Oh Jesus, a chatterbox. He put his hand out for the husband. “Tommy.” The husband took it, and Tommy was careful not to use his normal iron grip.
“My name is Herb. It’s nice to meet you, sir.” He looked over at his wife, who now glared at him in disapproval for talking over her.
Tommy pulled his gear over to the black and put out his hand. He was still relaxed from his handshake with the elderly Herb, and the black squeezed firmly, bundling Tommy’s fingers together. Tommy pulled his hand away.
“Let’s try again. I’m Tommy.” This time their two hands came to equal terms.
They looked into each other’s eyes, and the man spoke his name: “Moses.”
Eddie perked up. “Moses! What a great name! Yeah! Old Testament all the way, my brother!” The others looked at him with amusement.
“Moses was white,” Tommy said.
“And how the hell do you know that, because all the white man books show it that way?” Moses asked, glaring at Tommy.
“Could’ve been black, we don’t know...” Eddie interjected, trying to calm things down.
“What’s the matter, Tommy—never been this close to a black man that isn’t cuffed?”
Tommy cracked a hardened smile. “What’s the matter with you, never been this close to a cop when you weren’t?”
Moses scoffed. “Nurse Beulah, get me a copy of Jet or Ebony. Not for me, for the racist cop here. He needs to brush up on his black culture.”
“And I need some Purell,” Tommy called out with a smile.
With that, they all finally laughed. Moses looked at Tommy again and asked, “You saved the best for last, going to the others before coming here to me?”
“Hell, you’re way over here in the back of the bus.”
“Not funny,” Moses said solemnly, and then smiled broadly. “You’re some piece of work, Tommy. I like to think the ones who come in here angry are the ones who’re most afraid.”
“You got me there, brother Moses.” Tommy moved back to his seat.
The boy put his crayon down and shouted, “Mister! Hey, mister!”
Tommy looked over at him. He held the picture up. It was a drawing of a cop with a gun drawn, and a robber on the ground with Xs in his eyes.
“When you were sleeping, Nurse Carmen told us you used to be a policeman, and you got shot. I drawed this picture of you.” Scrawled across the top, it said ‘Tommy’ and at the bottom, in small, crooked print, ‘By Saul Silver.’ He got up and handed the picture to Tommy. “It’s for you,” he said.
Tommy took the picture and roughed up the boy’s hair. “Yeah, kid. Used to be is right. I have a son, too. Now he’s a big, strong policeman, just like I used to be.” He sat back down and placed the drawing on his tray, then picked it up and looked at it again. Glancing over at the boy, he said, “Thank you, Saul. It’s great. I’m gonna put it in my office at home.”
The boy smiled. Tommy saw Moses craning to see the picture and was thankful the boy hadn’t portrayed the robber as a black man.
“It wasn’t me,” Moses said, and they all laughed.
Tommy addressed the group. “I’ve been on the street long enough to know that scum comes in all colors and creeds. I was an equal-opportunity cop: I hated everyone the same.”
The group were paying rapt attention and laughed nervously. “Humans are worse than most other species. Even animals don’t kill their own like we do. Color don’t matter. Black on black, white on white, all too common.”
Moses took his turn. “I’ve been on the other side of that. I’ve made mistakes and done my time, and I’ll die with a guilty conscience because of my actions and decisions. I work with street kids now, trying to make a difference. But it doesn’t help things when the white cops come in with their minds already made up. Those kids don’t think they have a chance and don’t get the leeway white kids do when they make the same mistakes. That cop in the news shot the black kid, killed him. The kid didn’t even have a weapon on him. Cop didn’t even get disciplined.”
“That kid robbed a liquor store and beat the clerk almost to death with his own bat,” Tommy said.
“Doesn’t mean the police have a right to shoot him dead,” Eddie interjected. The biddy and her husband nodded in agreement. Saul continued to color, oblivious.
“You boys play nice now, or it’s time-out for the both of you,” Nurse Carmen interjected.
Tommy and Moses both turned toward their own TV monitors. “World’s going to shit anyway. There’s no morality anymore, black or white,” Tommy said to himself.
“That much I’ll give you,” Moses replied.
Nurse Carmen came over to disconnect Tommy. “Okay tough guy, you’re about done here for this round.”
He gazed at her face and took note of every beautiful detail. Her eyeliner was perfect and straight. Not excessive, like some of those sluttier looking women today. The whites of her eyes were pure, the browns and green flecks in her irises reflective and sparkling. The highlights in her deep brown hair shone in the sunlight coming through the window, like strands of gold in her neat ponytail.
She went about her business, cleaning the wound with a cold alcohol swab and expertly applying a small bandage. He enjoyed her every grazing touch on his skin.
When she was through, he looked around at the others and said, “Well, I guess I’ll see you folks same time, same channel in a few weeks. The missus is waiting in the chow hall downstairs.”
They all said variations of goodbye as he rose up out of his chair and gathered his things. He was surprised to find his spirits and mood changed much for the better since he’d first arrived, and had a sense of camaraderie with his fellow patients. He was feeling a little bit at home.
That wasn’t so bad. Maybe I can beat this damn thing.
3 Cafeteria
Tommy attempted to enter the hospital cafeteria against a wave of hurried employees clad in pastel scrubs depositing trays on a conveyor belt.
“This is the exit. Entrance is over there,” one said, gesturing with her chin.
He weaved upstream in the direction indicated until he could finally enter the cavernous dining room. Conducting an orderly visual search, he finally spotted Margie, sitting alone. She was picking at her plate while reading a celebrity gossip magazine. He hoped she was somehow in good spirits as he took the seat facing her.
“Hi, honey, how’s the salad?”
“Fine,” she replied, without looking up at him. “How was your treatment?”
“It was okay. I saw the doc, too. He said that after this round, he has a clinical trial that I can try. It’s worked well against this type of cancer.”
She didn’t answer, and he wondered if she cared. “Anyway, that’s some crew of screw-ups up there, and it’s depressing. Good thing you stayed down here to pass the time. Let’s go.”
She pulled a cherry tomato from her fork with her lips and said, between squishy bites, “Can I finish my meal, please? You should eat. You’ll wake up sick tomorrow and won’t want anything all day.”
He hated when she talked with her mouth full, or when anyone did, for that matter. He thought about how their relationship had settled into a well-worn rut. We’re just...maintaining.
He stewed over her disinterest as he waited. “Let me ask you something, Margie. Do you give a shit, at all?”
She finally looked up at him. “About what?”
He felt that was answer enough, but exploded at her anyway. “About me. About me being sick. About us. About any damn thing.”
“Of course I do,” she said levelly, before returning to her salad. “I married you, didn’t I?”
He sensed that he’d gained the attention of others, and brought his voice down. “What happened to us? We used to have fun. You enjoyed life, Margie. Now you’re like some goddamn robo-wife.”
She picked at the plate, and he wondered if she was eating so slowly to antagonize him. Or maybe she’d just rather be anywhere than home.
She tu
rned a page in her tabloid and responded, in a barely audible voice, “You used to be fun too, Tommy. That was then. This is now. Everything changes.”
He decided to let it go and passed the time by watching a nearby family gorge themselves on junk food. Between mouthfuls, they sucked on straws that barely poked from the tops of their massive soda cups.
“Get a load of this crew. All overweight, the whole gang of them, kids and all. Probably regular cola, too, not even bothering with diet. No discipline.”
Margie ignored him, stabbing at her salad.
The family pushed their chairs back with loud scrapes and grabbed their drinks, leaving behind a table strewn with trash.
Tommy leaned toward the father as he walked past. “Excuse me, do you think you could clean up after yourselves?”
The man paused, and his tribe came to a halt behind him. They reminded Tommy of those wobbly Russian dolls that fit inside one another.
The man swiveled his head toward Tommy and sucked the last of his drink. He prolonged the abrasive sound, while his eyes bulged from the effort. He squinted and planted his cup on Tommy’s table with a rattle of ice. “How about you get that for us, pal?”
Enraged, Tommy began to rise. Margie grabbed his sleeve without looking up from her magazine. “No, sit down, or you’ll end up getting arrested.”
He dropped back into his seat, and the family moved on. “This is why every citizen should have to spend a few years in the Corps after high school like I did. People would learn some discipline, respect, and integrity. Damn, what a fine country we’d have.”
Margie finished, and they got up to leave, dutifully clearing off their table. They walked in silence, and as they reached the parking lot, he noticed the obese family struggling into their decrepit car. The vehicle was parked sloppily in its space, too close to the one parked next to it. The wife and daughter were attempting to wedge themselves into the front and back seats, pushing their doors against the neighboring car. The vehicle, Tommy realized, was his own prized Buick.
He sprinted up as they closed the doors. He examined the side of his vehicle and saw it was scuffed, but not dented. He peered into the family’s car as the father cranked the ignition and the vehicle started in ragged spurts. They seemed amused, and he lost it, rapping the top of the vehicle.
“What the fuck is wrong with you bastards? Get out, I want your insurance information!” he shouted, as the car backed up with a knock and a rattle.
The wife rolled down her window and said, “It’ll buff out.” They all laughed as they pulled away.
Tommy kicked the rear panel as it passed him and pulled out a pad and pen from his jacket pocket to jot down the license plate.
Margie stood on the passenger side of their car, waiting for him to unlock the doors, and shook her head. “Nothing is going to happen, you know that. Don’t waste your breath and your energy.”
He hit the unlock button on the key fob and opened the door for her. As he backed from his space, he spotted two extra-large soda cups next to their car, along with fragments of glass from a run-over bottle and the contents of an emptied ashtray. “Lazy sons-a-bitches,” he said under his breath, as he placed his vehicle back into park.
After he’d disposed of the trash, they continued their journey home. On the highway, a vehicle approached from behind and slotted in just off his rear bumper. “Now what the hell is this, some bum is right on my ass! I’m in the right lane doing the limit plus five, what’s his problem?” he asked.
Margie continued to read, oblivious.
He tapped the brakes a few times, causing Margie’s head to bob forward in response, and she glared at him.
“Stop it, Tommy! What if he’s some nut with a gun? Stop acting like a crazy person and let him pass when he gets a chance.”
“I have a gun too—right in there,” he said, gesturing toward the glove box. “Boom. Problem solved.”
“Well, you aren’t a cop anymore. You can’t go getting into shoot-outs on the highway. Besides, what about me? What about the safety of your wife?”
Her voice had taken on the shrill tone it always had when she got worked up. Now I’m in for it. She won’t shut up the rest of the way home.
The passing lane beside them opened up. The other vehicle swerved into it and flew by, the driver gesturing to Tommy with his middle finger. Tommy waved in response, and said, “Have a nice day, citizen.” How I loved to say that, back in my cop days.
A few minutes later, he noticed a car on the side of the road, its front tire flattened. Four people stood staring at it as if waiting for it to inflate on its own. Tommy honked his horn, then slowed down and waved as he passed the family, pressing the button to lower Marge’s window. “Ha ha! There you go! Get some exercise fixing your tire! Karma’s a bitch!” he shouted, although they were long past by the time he got it all out.
“They can’t hear you, you lunatic,” Margie said, as he rolled up her window and her voice came into focus once again. “What’s wrong with you lately? You’re losing control of yourself. I’m going to mention this to your doctor. You need something to keep you calmer, or you’re going to have a stroke, never mind this cancer.”
Her beehive hairdo was now in frayed disarray from the rush of wind. He tried not to laugh at the sight as he considered her question for a few minutes.
“I guess I’m afraid I’m going to leave this shitty world without having made much of a difference when assholes like them are still here to make everybody else’s day worse. I tried to do that by becoming a cop, and I’m the one that’s sick. Not those bastards—or these corrupt priests, lawyers, politicians, financial advisers. Me, good old Tommy, I got the cancer. Let’s get home, I’m starting to feel it hitting me.”
4 Sick
He dreamed he was back on the boat. It was the summer when Paulie had talked him into going out to night-fish for blues. They had done more drinking than fishing, and he spent the trip nauseated and retching into the sea.
As he woke, he realized he was on the living room couch, just as sick as he was that summer night. He rolled off and onto his knees, scrambling like a crab to the bathroom.
He gripped the toilet seat and emptied himself into the bowl. He had a moment to gasp and suck in air, and then it came again, and again. His convulsions were so violent that he imagined the tumors within him dislodging and flowing out with the vomit. No such luck.
He flushed the toilet, then crawled back to the couch and pulled the blanket over himself. How did the blanket get here? Must have been Marge. He became aware of a sickening smell. Bacon.
“I’m making you a nice breakfast. You need to keep your strength up,” she yelled to him over the sounds of sizzling food and the scraping of a spatula on a frying pan.
“Please, for the love of God, no bacon. No food. Sick. Sick, sick, sick. Make it go away. Now, please.” He rolled over on his stomach and buried his face in a pillow, breathing through its lavender fabric-softener fragrance. He wondered whether she’d cooked the food out of love or vindictiveness.
He woke again. It was lighter in the room and quiet, but the scent of bacon still hung in the air. She was gone. He struggled to his feet, was immediately overcome with nausea, and repeated the earlier routine.
When he was through, he went to the kitchen and took one each of the battery of pills arranged in small orange plastic bottles. There was a note from her. “Food in fridge. Please eat.” Fuck that. He grabbed the remote before collapsing back on the couch and pointed it at the TV. He put on the news channel and then dozed off again.
“You okay, Dad?”
Opening one eye, he saw his son’s bulky frame in the overstuffed recliner. “Been better, Bobby. You get the plate on the truck that hit me?”
Bobby flipped through channels with the remote control. His legs extended well beyond the footrest, and his body filled the width of the chair. So much size, to no advantage. He looked at the badge affixed slightly off-kilter on the rumpled uniform. Why is he s
o sloppy? I was always ship-shape and crisp as a new dollar. He noted the cowlick standing out from the back of his hair, something they’d both been unable to tame. It was one of the few recognizable remnants of the little boy he’d raised and mentored from birth.
“How’s things back at the station?” Tommy asked. “You considering getting out from behind that desk and doing some real police work? You’ll get some exercise on the beat, and maybe lose a few pounds. Win-win.”
“It’s not my deal, Pop. That was your deal. I make a difference behind the desk. I’m doing Internet-based investigation. Times have changed.”
“Yeah, they have, but we still need cops on the street—boots on the ground. There’s too much garbage out there, getting away with way too much. You aren’t fixing that on the Internet. Don’t you get pissed about the bullshit going on in this world? Don’t you want to get out on the beat and make more of a difference, like me and your granddad?”
A commercial was playing for a local martial arts studio. A man with a patch on one eye was imploring the audience to come for free trial lessons. Tommy glanced over at his son to see if he was paying attention.
“Good old Sensei Molletier. That guy is a badass. You should go back to him. He had you in shape. You still have your black belt, kid.”
“That was almost twenty years ago, Dad. I was twelve then. Besides, he was an abusive sadist. I think that girl in my class took his eye out with her fingernail on purpose. Everyone hated him.”
Tommy paused and spoke more to himself than his son. “Yeah, I guess that’s the thing now. What we used to call discipline is now called abuse. Everybody is soft these days.”
His son didn’t answer. “What happened to you, Bobby? I mean...back then, when you were a kid, you were into everything. Sports, fishing, hunting, Scouts, church...then you just seemed to go into some kind of shell, lost interest in everything. You were on your way to Eagle Scout, for chrissakes.”
Bobby cut him off, and his voice rose. “Things happen. People change. Am I not man enough for you, Dad?”
Tommy felt his anger rise along with his son’s. “Man enough? You live at home. You got no girl. You sit in your room doodling, reading comics and playing video games. You work behind a desk. Jesus. Sometimes I wonder if you’re not some kind of goddamn f...”
Vigilante Angels Trilogy Page 2