Yes, and still campeón. You and I are leaving. Now.”
“No, I need the money, Philo. I cannot go—”
“I have the money. Plenty of it in cash, from the fight.”
“You are a púrpura mess, Philo. You speak the truth? You won the money?”
“Si, I won the money. I can cover your uncle’s burial expenses. Let’s go.”
“Mi ropa—”
Philo reached under the gurney, retrieved his clothes. “Put on your pants. Then we’re outta here.”
They backed away from the surgery staging area, turned and began walking briskly. The morning sun made its claim, illuminating the ceiling through the second-story glass, the sunrise slowly working its way down the walls, in search of the floor. It was then Philo realized how white the warehouse interior was, the ceiling, the walls, the floor, except for one corner, the one with the surgeries, the floor there smeared red.
A perimeter nurse with a picnic-size cooler quick-stepped away from the group, handing off the cooler to a Hawaiian twenty-something. The kid hustled past them to the same door Philo had used on his way in, two dead bodies awaiting the kid on the other side. Philo pointed Miñoso to another door, one that would take them past the glass-enclosed room where there’d been the gunshot, that space now swarming with husky Hawaiians, their guns drawn and looking for something to shoot.
They strode silently past, nearing the exit, Philo’s hand on his gun inside his jacket pocket, not taking his eyes off the gunshot’s aftermath and the men gawking at it. A headshot at close range, an execution or a suicide, he couldn’t tell, but seated across from the dead guy on the floor was a woman with dark, frizzy hair, her scrubs disheveled. Philo pushed Miñoso ahead, through the steel door, took one last look into the room with the dead guy in it to confirm: Kaipo, the mob’s cleaner, was the other person.
He held up his exit, paralyzed, watching the guys with the guns crowd her, wave their hands demanding answers. Grimacing, Philo eased the gun from his pocket, his ribs convincing him that one or more of them were broken.
Kaipo saw him through the glass, recognized him, saw his indecision, his temptation. Her headshake at him was furtive but steely-eyed, the message Don’t interfere, get out, plus Don’t worry, we’re good, you and me, all conveyed in one long, grim look. Philo and Miñoso squeezed out the back door and were gone.
39
The van stopped at the curb, the morning sun glorious, an hour past sunrise, its brilliance glinting off the train tracks and the broken glass in the lot next to Joe Frazier’s Gym.
Philo stuffed rolls of tens and twenties into the greasy Burger King bag late of their fast food breakfasts. “Fifteen grand, Miñoso, that should do it.”
“It is too much, Philo Campeón. I cannot take it.”
“Yes, you can. Some for getting your uncle’s remains to Mexico, some for you personally. You deserve it, for all your help.”
“Praise Jesucristo, Philo Campeón. I will pray for Hump tonight, tomorrow, and every night after. And for you too, mi amigo.”
“That’s a lot of praying, Miñoso, but hell, I’m sure we both need it. And don’t forget, if—when—you come back, you have a job.”
“Si, Philo Campeón, si. Muchas gracias.” Miñoso took Philo’s hands in his, raised and kissed them. Philo’s face twisted, the pain to his ribs excruciating.
“Señor Philo, you need el médico—”
“I hear ya, and I’ll handle that shortly. Go on, get out. And have a safe trip, bud.”
Philo pulled away from the curb and rounded a corner, out of sight from where he’d dropped off his passenger. He cradled his side and pulled over so he could call Hank from the van to check on Grace. Hank answered, said the marathon surgery was finished.
“And?” Philo prompted.
“She’s alive, breathing on her own, but she’s still unconscious. This Heinzman guy says he’s getting her admitted somewhere. How the hell he’s able to manage that I have no idea, but they’re letting her in.”
“Part of the deal, Hank. He’s chief administrator at Pennsylvania Hospital. That where they’re taking her?”
“Yes. We’ll be there in about an hour. These fucking guys—” Hank started choking up. “I don’t know what to think right about now. My wife is alive because of them, and you. I owe you my life, too, because, see, without Grace—”
“Knock that shit off, Hank.” Philo pulled the van back into traffic, a one-handed effort, his destination the same hospital, his ribs throbbing again, goddamn it. “You’ve got Patrick to worry about too, remember? How’s he doing?”
“On cloud nine now that Grace is out of surgery.”
“What changed her mind?”
“About the surgery? I still don’t know. She flipped out while she was on the table, wanted it stopped, then some whispered assurance from one of the doctors shut her up, made her giddy, actually. She was good to go after they switched surgeons. That, and an adjustment to her anesthesia. The doc wouldn’t tell me what he told her; something about the donor. Right about now I don’t care. You good to talk with someone else?”
“Put him on.”
“Philo, sir! Did you find Miñoso?”
There’d be no mention about the warehouse rescue fiasco: who lived, who died, who might have broken ribs, and who had probably decided to completely rethink her Hawaiian-mob, crime-scene-cleaning avocation. Philo would give him the short answer.
“He’s safe, Patrick. My guess is he’s packing for his trip to Mexico right now, to deliver his uncle’s body.”
“But Philo, sir, does he still have his, um, you know—”
“Both his kidneys, Patrick, yes, he still has them, and the rest of his body parts, too. It’s all good, bud.”
Patrick’s voice perked up. “Got some news, sir! Hank says the DNA test proves I’m Hawaiian, sir. Er, wait, no. Polynesian. Yeah, that’s it, I’ve got Polynesian DNA. Same as Hawaiians. Cool, right, sir?”
“Very cool, Patrick. Tell you what. We’ll plan a trip, my treat, after Grace gets back on her feet. Hawaii. The four of us. Look, I gotta go. I’ll find you guys at the hospital.”
Philo ended the call, was fading fast. It would be a half-hour ride in traffic to Pennsylvania Hospital, but his plan of driving himself there was starting to look like a bad idea. The fuck if these lanes on Broad Street didn’t look like they were moving, wiggling, like snakes…
His ringtone. His phone. Where was his phone…?
“Hello?” he said, concentrating, his vision blurred, his elbow tucked against his ribs, his hand draped over the steering wheel.
“Detective Rhea Ibáñez, Mr. Trout. I’m at the Sixth today. I’ve got some news for you about Dr. Andelmo. A press conference…”
It all sounded so nice, lightheaded as he felt, and after he told her where he was—only because she seemed extra concerned that he didn’t sound so good and had asked his location—he promptly fainted, his van jumping a curb, crossing an empty sidewalk, and plowing into a Wawa storefront near Philly City Hall.
40
The double doors to the urgent care facility opened into an alley. Kaipo sat in her van, was showered and dressed, but still drained. She watched what she hoped would be the last piece of medical equipment exit the building, two men in scrubs pushing it. The heart-lung machine could have passed for a stainless-steel hotdog cart after a busy day on the street.
She’d been told it would be one body, an organ donor who hadn’t survived.
The men in scrubs lifted the heart-lung unit into a cargo van advertising a nineteen-ninety-five-a-day rate and the image of a bucking bronco trampling Wyoming’s state motto, Equal Rights; had they really thought that one through? The scrubs guys closed the rear doors. The truck exited the alley.
She could barely see straight. The fight, the building collapse, the dip in the river. Wally was awake now and recovering, directing his mob business traffic from somewhere, doing damage control after Olivier’s suicide. But there’d been no rest for her. She was on the job here because she needed to be per texts from Icky Ikaika that came with Wally’s apologies.
Mr. Lanakai will take care of Olivier and be respectful about it. Already got someone lined up to fill in for you. But this other one needs your attention, to close out the deal with Trout. Get it done. Find a couch or a bed while it cooks, get some sleep.
Philo Trout. Patrick Stakes, or whatever his name was. Glad to have made your acquaintances, fellas. Good luck with the rest of your lives.
Icky’s follow-up text:
Two weeks in Paris for you. You and Mr. Lanakai. He has something he needs to discuss. Text me when you’re done.
She scrolled through her phone, busying herself while she waited for the guys in scrubs to tell her she could enter the facility. A news headline popped up on a philly.com link:
Grand Jury Delivers Indictment for Illegal Organ Trafficking
Not a good outcome for Ka Hui. She clicked through to read the story, lingering on each of the photos. One indictment so far, Dr. Francisco X. Andelmo, to be arraigned as soon as they could locate him. Wally and the rest of Ka Hui would need to distance themselves from this.
“Good luck with that, Wally,” she said.
Distance; a good thing right about now. If today’s cleaning job hadn’t been related to Philo Trout, she wouldn’t be here.
A beckoning hand from one of the scrubs guys ended her time online. She grabbed a small piece of luggage from among five other bulging luggage pieces and lifted it into the pressure cooker, then closed the cooker’s lid.
Inside the facility she wheeled the cooker into a room barely large enough for a bed and a utility sink, where a body bag sat on a gurney.
“He’s all yours,” a scrub guy said.
She pulled some Tyvek over her loose, untucked blouse and her comfy jeans—her traveling clothes—and she zipped up. The small luggage piece also held her circular saw, cleaning agents, gloves and rags. Now to get to work. She unzipped the body bag as far south as the waist.
A surprise.
The indicted doctor, Andelmo.
Tanned face, capped teeth, his chest cavity splayed open. This was one way, she supposed, Ka Hui could distance itself from the organ trafficking allegations. It seemed her employers had no problem with eating their own contractors. Good to know. She turned on the circular saw.
Whirrr, whirrr, whirrrrr…
There would be a stop at Icky’s restaurant to abandon the pressure cooker and its cooked contents, and another at a vacant lot to abandon her tools and her cleaning materials and her van, then a cab to take her and her luggage and her one-way ticket to the airport.
Her plan: say goodbye to Kaipo Mawpaw and hello to a new identity. Goodbye Mainland USA, hello unnamed Pacific island, for a layover long enough to catch her breath. And long enough to fashion a route to a destination she hoped would be too challenging for anyone, Ka Hui included, to find her.
Philo was awake inside the ambulance; he mustered a smile. Whatever drugs they’d pumped him with, his ribs hurt him less. The siren engaged, the wail low and tired, like Philo. The ambulance moved into street traffic. Its EMT attendant backed off to give Detective Ibáñez room next to him, both non-Philo occupants now hovering. Philo soon realized he’d apparently been answering questions, with the detective taking notes.
“Tell me again why you’re here, Detective.”
“Andelmo. His indictment. Your ‘connection,’” the detective said with air-quotes, “per the ADA. You passed out at the wheel of your van, Mr. Trout, while you were on the phone with me. I was at the Sixth when I called you.” She gave his battered body the once over, him strapped in tightly to the gurney. She shook her head. “Obviously my lucky day.”
“Yes, it would appear so.” He’d awakened only after the van’s impact with the corner of a building, van against brick and glass, his face cut, but not badly. “Anyone else hurt?”
“Happy to say no, only you. You’re a mess. I have more questions.” She crouched down, assumed her close-talker persona. “Andelmo’s missing. You have anything to do with that?”
The drugs made him a little giddy, made him want to confess everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours that had done this to his body, was pretty sure he hadn’t blabbed already, and now knew he wouldn’t. The fight, the grain-elevator explosion. The organ trafficking. Kaipo, Wally. Grace’s new lungs.
Detective Ibáñez best not know any of this.
And Hump. Dear, dear old Hump.
“Mr. Trout?”
“I threatened to rearrange some of Andelmo’s body parts.”
“Hence our interest, Mr. Trout.”
“But I didn’t. I hate the fucker. If he’s missing, it wasn’t me. How about this? Let’s talk later,” he said, his smile going lopsided on him, maybe even with some drool, “when I feel better. Lunch maybe?”
“Fine. Lunch it is, on me. At Pennsylvania Hospital.”
“Works for me, Detective.”
Her dark eyebrows tented. She again ran her gaze along his beaten body, head to toe and back, her hard cop eyes finding his face again, but this time they weren’t quite so hard, were instead caring.
“Rhea, with an R and an H, Mr. Trout,” she said.
“Excuse me?”
She straightened from her crouch, and whether she was aware of it or not she was no longer in his face, no longer talking close. “Call me Rhea.”
“Nice to meet you, Rhea. Philo.”
Philo let his consciousness desert him, the detective
’s softened, concerned expression and espresso eyes his last visage before drifting off. So exhausted. The rocking ambulance ride evaporated, was replaced with the sway of palm trees, a tropical blue sky, and gently lapping ocean waves caressing his legs and those of the dark-haired, sensuous woman lying next to him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his chest.
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Scars on the Face of God
Hiding Among the Dead
Jane’s Baby
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SCARS ON THE FACE OF GOD
Sometimes, prayers land on the Devil’s ears.
“Scars on the Face of God is a brilliant novel. Congratulations on hitting one out of the park…” -Jonathan Maberry, NYT bestselling author and winner of multiple Bram Stoker Awards