by Eric Rill
“Mr. Grant. About the paint thinner?”
Grant looked over at Rosa. “I was going to start painting last Sunday. I bought some supplies over at Home Depot.”
“Somebody left the cover off,” Rosa said.
Grant stared straight ahead. “If the top was loose and came off, I probably didn’t put it back on tightly enough.”
“That’s no crime, Mr. Grant,” Rosa said. “If it’s true what you’re sayin’.”
Grant wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand and dropped his head to his chest.
4
Nick Grant slipped his Escalade into his reserved space behind the Crown Hotel, a former office complex converted into what was now the only five-star hotel in Columbus. A white-haired man in a blue work shirt hobbled over. “I hope you don’t plan to leave for a bit,” Marty Glazer said in a hoarse voice. “They’re going to close the exit for repairs.”
“No problem. I should be here past nine, Marty,” Grant said, grabbing his briefcase from the backseat.
“How’s your son doing?” Glazer asked, picking at a scab on his long nose.
“They’re going to start the skin grafts tomorrow. He’s a trooper. Doesn’t complain much, considering,” Grant said. “But I appreciate your asking.”
“Kids are real resilient. Not like me,” Glazer said. “If it gets too hot, or too cold, my leg’s out of commission.”
“I think you limp on purpose, Marty.” Grant grinned. “A little sympathy, and a lot of attention from those pretty secretaries.”
“Well, it does seem to get worse when I see them coming down the ramp in their short skirts.” Glazer laughed. “Have a good one, Mr. Grant. I better get over there and get the guys started,” he said as he turned back toward the approaching dump truck.
Grant brushed a plastic card over a scanner, opened the back door, and wound his way through the narrow corridor to his office behind the front desk. He dropped his jacket on the credenza and plopped down in a green leather chair, facing a wall packed with family pictures—the trip the previous summer to Tahoe, with Marcy playfully sticking out her tongue as he photographed her trying to right the canoe that had just dumped her into the frigid water; Billy snoozing on her lap after a grueling hike; Marcy and Billy posing in front of their rented cottage. He started poring over a document that his secretary had prepared for him, a memo advising his staff that he would be back full-time in ten days—a week after Billy finished with his grafts.
A few minutes later, his phone rang. Grant pulled it out of his jacket and put it to his ear.
“Nick, oh God, Nick!” His mother screamed. “It’s Billy. It’s bad!”
“What’s wrong?” Grant said, grabbing his jacket as he started toward the door.
“I was sitting with him while the nurse was giving him some painkiller because of—you know when you told me to ask the doctor about his stomach pain—anyway, the nurse pushed the button beside his bed and yelled out ‘Code Blue!’ A bunch of doctors and nurses were in the room within seconds.”
“What are they doing to him?” Grant demanded.
“They pushed me out of the room before I could find out anything more.”
He shoved the exit door open. “You find out what’s happening—now! And have someone call me on my cell. Do you hear me? Have the goddamn doctor call me!” Grant shouted. He stuffed the phone in his pocket, ran out to the parking lot, got in his car, and thrust his key into the ignition. A dump truck was parked across the exit, a huge mound of gravel in front of it.
“Marty,” he yelled to the old man who was leaning against the wall, watching two men shovel gravel. “I need to get out of here. Now!”
Marty Glazer cupped his ear with his hand as he limped over. “There’s no way until they’re finished leveling out the gravel, Mr. Grant. Something the matter?”
“It’s Billy. I have to get to the hospital!”
“Oh shit!” Glazer exclaimed, looking around, trying to spot another way out.
“What the fuck am I going to do?” Nick shouted.
Glazer was silent as a frown mounted his forehead. Finally, he said, “My car. I can take you in my car. It’s parked out on Gay Street, by the pharmacy.”
“I’ll take it and get it back to you later,” Grant said, gesturing frantically with his hand for the keys.
“I’ll take you,” Glazer insisted.
“No. Damn it! Just give me the keys!” Grant yelled.
“It’s a blue Chevy Malibu,” Marty said, scrounging in his jeans for his key ring. “The big one is for the door, and the smaller one for the ignition.”
Grant grabbed the keys and ran toward the exit, jamming himself between the truck and the cement wall.
“Mr. Grant,” Glazer shouted after him. “I’m not sure how much gas is left.”
Grant turned the corner. It wasn’t hard to spot the blue Chevy. It was the only car parked on that block of Gay Street at eight-thirty on Sunday morning. He slammed the bigger key into the lock and opened the door, tossing a bundle of old papers in the back and swiping a Coke can over to the passenger seat. As he started the car, he watched the gas gauge. It barely budged. He figured he’d better stop for a couple of dollars’ worth at the Mobil station on the way out to I-670, so he detoured two blocks and turned the corner. The station was closed. He floored the accelerator, racing back toward Fourth Street, then exited I-670 to Route 315 and pushed the old sedan until it started to shake. Traffic started to slow up ahead, so he decided to take Ackerman Road. He pumped his brakes and swerved toward the right, but the Malibu didn’t respond like his Escalade, and he ended up missing the exit by more than twenty feet. Grant looked in the rearview mirror and quickly shot into reverse. As he reached the ramp, a police cruiser pulled up behind him, its lights flashing.
Grant shoved the Malibu into park and jumped out. “I need help,” he shouted to the officer.
“Get back in your vehicle,” the cop ordered as he got out of his car.
“But I have to get to the hospital,” Grant said, moving toward the officer.
“I said get back in your car, sir,” the cop said, pressing the button on the microphone attached to his shirt. “Car Thirty-three. I’ve got a possible Code Thirty-five at the north Ackerman exit of 315.”
“My son is at Riverside, and I need to get up there.”
“Sir, this is the last time I’m going to tell you. Get back in your vehicle, calm down, and I’ll come over and talk to you,” he said, his hand resting on the top of his holster.
Grant didn’t budge. “Look, you don’t understand. I have to get to my son.”
“Car Thirty-three,” the officer said into his microphone. “I need a ten-fifty-seven at the north Ackerman ramp of 315.”
A crackling voice came through the tiny black transmitter. “Car Thirty is responding. Present position just below you on 315, near West Lane.”
“Sir, put your hands on the car where I can see them and spread your legs,” the officer ordered.
“You’re a fucking asshole!” Grant fumed as he turned back to the car and placed his hands on the dusty trunk.
“I may be, but another outburst like that and you’ll be talking to me in the holding tank at county jail. I’ll need to see your driver’s license and registration,” the officer said, moving in a little closer. “You had anything to drink this morning? You were backing up into oncoming traffic. That either makes you stupid, drunk—or both.”
A police car pulled up on the shoulder. “Everything okay, Mike?” the officer asked.
“Not sure yet,” the first officer said.
“My wallet is in my back pocket,” Grant said over his shoulder.
“Take it out with your right hand.”
Grant removed his wallet. “Put your hand back on the trunk,” the officer said as he grabbed it. He pulled out Grant’s license. “Nicolas Grant, 503 Dublin Road,” he recited.
“Nick Grant?” The second officer was obviously sur
prised, given the condition of the car Grant was driving. “I thought you looked familiar. I was up at the fire at your father’s house last week. Man, I am so sorry!”
“Look, please get me to the hospital,” Grant pleaded. “It’s an emergency. I have to see my son.”
“Just following procedure,” the first officer explained.
“Leave your car here and I’ll take you,” the second officer said.
Nick jumped into the front seat as the officer flipped the lights and siren switches and backed up past the ramp. He stuck the car into drive and jammed his foot down on the gas pedal.
Grant pushed open the door of the police car before it came to a complete stop at the front entrance to the hospital and raced into the lobby. He glanced at the floor numbers above the elevators and then pushed through the glass doors and hurled himself up five floors of concrete stairs to 5B. A nurse stopped him at the entrance to the ICU. “You can’t go in there,” she said, putting herself between Grant and the open door.
“My son’s in there,” he shouted, even though she was just inches away.
“If that’s your son in the isolation room, then you need to stay out here to give the doctors and nurses a chance to save him.”
“What happened?” Grant cried out, curling his fists in a ball.
“You’ll have to speak to the doctor when he comes out.”
“Dr. Myers?”
“He’s been in there for more than a half hour.” She noticed the pain on Grant’s face. “Don’t worry. He’s the best there is.”
“Where’s my mother? She was in there with Billy.”
“I saw one of the nurses help a woman down to the waiting room,” the nurse said. “Why don’t you go over there and check on her, and I’ll come and get you as soon as I have any news.”
“I’m staying right here,” he said, pointing to the empty chairs a few feet down the corridor.
Grant slouched in his chair, fidgeting with his fountain pen. The he got up and paced the corridor, retracing his steps over and over. Finally, the door to the ICU opened. Several expressionless faces emerged, retreating down the other end of the hallway. Dr. Myers, his shoulders stooped, looked over at Grant and lowered his head. Grant stood up slowly and walked over toward Myers.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Grant. Billy didn’t make it,” Myers said, his eyes weary and bloodshot. “He was doing so well until this happened. Never even contracted pneumonia.” Myers led Grant back over to the chairs and pressed down on his shoulder. They both fell back into their seats. “The trauma was too much for his system. It just gave up. His liver and kidneys went, and then his heart stopped functioning.”
“You said he was out of the woods,” Grant said, staring straight ahead. “You said it looked good.”
“Mr. Grant, medicine isn’t an exact science,” Myers said, wiping his hands over his lined face. “Sometimes we get a curve thrown at us from out of nowhere.”
“He told me he hurt this morning,” Grant said, his head hanging down and his hands clenched in his lap. Emotional exhaustion left his eyes dry and unfocused. The image of the can of paint thinner came into his mind, slicing through him like a blow from an ax.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Myers said. “But there was really nothing more we could have done, even if we had known earlier.” He paused for a moment, staring up at the flecked ceiling tile, and then said, “Would you like to say your goodbyes?”
Grant braced himself against the arms of his chair and stood up.
“I have to warn you, we had to remove the bandages,” Myers said, putting his hand on Grant’s shoulder. “It may upset you.”
Grant remained still for a moment. “I’d like to go in now,” he said in an almost inaudible voice.
“The bruises and needle marks are from our resuscitation attempts,” Myers explained as they entered the room. Grant cringed and turned toward the window. Myers closed the blinds on the double doors that led to the isolation room and then drew the sheet down to the waist of the boy’s badly burned body. “No one will disturb you. Take as much time as you want,” he said as he closed the door behind him.
Grant sat in a chair by the bed, his head in his hands. Finally, he looked over at his son. He stared at the burns and needle marks that dotted his body. Then he reached over, touched his tiny arm, and traced his index finger down his son’s bruised chest to his waist. How many times had he come home late from work and sat beside Billy’s bed, staring down at him, wishing he had cut a meeting short. How many times had he lain in bed when he was a kid, waiting for his own father to come home from work, before drifting off to sleep without a goodnight kiss. “I love you, Billy,” Grant whispered, tears filling his eyes. “And I’m sorry.” Then he reached down and picked up his son, cradled him in his arms, and gently rocked him.
5
Jimmy Rosa took a right off East Boulevard to Euclid Avenue. Cleveland has changed a whole bunch, he thought to himself. Little Italy, once the “real thing,” was now mostly restaurants and bars—a second-rate tourist attraction. He pulled up in front of a one-story brick building with grimy windows and a sagging slate roof, then tugged the keys from the ignition, grabbed his battered metal briefcase from the backseat, and hopped out of the car, tossing the keys to the valet.
“Hey, Bones!” the maître d’ exclaimed as Rosa entered the foyer with its dusty red drapes and a fading mural of Palermo. “Where you been hiding?”
“It took me a month to stop bringin’ up the garlic from my last visit, Vito.” Rosa laughed, taking off his overcoat and slinging it over a tarnished metal coatrack in the corner.
“He’s waiting on you,” the maître d’ said. “He’s been here awhile.”
Rosa made his way through the large, crowded dining room to a back room with eight tables, draped with white linen, sterling silver cutlery, and fresh flowers. They were all empty, except for one. A chunky man sat at the corner table, his barrel-size chest covered with a damask napkin. “Tony, sorry I’m late,” Rosa said as he bent over, kissing his brother on both cheeks. “A big accident on I-71.”
“Sit down,” Tony Rosa said, as he reached for a crab claw. “Drink?”
Jimmy motioned toward a slight man with big ears, a faded tuxedo hanging on his stooped shoulders. “Jack Daniel’s and soda,” he said. “Easy on the soda.”
Tony pointed to the briefcase. “I take it that’s for me?” he said, exposing a perfect cap job between his plump lips.
“Like Pony Express—we get here, rain or shine,” Rosa said, offering up a tight smile. “A little less than last month, but Tommy said he spoke to you.”
“Things slow down there, or what?” Tony said, slapping a thick pat of butter on his roll.
“Drugs is still the same, but the gambling’s slowed—less action than last year. Should pick up when football starts.”
“Them college kids are our bread and butter.” Tony laughed and paused for a moment. “Ever have any regrets that you didn’t make it to college, Jimmy?”
“Get outta here! Remember I almost flunked outta high school, for Christsakes! No chance I would’ve made it for a month. You?”
“Only when Pops would give me the guilt thing. You know—telling me I wouldn’t make anything out of myself if I didn’t go.”
He’d roll over in his grave, Rosa thought, but he smiled and said, “Pops would be glad you’re doin’ so good and all—I mean looking out for Mom, paying the mortgage.”
“Maybe so. Maybe not,” Tony said. “He wasn’t stupid. He knew what was going down. But he loved his number-one son, the detective.”
“Think so?” Jimmy said, pursing his thin lips.
“Yeah, like that show on TV. You know the one where the brother says ‘Pops always liked you best.’ He was real proud of you, Jimmy.”
“Maybe he wouldn’t be so proud today—I mean if he was here to see all this,” Rosa said, patting the briefcase beside him. Rosa had made it from a beat cop to the Homicide Bureau in three ye
ars. Granted, Columbus wasn’t New York City or Chicago, but it had a pretty good bunch of cops and detectives, and for the most part, they were straight. Rosa had wanted to stay clean, but his brother’s influence was as overpowering now as it had been when they were kids. He could never stand up to Tony, and it disgusted him. Now he was in so deep with Pascale and his gang that he figured he’d never break loose. He’d been hitting the bottle lately, never on the job—except maybe the odd swig from the Jack Daniel’s he kept behind the spare in the trunk when things seemed to be careening out of control.
“Gotta live, Jimmy. Gotta live,” Tony Rosa said.
“I miss the old man, Tony. Don’t seem like twelve years since he’s gone.”
“Momma wants to know if you’re stopping by her place this trip,” Tony said.
“I called her from the car. Told her I’d be there after dinner, but I don’t think she got what I was saying.” Rosa said. “She gonna go on much longer?”
“The doc said she’s losing it real bad,” Tony said.
“You don’t need no doctor to tell you that,” Rosa said. “Breaks my heart when I see her like that—all screwed up in the head. Takes all I got to get over there and see her.”
Tony reached over and patted his brother’s cheek. “Don’t worry so much. The nurse, or whatever you call her, she’s high-quality. Takes real good care of her,” he said. “Say, you remember back when we lived on Ellenwood? The kid around the corner in that beige house on Broadway, the one with the flagpole? He just bought twenty-five.”
“You’re fuckin’ with me,” Rosa said. “For what?”
“Actually had to cop a plea to get the twenty-five.” Tony laughed. “Blew his boss away and claimed self-defense, but he went up in front of Judge Wheeler.”
“Get outta here! I figured the kid for a geek.”
“Not many good guys left out there, Jimmy.” Tony grinned and took a gulp of his wine. “Let’s order. I’m starving.”
“Tony, I want to talk to you about somethin’.”
“We order first. Then we talk,” Tony said, raising his hand in the air and snapping his fingers to get the waiter’s attention. “Tell Gino my brother’s here. I want him to make us up some of that spinach and garlic linguini. Two Florentine T-bones—real rare—and a couple a Caesars.”