"Goddammit, Matt! Listen!"
The call ended and Paul's shoulders sank. The sound of laughter reached him and it made him sad. Why had Matt said that he was dead? Why couldn't he understand what Paul was trying to say?
"Growling?" Paul's face sank further into a frown and he shuddered.
Well, if he couldn't get anything out of Matt on the phone, he would just have to see him in person.
Having worked for the city for nearly ten years, Paul knew the streets of New York like the back of his very spotted hand. Spotted! Were those there a moment ago? He wondered. Images of disease of the week movies popped into his head, with the men in contamination suits gathering up and herding the infected. Was that what he was? The infected? Patient zero? He briefly entertained the notion that he might be walking the streets, infecting hundreds of people as he passed. That was just too ludicrous and he dismissed the idea as a product of panic.
He set off in the direction of his apartment. He and Matt had been best friends ever since fourth grade when Matt's mom had moved into Queens and dropped him into the public school system. Matt had been like a shot in the arm to Paul, who even then had taken himself too seriously. Matt was a goof, a class clown, a sometimes lazy-ass who never quite did well but always meant well. So, after graduation, Paul had taken an apartment with Matt, gone to work for the city to put himself through college, and two months later he'd managed to get Matt his first and only decent job.
One foot after the other, Paul plodded in the direction of their apartment. He didn't want the population at large to see him, so he avoided the subway and kept to the shadows as he walked. It was nearly five miles to their place, a long walk, but do-able. He picked up the pace a bit, desperate for answers.
New York City at night was, if anything, more lively than in the day. Bright blotches of neon color splashed across the sidewalk, flashing headlights strobed through the darkness. Paul had lived here all his life and there was nowhere on Earth he would rather be….except LA.
LA. That's where Linda was. He had met Linda at college and it had been love at first sight. She was blonde and gorgeous and smart. And the best part of all that was that she thought the sun rose and set on Paul. If they had been on a soap opera, they would have been a super-couple. He'd been studying engineering at NYU, she…English. Nine years later, he was finishing up his ten-year stint with NYC Public Works, in the hopes of getting a small pension. She had been offered a teaching position at UCLA, a promise of tenure in two years (English professors didn't seem to stay put for long) and the opportunity to work on her PhD.
So, Linda had gone ahead to LA with the idea that Paul would follow as soon as his ten years with the city were up. He only had two weeks to go. Damn the luck.
Paul passed the third ice cream store in as many blocks, his head low and in true New Yorker fashion, not meeting the eyes of anyone. So far so good. Another two miles and he could interrogate Matt.
Linda. His mind drifted back to her. A sudden stab of terror ripped through him as he remembered the ring he had bought her. They had lived together for four years and he had been about to propose when the offer came in from LA. So, being the cautious and wise man that he was, he had tucked the ring away with the idea that he would propose to her as soon as he made the move to Cali, and then only if their relationship survived the separation. That ring was now neatly tucked into his underwear drawer.
One more mile. A finely-dressed lady with an equally finely-dressed little boy passed him. As they did so, the child looked up and caught sight of Paul's face. The boy tilted his head and scrunched up his face, then made the proclamation: "Eeeew!"
Paul turned his head away and frowned again. For a naturally happy guy, he sure was frowning a lot.
Two more turns and Paul was staring at their apartment building. It was short and squat, converted from an old Brownstone. It still bore the bomb shelter sign that had been posted there in the sixties. He fished out his keys as he approached it, his mind spinning circles around the questions he had.
He let himself in the front door and took the stairs to the second floor, where his apartment awaited him. The key slid home and Paul turned it, listening to the gratifying turn of the tumblers inside. He pushed the door open a few inches and met resistance.
"Matt! Hey, Matt!" he called in through the crack in the door. He was rewarded with the sound of footsteps within.
Matt's eye appeared in the crack of the doorway, heavy-lidded and blinking stupidly. He was, indeed, stoned. "Paul? Oh my God!"
"Undo the chain, Matt. Please."
"Dude…you're dead." He said it more as a matter-of-fact than as a threat.
"Matt, I'm not dead. I promise. Now, please, open the door."
The door slid shut and Paul heard the sound of metal against metal. Matt pulled the door open and blinked rapidly at him. "Is it really you?"
"Of course it's me, you doofus." Paul chuckled and moved to hug him. Matt backed away.
"The paramedics told me you were dead. They hauled you away."
"Well, I'm not dead. Obviously, they were wrong." Paul paused, wanting this to sink into Matt's drug-addled brain. "But you have to tell me what happened."
"Dude, you look like shit." He moved aside as Paul made his way deeper into the apartment. "Your face is all fucked up and…why are you making that sound?"
"What sound?" Now Paul felt anger welling deep in the pit of his stomach. "Tell me what happened."
Matt took another step backward. "You may not be dead, but you look like death warmed over. Seriously, man, you should really be in a hospital. I think you've had a stroke or something."
"I haven't had a stroke and I'm not dead." Now, he was yelling. The frustration had a choke-hold on him and he couldn't manage to calm himself. "But I need you to tell me what happened."
Matt blinked stupidly.
"Are you hearing a single word I'm saying?" He took one step toward Matt and watched his friend's face pale.
"I think I should take you to the hospital. You need some help." Matt proffered his hand, palm up, to his friend.
Paul looked at the hand, then back to Matt. His chin sagged to his chest. "I…just need…to know what happened to me."
Matt's tone was softer now, more sympathetic. "Paul, you look like shit. And I can't understand a word you say. Please let me get you some help."
Frustrated beyond anything he could remember, Paul did something so uncharacteristic that it scared even him. He lunged forward and grabbed Matt by the shoulders, shaking him hard and screaming. "I don't need help! I need answers! Now, shut the fuck up and tell me what happened to me, dammit!"
Matt whimpered, winced, and pulled away from him.
"Oh God! I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" Paul let him go and backed away, feeling the hot sting of tears and guilt well up in his throat. He sank into the chair and let his head fall into his hands on the dining table. "I'm just so…scared."
After a few seconds, he lifted his head slowly and looked across the table. An old pizza box lived there, along with his dirty coffee mug, a magazine, two pens and a legal pad with some scribbling on it.
Paul grabbed the pad and one of the pens and began to write furiously.
"I can't remember what happened. Tell me," it said.
He shoved the pad in front of Matt's face and raised his eyebrows.
Relieved, he watched as Matt sank into the chair next to him. "You really don't know what happened to you?" Paul shook his head and Matt nodded. "Okay, I'll tell you what I know."
Paul tried on a smile, which must have come across as more of a sneer because Matt made a face and looked away.
"Okay, so we were working down in the tubes out where they're doing the renovations. You know, the sewers that run past all those factories and shit? We were almost at the end, taking those readings. Last one of the day, you said. There was this big pile of old trash from when they had originally built those sewer lines and you had to climb over it to get to the other side and take
the readings. You wouldn't let me go because you said I was too clumsy and I would rush it.
"Anyway, we were talking and you got over the top of that rubbish, still talking. Then you said something about it being really gross over there and something about a puddle of blue goo. You cursed when you stepped in it. I remember because I laughed and made a joke. You know, 'Some days you step in it, some days you don't.' Then you came back over the top of the trash and you were all covered in that blue shit.
"So, we walked back to junction eight-twenty-three and climbed up and out. The stupid blue stuff glowed in the dark down there, but once we got topside, it was gone. We were walking back to the truck when you doubled over. You dropped straight to the ground and started rolling all around like a dead fish or something. I called nine-one-one and by the time the EMTs got there, you had stopped having fits. But they said you were dead.
"Dude, they put you in a body bag and hauled you off to Bellevue. I followed just to make sure they weren't screwing up, but the doctor came out and told me you were dead. He said they didn't know what of, but that you were just dead. They asked me if you had any next of kin and whatnot. I gave 'em your parents' number. Man! I wish I'd have known you weren't really dead. Did they screw up or something? What's going on?"
Paul scribbled hastily. "I don't know. Linda?"
"Linda? Oh, Linda. Right. Naw, I don't think nobody called her. I didn't have her number, but I was gonna go through your cell phone once they released your stuff and call her."
"Don't call Linda," Paul wrote quickly. He thought for a moment and Matt seized that opportunity to offer what might have been the only sound advice he would ever come across.
"Dude, you need to let the doctors look at you and figure out what happened."
It was Paul's turn to blink. That was the sane thing to do, he realized. But something deep in the pit of his gut told him he shouldn't do that. "No," he wrote. "Got to see Linda."
"But Dude, you've only got ten work days until you get your pension. Just see a doctor, huh? Maybe they can help you. And man, whatever that shit is on your face, it looks like it needs some help."
"Not going to last that long," Paul wrote and suddenly he felt like crying. His grandmother had told him that everyone knows right before they're going to die. That was five hours before she died. Paul knew, too. "Got to get to Linda. Tell her I love her."
"Paul, she knows that. Just please get some help."
"Linda has to know. I didn't abandon her."
"Okay, call Linda."
"No."
"Call her. Then go to the hospital."
"No."
Matt sank back in his chair with a worrisome frown. "You're my best friend. My BFF, dude. If anything happens to you…"
Paul growled, frustrated at the slowness of hand writing everything and his own failure to get his message across. He threw back the chair and stood up, hurrying to the little desk under the window. The computer was already on and he opened Notepad and began to type.
"Matt, we've been friends almost our whole lives and I love you like a brother. I know that what you're saying makes sense but I know, deep down in my gut, that something weird and awful happened to me down there. I don't know what that stuff was, but it changed me somehow. I was alive, and then I was dead, now I'm alive again. I don't know what the hell's going on, but I think I might die for good soon and I have to get to Linda. She can't think that I just dumped her, stood her up, whatever. She has to know…"
Matt, who had been reading over his shoulder, interrupted. "Dude, I'll tell her. Seriously. I'll make her understand what happened. But go to the hospital. Please. It's what Linda would want you to do." Tears welled up in Matt's eyes, which made Paul feel like crying, too.
"No," he typed again. "I have to do this. If I'm going to die, I have to see Linda just one more time."
"I'll call her for you. She'll come. She loves you and she'll come. Then you can go to the hospital, huh?" Matt was all-out crying now and it made Paul sad beyond words.
"Nononononono!" Paul typed. "You have been a great friend, and I know you mean well, but I have to do this. Don't blame yourself. Honestly, none of this is your fault. I just have to see Linda. Have to."
Paul stood up and headed down the hall toward his room. Matt followed close on his heels, blubbering and talking a mile a minute.
"Please let me get you some help. Don't do this."
Paul rummaged around in his underwear drawer until he found the thing he was looking for. He held up the small blue velvet box and smiled, then tucked it neatly into his pocket and shut the drawer.
"What if you die on the way there? Huh? You'll never get to see Linda and you'll be dead. Maybe for real this time. If we go to the hospital first, that way you can maybe get some help, then see Linda and maybe live happily ever after. Huh? Doesn't that sound better?"
Paul shook his head and marched back down the hall to the computer.
"Taking the car," he typed furiously. "Tell my parents that I love them." He rose from the chair and headed for the door.
With all the courage he could muster, Matt stepped in front of him. "As your best friend, I cannot let you do this." He waved the cordless phone in front of Paul's face. "I'm calling nine-one-one and I'm getting you some help, whether you like it or not. You'll thank me later." Matt pushed the ON button.
Paul batted one hand in Matt's direction, sending the phone flying across the room. Matt watched it go, his expresion caught between terror and determination.
It was all determination when he turned back to Paul. "I've still got my cell phone. Ha! What do you think about that?"
Paul uttered something of a growl and snatched the phone from Matt's hand. He turned to the doorway again. Within seconds, he was through the door and partway down the hall.
"Fine!" Matt yelled after him. "I'll just wait until you're gone and then call for help. Yea, buddy! I'll report the car stolen. Then they'll catch you and get you to the hospital. I'm not letting you die, man! You hear me? I'm not letting you die!"
Old Mrs. Carter across the hall stuck her head out the door, sporting a moo-moo and a mean expression.
"Sorry, Mrs. Carter," Matt mumbled, lowering his head and ducking back into the apartment. He went to the window then, and watched as Paul pulled out of the parking space far below and out onto the street.
Table of Contents
DEEP-FRIED HOMICIDE
LICENSE NOTES
Meet the Author
DISCOVER CROSSROAD PRESS
DEEP-FRIED HOMICIDE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
FREE PREVIEW: MURDER, SOMETIMES
Chapter One
Chapter Two
FREE PREVIEW: LOVE LOST
CHAPTER ONE
FREE PREVIEW: ZOMBIE – A LOVE STORY
Deep-Fried Homicide (The Laurel Falls Mysteries Book 1) Page 25