07-Shot

by Parnell Hall

  At the front door the wheelchair was, of course, repossessed, and Alice and Tommie had to get me into a cab, no small feat that. If I’d been lucky, MacAullif would have still been there with his car, but it was later in the afternoon and I guess the poor guy actually had work to do. At any rate, Alice managed it. She refused to relinquish the wheelchair until she had actually gotten a cab, not as easy as it sounds on either count. She had a screaming fight with a male nurse over the former, and close to ten minutes of standing out on Lenox Avenue on the latter, but the end result was that a cab eventually pulled up to the door and Alice and Tommie managed to wrestle me in.

  We didn’t have a wheelchair at the other end, of course. Alice left Tommie and me in the cab and went in and got Jerry, our elevator man, to come out and help, and Alice and Jerry walked me in between ’em.

  Once inside, I stumbled into the bedroom and collapsed on the bed, utterly worn out from the effort of just getting home. Alice fluttered around, the ministering angel, removing shoes, pants and other encumbrances, fluffing pillows and tucking me into bed.

  Tommie hovered discreetly in the background, and once Alice had flounced out to fill the prescription the doctor had written for me, he poked his head in the door and then came up to the bed.

  “Were you really shot, dad?” he asked.

  I hated to answer the question. But there was only one answer, and I gave it. “Yes, I was.”

  That didn’t terrify him, as I’d expected. Quite the contrary. Having had time to think about it, and having realized I wasn’t going to die in the hospital and was already home recuperating, Tommie had come to the realization that, gee, it was pretty glamorous to have a father who’d been shot. I could tell from his attitude that he’d already worked it out that he was bound to be the most popular boy in the East Side Day School. I could only hope he wouldn’t try to bring me to show-and-tell.

  Yeah, things got easier for Tommie, and pretty fast too. But Tommie’s a kid.

  Alice is a grownup.

  Once Tommie was safely taken care of and out of earshot and playing Super Mario Three in the living room, Alice wanted to hear the whole thing.

  I told her. Every fact, facet, nuance, without reservation.

  She listened to the whole thing without interruption, nodded, and said, “What are you going to tell the cops?”

  Leave it to Alice to cut right to the heart of the matter.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “You gonna tell ’em all you know?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You gonna tell ’em all you suspect?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “There’s a big difference,” Alice said.

  “I know that.”

  “You make your statement to the cops, you gotta be careful. You go around accusing people of shooting you, you could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re doped up, so I don’t know how much of this you’ve thought out. This guy you call the Black Death—if you tell the cops he shot you, he could sue you.”

  “Or shoot me.”

  “I’m being serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “I know. Damn it to hell.”

  “It’s all right, Alice.”

  “All right? How can it be all right? Just look at you. Look at you, damn it.”

  “I’ve felt better.”

  “Don’t joke. Please. I’m not up to having you joke. I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

  “Alice—”

  “You know, every day you’re out there, you’re going into those bad buildings, places you could get hurt, and that’s scary too and I hate it. But that’s part of the job, it’s a general fear, it goes with the territory. You get used to it. You never like it, but you get used to it and you get by.

  “But this thing.” Alice shook her head. “I can’t stand it and I want you out of it. I mean, Jesus Christ.” Alice touched the bandage on my shoulder. “An inch or two to the right.”

  “Bible would have gone right through my heart if it weren’t for that bullet.”

  “Damn it!”

  “Alice, I’m only joking ’cause I’m really scared too.”

  “I know.” Alice took a breath. “This has to end. This can’t go on. One way or another, you have to be out of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This woman, this stupid fucking woman who won’t pay you. You’re not working for her. You got shot for nothing, do you realize that? For nothing.”

  “I know.”

  “But that doesn’t matter. The money doesn’t matter. There isn’t enough money in the whole world to be worth getting shot for. It has to stop.”

  “That’s a comical understatement.”

  “Don’t humor me. What are you gonna do?”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know. I just want you out of it.”

  “I’m out of it now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I don’t go chasing this guy, he’s not following me to my neighborhood. If I leave him alone, he’ll leave me alone.”

  “Oh yeah? What about the cops?”

  “What about ’em?”

  “What’s he gonna do when he finds out you sicced the cops on his case?”

  I took a deep breath. The dull ache in my chest got sharper when I did. It occurred to me I’d better take a pain pill. My exhale was more of a sigh.

  “He won’t.”

  28.

  THE COP’S NAME WAS REYNOLDS. Sergeant Steve Reynolds. He looked too young to be a sergeant, just as my surgeon looked too young to be a doctor. In a way that was good, it made him seem less formidable somehow.

  So did his manner. He was polite, courteous, almost deferential. I suppose that was to put me at ease. It didn’t. Knowing cops, it only made me suspicious.

  Of course, I was in that frame of mind anyway. Paranoid, edgy, afraid that everybody knew.

  Knew I was holding back.

  If that’s what you could call it.

  “Now, Mr. Hastings,” Reynolds said, “this is just routine. I hate to put you through it, but you realize we have to. I know you don’t feel well. If you get too tired, need a break, just tell me. Otherwise, let’s just get it over with as quickly as we can and send you home.”

  “Okay, fine,” I said.

  I was once again downtown, at One Police Plaza, in a small interrogation room not unlike the one where Sergeant Thurman had had a go at me. I was seated at a table with Sergeant Reynolds and a stenographer who was poised to take down what I had to say. I didn’t like that, but there was nothing I could do about it. At any rate, my “fine” was somewhat less than sincere.

  Sergeant Reynolds nodded to the stenographer to begin, got my name and address in the record and started in on the statement.

  “Now, Mr. Hastings, we are concerned with the date, Friday, September 29th. Can you tell us where you were employed on that day?”

  “I was working for the law firm of Rosenberg and Stone.”

  “Where are they located?”

  I gave him the address, the name Richard Rosenberg, how long I’d been working for him and a general description of my duties as a private investigator.

  “Now, Mr. Hastings,” Reynolds said, “directing your attention to the afternoon of September 29th, did you have occasion to go to Harlem on that day?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And why was that?”

  I told him about taking the injury photos of Raheem Webb and gave him the Webbs’ address on Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard.

  “And what time was it when you left that apartment?”

  “Sometime after four in the afternoon.”

  “And where did you go then?”

  “I walked around the neighborhood.”

  His eyebrows raised slightly. “You walked around the neighborhood?”

  “That’s right.”

&nbs
p; “Where was your car?”

  “In front of the building.”

  “The building you’d just come out of? The, uh, what is the name?”

  “Webb.”

  “The Webbs’ building?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You left your car there and walked around the neighborhood?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Why did you do that, Mr. Hastings?”

  I took a breath. “I was looking for potholes.”

  He frowned. “Potholes?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Why were you doing that?”

  “To register them.”

  His eyebrows raised. “Oh, you mean ...? The pothole law?”

  “Exactly.”

  That did not particularly please him. He frowned. “Briefly, for the record, would you explain the pothole law?”

  “Of course. In negligence cases against the city of New York, it is not enough to show that someone tripped on a defect in the street or sidewalk, it is also necessary to show that that defect was duly reported to the city of New York prior to the accident, and that the city failed to repair it in a reasonable amount of time. For this reason, it has become common practice for attorneys to employ people to go around the city locating and registering potholes.”

  “I see,” Reynolds said. “And that is what you claim you were doing in this instance?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were walking the streets in Harlem looking for potholes and defects in the sidewalk?”

  “That’s right.”

  “This boy you had just photographed—what’s his name again?”

  “Raheem Webb.”

  “This Raheem Webb—how was his injury incurred?”

  “Well, now you’re asking for hearsay information. I only know what the boy told me.”

  Reynolds frowned. “That is not at issue here. I’d like to move this along. How did the boy tell you he sustained his injury?”

  “He tripped on a crack in the sidewalk.”

  “I see. And was this crack in the sidewalk in the vicinity of his building?”

  I frowned. “I really don’t think I should discuss the case without consulting Mr. Rosenberg. And I hardly see how this would be relevant.”

  “Perhaps not,” Sergeant Reynolds said. His attitude towards me was no longer kind. He didn’t believe me, but it was all right. Because what he did believe worked for me. He didn’t buy the fact that I was just walking around Harlem looking for potholes to register. No, the way he saw it, Raheem Webb got injured, so I was checking out all the defects in the immediate vicinity to try to find a registered one to blame it on. Which was something, incidentally, that Richard would never do. But it was also something that I was sure, if not widely practiced by negligence attorneys, was at least widely suspected of them by employees of the city. Which is what Reynolds suspected me of now, and why I’d suddenly plummeted from his good graces.

  Which is why it worked. It was something I naturally wouldn’t want to admit, but was a logical explanation of my actions.

  Reynolds took a breath. His manner was decidedly cold. “So you say you were looking for potholes to register?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And where did you go?”

  “I can’t recall exactly. I walked several streets. 147th. Lenox Avenue. 146th.”

  “How about 145th Street? Did you walk there?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “You were never on 145th Street?”

  “No, I was not.”

  “Well, perhaps we’re going about this wrong. Can you tell us, generally, how you came to be shot?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No, sir.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “The last I recall I was walking along 146th Street.”

  “Where?”

  “Between Lenox and Adam Clayton Powell.”

  “Which side of the street?”

  “South side.”

  “Looking for potholes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And what happened?”

  “I don’t know. The next thing I know, I’m lying in the hospital with a bullet in me.”

  Reynolds held up his hand. “Wait a minute. You don’t recall getting shot?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You recall an empty lot, a lot filled with rubble and refuse?”

  “I believe I walked by one.”

  “On 146th?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Would that be the last thing you remember?”

  “I’m not sure. It’s all sort of a blur.”

  Reynolds took a breath. “Mr. Hastings, you were discovered in a rubble-filled lot on 146th Street. Actually, you were near the back of the lot, near the building that borders on 145th Street. That is an abandoned building that has not been occupied for years. Do you have any idea what you were doing in the vicinity of that building?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do you recall being in that building?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I would like to refresh your memory on that point. There is a bricked-up door in the back of that building where the bricks have been knocked out. Investigators on the scene noticed a faint trail of blood leading into that doorway. It was faint, as I say, but there was enough to type, and that blood has been typed as yours. There is every reason to believe it was yours. That blood trail leads into the building to an interior room. The investigators found a small pool of blood, again not much, but enough to indicate that might have been the point of origin, the place where you were shot. If so, it would tend to indicate that you had lain there for a short period of time, and then either crawled or were dragged out of the building to the place where you were subsequently found. Now, with that to refresh your memory, do you recall ever being in that building?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Reynolds frowned. On a less polite officer, I’d call it a scowl. The man was not happy.

  “Mr. Hastings, you have no recollection of being shot?”

  “No, sir.”

  “And you have no idea who shot you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Or why?”

  “No, sir.”

  Reynolds took a breath. He blew it out again, slowly. He was a nice guy, Reynolds, politer than most. Even so, I would have to count his parting words as sarcastic.

  “Thanks for your help.”

  29.

  THEY GAVE ME MY CAMERA back. That was good. I hadn’t even missed it. Hadn’t even thought about it. They gave me the film back too. They’d processed it, to see if there was anything on it that might have been a clue. There wasn’t. Just some shots of a crack in the sidewalk and the shots of Raheem Webb. Lucky there. Richard would have flipped out if I hadn’t gotten them back. Who knows how much the kid’s forehead might have healed given an extra three days?

  No, I got them back. I got my film back and I got my camera back, and I got the hell out of there and hopped on the subway, since the only thing I hadn’t gotten back yet was my car.

  That was next on my list. I took the Number 3 train up to Harlem, got off at 145th.

  I walked up Lenox Avenue. A shudder ran through my body when I hit 146th. I’d planned to walk across it. I hadn’t been thinking. I changed my mind. I didn’t walk across 147th either. No way. I kept going, crossed on 148th.

  I turned the coiner onto Raheem Webb’s block. He wasn’t out front, but the pusher and two of his buddies were. They were looking at me real funny. They always did, but this time was different. Then I realized I was wearing a sling.

  The pusher gave me a hard look, real hard, tried to stare me down.

  I gave it right back to him. Fuck him. He might be hot shit on this block, but he was small potatoes compared to what I was dealing with.

  I unlocked my car, got in, banged the code alarm off. God bless Harlem—I hadn’t gotte
n a ticket. Today was Sunday, but they should have nailed me Saturday morning. Hooray for the lax meter maid. Small victory there. Bigger victory in that my briefcase was still on the floor of the front seat. Score one for the code alarm. Gee, things are really working out.

  I started the car, took the brake off, shifted into first and pulled out. Tough driving one-handed with a floor shift, but not that tough. I’d done it before eating a cheeseburger, no different doing it with one arm in a sling.

  And slightly doped up from Percodan. It occurred to me I could get pulled over, given a ticket for driving under the influence. Least of my worries. I could also get nailed for making a false report, obstructing justice and conspiring to conceal a crime.

  You might think I had lofty motives. You might think, hey, he’s doing just what a TV detective would do, holding out on the cops, protecting his client, keeping the information to himself so he can solve the case on his own.

  You would be wrong.

  I had lied to the cops because I was chickenshit and I didn’t want anything to do with it anymore.

  If you can’t understand that, you’ve probably never been shot. You probably watch TV shows where private detectives get shot every week. You probably saw the remake of Scarface, where Al Pacino gets shot six hundred times and he’s still standing and it takes a shotgun blast to finish him off. You’re probably used to seeing Arnold Schwarzenegger and Sylvester Stallone shoot a couple of hundred people a picture as if there was nothing to it.

  There’s something to it.

  If each one of those two hundred people was a real person, with a name, a life, a job, a family, then you wouldn’t cheer so loud when Arnie or Sly wipes ’em out. But you can cheer, because they’re not real people, and they’re made to look reprehensible. And the funny thing is, the way they’re made to look reprehensible, the thing that convinces us that they are reprehensible, and in many case the only thing that indicates that they are reprehensible is the fact that Arnie shoots ’em.

  A confusion of cause and effect. But, what the hey, it’s only film and it’s only make-believe.

  And the real killings, the real shootings, the ones you see on the TV news, well, they’re fictionalized too, made palatable by association. It’s possible to watch and listen to accounts of these shootings without flinching, because the line is so blurred between fiction and reality that it’s impossible to see the victims as real people, any more than it is the ones Rambo shoots. So it’s possible to have a Zodiac Killer or a Son of Sam and it is possible to discuss him without raising an eyebrow or turning a hair or stomach.