by Parnell Hall
26.
I OPENED MY EYES TO find MacAullif looking down at me.
MacAullif?
That couldn’t be right.
I closed my eyes and he went away and so did I, and I drifted in a kind of warm and mushy place where things weren’t much fun but there weren’t any responsibilities either, which seemed a fair tradeoff.
That was too good to last. I opened my eyes again and MacAullif was still there. And when he was, I wasn’t sure if he was still there or if he was there for the first time, ’cause I couldn’t be really sure the other time had actually happened. This was confusing at best.
I blinked, almost closed my eyes again, didn’t, blinked again, and some of the fog cleared.
“Where am I?” I said.
“Harlem Hospital,” MacAullif said.
“What?”
“Harlem Hospital. Surely you’ve been here before. But not like this. Usually you come chasing after the ambulance.”
“What happened?”
“You don’t know?”
“Not really.”
“You got shot.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“That’s what I thought.”
“You were right.”
Jesus. I didn’t wanna ask. “Is it ...?”
“What?”
“Is it ... bad?”
“Bad? Well, it isn’t good. Do you mean is it serious?”
“Damn it, MacAullif—”
“Relax. You have what a movie hero would refer to as ‘only a flesh wound.’”
“You’re kidding.”
“Not at all. A movie detective would have shrugged it off, kept going, taken the gun away from him, and pistol-whipped him with it. You, of course, fainted dead away.”
“My god. What time is it?”
“More to the point, what day is it? It’s Saturday morning if you really need to know. You were shot sometime last night.”
“My wife ...”
“She’s here. Your kid, too. They’ve been in but you wouldn’t wake up. The nurse booted ’em out. I’m a cop and I’m hard to boot.”
“How are they taking it?”
“The doctor told them it’s nothing. Your wife believes it. Your kid’s gonna have to see you up and around.”
Shit. Poor Tommie.
“I’ll tell ’em you’re conscious.”
MacAullif got up and I realized he’d been sitting in a chair by the bed. And I realized I’d been lying in a bed. I mean, I kind of knew that, but it hadn’t all sunk in, if you know what I mean. My perceptions were hazy at best. But it was gradually all coming back. I followed the Black Death into an abandoned building and wound up getting shot.
Jesus Christ. Shot. Only a flesh wound. What the hell did that mean? From MacAullif’s macho point of view I could be in intensive care on the critical list.
The door opened and Alice and Tommie came in. Tommie had been crying. Alice looked like she wanted to, but had been putting up a good front for his sake.
They broke my fucking heart.
Tommie came tentatively, hesitantly at first. Then he saw that I was awake, actually looking and smiling at him.
“Daddy!” he screamed, and ran for the bed.
Alice headed him off before he jumped on my chest and set my recovery back a good week.
“I’m all right,” I said. I said it again and again. Not having talked to the doctor, I didn’t know if it was true, but it was the only thing to say.
I was still really in a fog and didn’t know what to do. But Alice did, and Alice took charge. She’s wonderful that way. When all the preliminary fumphering around was done, she said, “Tommie has something he wants to ask you.”
I looked at Tommie, who looked positively frightened at having been put on the spot. He snuffled, stammered and said, “Dad?”
“Yes?”
“I wanted to ask you ...”
“What?”
He started, then broke off crying.
Alice hugged him, took charge. “He has a soccer game tomorrow. He wants to ask you if you’ll be able to go.”
“Oh?”
“Well?” Alice said.
“I hope so, Tommie. I have to ask the doctor.”
“But ...” Alice prompted.
I looked at her.
“But,” she said again, “what about next week’s game?”
Slow me got it. “But next week I will definitely go. Okay?”
He snuffled. “Okay, dad.”
Easy as pie, if you’re not a big, insensitive boob who’s just been shot. I was in the hospital, and the kid just wanted some assurance I was ever getting out. And, even without having talked to the doctor, it was an assurance I would readily give.
They left shortly after that, which was merciful, because I don’t think I could have taken much more and I don’t think Alice could have either. It occurred to me it was gonna be hell when I got home.
If I got home.
Fuck that. Don’t even think that. It’s not serious.
It was hard to convince myself. Because I was all doped up, but I still had a rather severe pain in my chest, which it occurred to me might be really intense if I weren’t doped up. So how bad was it?
The door opened and MacAullif came back in.
MacAullif said, “Saw the wife and kid, got the family all squared away, now we can get down to business.”
“Business?”
“Yeah,” he said. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anybody go to such lengths to get out of testifying before the grand jury before.” He shrugged. “Not that it’s gonna work. Not a scratch like that. Monday morning you ought to be able to testify just fine.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Are you? Of course, you may have a little bit more to tell them now. About getting shot and all.”
My mind was still sorting things out, and something occurred to me that should have occurred to me before. “MacAullif, why are you here?”
He shrugged. “Hey, I take it kind of personal when someone I know gets shot. Particularly if I have any idea why.”
My mind was working better now, and one of the things it was telling me was there was a hell of a lot I didn’t know. And a hell of a lot I might or might not want to spill. And in my groggy state, it was kind of hard to sort that out.
“MacAullif,” I said. “Help me out here.”
He frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I’m really at sea. I’ve lost half a day. I have no idea what’s really going on. Who found me? How did I get here? What’s going on?”
He scratched his head. “Trying to figure out how to play it, huh?”
“Give me a break. I’m doped up and I’ve just been shot.”
“Sounds like you know exactly what’s happening.”
“If you don’t wanna tell me, fine, then leave me alone and let me get back to sleep.”
“You sleep anymore and your brain will rot. Coals to Newcastle.” He chuckled. “See? Bet you thought I wasn’t literate. Okay, I’ll fill you in. Four thirty-five P.M., report of shots fired in the vicinity of West 145th Street. Radio patrol unit sent to investigate pokes around, finds no sign of disturbance, reports in and leaves scene.
“Six forty-five, report of body lying in empty lot in back of same address.”
“Huh?”
“I’m just giving you what I got. That’s how it came in. Body. No description. Sex, race, nothing.”
“An empty lot?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“Like I said. Back of the building. Building is on One Forty-Fifth, I guess that would make the lot on One Forty-Sixth. As I understand, it’s an abandoned building, which is one reason the cops got nothing the first time around. The address they went to’s all bricked up. Anyway, the cops check it out, and this time, jackpot. One stiff as ordered. Only the guy ain’t a stiff, he’s just a chickenshit who passes out at the sight of
a little blood.”
“No sign of how I got there?”
“You weren’t shot there?”
I was saved from having to answer by the arrival of the doctor. At least, that’s who he turned out to be. He was so young, at first I thought he had to be an orderly or intern. But I guess they dress differently. Or maybe not, I don’t know. To be honest, I couldn’t tell you what the guy was wearing. All I know is, he struck me as young. He probably wasn’t. It’s probably just that I’m getting old.
He didn’t kick MacAullif out, just nodded to him and walked up to me. I wondered if he knew who MacAullif was. MacAullif was in plain clothes, of course, and I wondered if the doctor knew he was a cop, or took him for a kindly relative. At any rate, he let him stay.
He nodded his head up and down in agreement with himself, smiled in the way doctors do, and said, “Well, well, so we’ve decided to rejoin the world of the living.”
I hate it when doctors say “we.” As if he’d been shot and out cold for a day.
“Who are you?” I said.
The question didn’t offend him. “I’m your doctor. I saved your life.”
“What?”
He smiled. “Just kidding. A little doctor humor. Your wound is very superficial and you were never in any danger. I’m glad to see you conscious. I want to check you out so we can send you home.”
“Home?”
“I hate to rush you, but frankly we need the bed.”
The doctor flipped on a stethoscope I hadn’t noticed he was wearing and listened to my heart. He slipped it off his ears, took the thing they use to do blood pressure and put it around my arm. As he did, I noticed he was chewing gum, which seemed out of character for a doctor.
As if he read my mind, he said, “Please excuse the gum, I’m trying to quit smoking. Bad image for a doctor, right?”
He pumped up the blood pressure, squinted at it, nodded, unstuck the Velcro and slid it off my arm.
“Close enough,” he said. “All right, Mr. Hastings, we’re checking you out.”
I stared at him. “Now?”
He chuckled. “You never worked in a hospital, did you?”
I had, but not in the context he meant. “No.”
“Well, just between you and me, we had a bad night and we need the space. Ordinarily, I might hold you till tomorrow, but there’s no real need. You didn’t lose that much blood. You’re down about a pint, same as a donor. You may be a little weak today, but that’s it.”
“A pint?”
“That’s a rough estimate. I don’t have a dipstick. You lost maybe two pints, we gave you one, you’re fine.”
Horror gripped me. “You gave me blood?”
He put up his hands. “Relax. Your wife’s the donor. She may be a little weak today too.”
“What about the shot?”
“Oh, the shot.” He jerked his thumb at MacAullif. “Well, that may be a little more interesting to him than to me. The bullet went into your left chest.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Missed your heart. Missed your lung. Cracked a rib. Not bad, but cracked. Probably ache a bit. But you won’t be able to tell, because the whole wound will smart. You’re on Demerol now, you’ll be on Percodan a few days, after that you take aspirin and grit your teeth. You got damage to some muscle tissue, but nothing that’s not gonna heal. And nothing that’s gonna permanently impair your gross motor function. It’s your shoulder’s gonna give you the trouble. Temporarily, I mean. I’m gonna give you a sling, keep your weight off your left arm for a while. Say a week or two. If you can use it, you can use it. Just try it out and see how it feels. I’m gonna recommend some physical therapy exercises you can do, and give you a pamphlet describing them. Whether you do ’em or not is up to you. No one will be checking up to give you demerits it you don’t, or a gold star if you do.”
I squinted up at him. “You sure you’re a doctor?”
He smiled. “Mister, I’m a surgeon. Just wait’ll you get the bill.”
He grinned at me, nodded his head and went out.
I stared after him, then turned to MacAullif. “Is he serious?”
MacAullif shrugged. “Seems like a good man. It’s standard procedure in posttraumatic situations to kid the patient along and try to minimize the trauma by making light of the episode. Happy medicine. I don’t wholly disapprove, though this guy does push it a little far.”
MacAullif cocked his head. “Before he came in, we were talking about this particular traumatic episode. I don’t think we got very far.”
“Oh.”
MacAullif frowned. “You’re rather reticent. I understand you’ve had a shock and you’re doped up and all the rest of it. but I would have to describe your attitude as less than forthcoming.”
“You were filling me in, MacAullif. Remember? All I know so far is, I was found in an abandoned lot with a bullet hole in me.”
“What more is there to tell?”
“You said the cops got a report. First of a shooting. Then of a body.”
“Right.”
“What kind of report you talking about? Was there anything in that?”
He shook his head. “Routine calls to nine-one-one. I think they had a couple on the shots fired and one on the body. As far as I know, none of them gave a name.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Hell, no. All the calls to nine-one-one, at least half are cranks.”
“These weren’t cranks.”
“No, but half the real ones, no one leaves a name either. That’s New York for you. No one wants to get involved.”
“Great.”
“Hey, it’s par for the course. You got three, maybe four unidentified voices calling in nine-one-one. It’s Harlem, so they’re probably black. Male or female, nobody’s sure. With overworked nine-one-one operators processing a lot of bogus shit, that’s the best you can do.”
MacAullif shifted in his chair. “Now, let’s talk turkey here. I’m a cop, but this ain’t my case. Whose is it, I don’t know. Not that big a deal, nonfatal shooting in Harlem. But it is a shooting, and it will be investigated. When you leave here, you’re going downtown and you’ll have to make a statement.”
“A statement?”
“Sure, whaddya think? It’s just routine.”
“And after that?”
“I don’t know. It depends on your statement. There’s not much of a case. All the cops got is the bullet and you.”
“The bullet?”
“Sure. The bullet was in you. That hotshot surgeon who was just in here took it out.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. We got that, and if Doctor Kildare didn’t mark it up too bad, we can match it up if we ever get the gun.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“Yes, it is.” MacAullif took a breath. “So, you know everything I know. And probably a lot I don’t know. Last time I talked to you, you were messed up in this murder case and pulling rap sheets on drug runners, and pulling all kinds of fancy shit to try to get this woman off. Next thing I know, you’re in the hospital and you’ve bought a bullet. I have to wonder if there’s any connection.”
I frowned. “I see.”
MacAullif frowned too. “You’re bein’ a real pain in the ass today, and I don’t think it’s just ’cause you’re shot. And I have to tell you, I’m gettin’ a little pissed off. So why don’t we cut to the chase?” MacAullif leaned in, looked me right in the eye. “Who shot you?”
Shit. He would have to ask me that. It was a question I knew sooner or later he was gonna ask, I was just really rooting for later.
The problem was, I knew the answer. Well, not the name of course, but I knew who. I just didn’t know when. When he spotted me, I mean. Maybe it was just yesterday that he noticed me tailing him. And he had the stuff on him, and he spotted me, and I look like a cop, and that’s why he took that bizarre route and led me into ambush. That much was certain, that he saw me and led me there. All I meant was, maybe that was the first time.
But maybe not. Maybe he saw me the other night, when he’d come out of his building with Alan Harrison. Maybe he’d spotted me then, so seeing me for a second time, he’d know for sure.
But maybe that was the second time. Maybe he saw me way back when, the night I’d stumbled around all over his building losing Charles Olsen.
But whenever, however, for whatever reason, the fact was he’d seen me and the fact was he’d shot me.
And the fact was I knew the answer to MacAullif’s question perfectly well.
I frowned at MacAullif, shook my head.
“I don’t know.”
27.
THEY SENT ME HOME. It was partly due to a lack of bed space, and partly due to MacAullif making a call downtown and persuading them there was no real urgency about taking my statement and I could go down and make it Sunday, but the bottom line was they sent me home.
I was not, in spite of what my jovial doctor said, in tiptop shape. In point of fact, I felt like shit. When I tried to get out of bed, I found I was terribly dizzy, my legs were rubber and I couldn’t walk. That did not, however, slow up the process. When they want you out of the hospital, you go. Discharged patients get a wheelchair ride to the front door. I always wondered why, and now I know. It makes an inability to navigate no excuse to stay.