by Rain, J. R.
I punch Eddie again and again, but he’s picking me up off my feet and running me backwards. My swinging blows have no effect on him, and he drives me hard into the closed front door. I gasp, the air exploding from my feeble lungs.
As I suck in air, Eddie steps back and lands a thunderous blow that sends me reeling to the side, stumbling. I see him smile just as he throws another wild punch that connects with the side of my jaw. I stumble some and crash into a china hutch.
I’m gasping. My head is spinning. I’ve been in many fights. You can’t work in my line of business and do what I do in particular and not find yourself in your share of fights. But I can’t get my bearings. I can’t see straight.
“You think you can come in here, into my home, and fuck with me?” says Eddie.
He’s coming up somewhere behind me. I brace for the blow, but it’s a kick. It lands so hard into my ribs that I think I’ll never breathe again.
“That’s gotta hurt, huh?”
I hear him but I don’t see him. I see intermittent flashes of light. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. I’ve had worse beatings in my life, but I’m not able to withstand this one. I feel myself shutting down.
I gather all my strength and turn and throw a wild punch. It connects, but not by much. Eddie stumbles back, and then lunges forward, heaving his fists, I suspect, as hard as he can. The blow hits home, harder than all the others, and I realize he’s hit me with something. My own .44, I think.
I spill across the kitchen floor, blood pouring from a gash over my eyes, seeping into the carpet, and I hear him step behind me. He’s standing over me and I know the gun is pointed at the back of my head.
“I bet you regret not killing me now, huh, Jimmy boy?”
There is a pause and my brain is working and I’m thinking I could roll over and kick, and I’m just about to, when I hear a gunshot ring out.
My first thought is that I feel no pain.
My second thought is that the gunshot sounds nothing like my .44 Magnum.
And that’s when Eddie drops to the floor next to me, the side of his head blown off.
I’m barely aware of hands lifting me into a sitting position, or of a heavily accented voice telling me, “Everything is going to be okay, cowboy. Everything is going to be okay.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
I’m sitting with Detective Dobbs in his squad car.
It’s later that same night and we’re not far from Eddie’s apartment. The crime scene guys are still swarming around. A lot of the neighborhood is swarming around, too. A dead body has that effect.
“I listened to the recording a few times,” says Dobbs. “I forwarded a copy to my phone, if you don’t mind. Nearly erased the damn thing in the process.”
He chuckles lightly.
I don’t.
He looks over at me. “How you doing, Booker?”
“Been better.”
“You look like shit. You sure you don’t want to go the hospital?”
“I’m sure.”
I’ve been to far too many hospitals these past few years, but I don’t say anything. I’m still absorbing that someone I had called a friend had killed my little brother. Still absorbing that someone I had spent so many evenings with playing basketball, had harbored a horrific secret… and had loved every minute of it.
It’s just further proof that humans need to evolve telepathy—or some other mind-reading shit. Too many secrets out there. Too many bad secrets.
“Hey, Booker, I’m sorry for everything, but at least we got our guy. One less scumbag on the streets.”
This is about as much sympathy as I am going to get from a homicide cop, a guy who sees death every day. I nod at his words and continue looking forward at the apartment structure that is now a beehive of activity. There are about a dozen cop cars parked randomly along the street. I know Numi is in one of those cars, answering questions.
“The guy sounds like a real whack job,” says Dobbs. “Typical sociopath, if you ask me. No regard for human life. Enjoyed fucking with us. Thought he was smarter than he was. He wasn’t that smart, trust me. We were closing in on him. The hubby’s always the first suspect, and his alibi was shaky the night that Olivia went missing. And even shakier the night Angel Trujillo went missing. We were cornering him. You sort of beat us to the punch. But not by much.”
Dobbs looks over at me. I keep staring ahead. There are moments while I sit here in the car that I feel as if I might be out of my body. I am so tired, so weak, so empty.
“You should never have gone in there alone, Booker. Jesus, what were you thinking…?” But his voice trails off. “Scratch that. I would have gone in there alone, too, if someone had done the same thing to my brother.”
He continues looking at me. I continue feeling like I might be somewhere else, perhaps somewhere above.
“You really didn’t shoot him, Booker?”
“No,” I hear myself say, although my voice seems to come from a long way away. I am aware of pain in my jaw.
“Why not, Booker?”
I think about that for a long time. I almost don’t answer, but I finally say, “I forgave him.”
“But you say you wanted to kick his ass.”
“I didn’t say I forgave him that much,” I say.
Dobbs looks at me long and hard. Two teens on bikes sit and watch the activity around the apartment building. Flashing lights reflect off street signs. Now Dobbs chuckles… and soon his chuckling continues and fills the squad car, and the two teens turn and look at us. Two guys laughing outside a shooting scene.
He settles down and finally says, “You’re a bigger man than me, Booker. I would have shot him, and then gladly spent my time in jail. On that note, if your friend’s story holds up, he’ll probably be released. In fact, I’ll make sure he’s released. There’s nothing here.”
I nod, pleased. I don’t want any trouble for Numi.
“Still a dumb thing to do, Booker. What if he came at you with a knife?”
I shrug, which takes up the last of my energy. I need to lie down badly.
“A chance you were willing to take, huh? Tell me, did you at least get to punch the fucker before your manservant blew his brains out?”
I’m not sure Numi would appreciate being called a manservant, but I’m sure he’s heard worse. For the first time, I turn and look at Dobbs.
“I got a few punches in.”
Dobbs holds my gaze. “Good. Damn good. You look like you need rest.”
I’m not sure if I nod, but I might have.
“You okay to drive home?” But before I can attempt a feeble answer, Dobbs answers for me. “Of course not. I’ll drive you home, boss.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It is a week later.
I’m sitting with my mother in my living room. We are both on the couch, both facing the sliding glass door, which is partially open. It is a bright summer day and the dusty leaves of the eucalyptus beyond my balcony shimmer in the sunlight and wind.
I have spent the week steadily feeling better, which surprises the hell out of me, but not Numi. According to the doctors, the cancer is still in me, as aggressive as ever, but I feel better. And feeling better is half the solution, according to Numi. I tell him I don’t want to hear about his juju tribal shaman crap. Numi, of course, just shakes his head and grins.
Numi had figured it all out as well. The tattoo I had seen on Eddie’s arm, the tattoo I had assumed had been Chinese characters, had, in fact, been the universal symbol for pi. So Numi and I had both solved the case, but both going at it from slightly different angles. I had been gone long that evening, longer than he had been comfortable with. He assumed correctly that I had gone to see Eddie on my own.
And Numi, with some forethought, had grabbed his own weapon before heading out.
God bless my friend.
Again.
I do not tell people that I am still dying. Yes, I might feel better, and, yes, I am in better spirits, but I can feel
my body shutting down, one cell at a time. Numi, of course, likes to hear that I am feeling better, and so I tell him what he wants to hear.
My mother is visiting for the first time in years. She looks far older than I remember. She sits with her knees together and her hands in her lap and she only barely looks at me.
She’d surprised the hell out of me by showing up. She had, of course, heard about Eddie. No doubt from the police themselves, as the case had been a twenty-two-year-old cold case.
Numi is here, of course. Lounging on the balcony and reading a book and generally in good spirits. With my mother’s appearance, he politely excused himself.
Now, after some small talk, my mother turns to me. “Are you gay, Jimmy?”
“No,” I say. “One can have gay friends without being gay.”
“Has he ever tried to, you know…”
“Turn me gay?” I finish.
“Well, yes.”
Her eyebrows go up.
“Every chance he has,” I say. “It is, after all, every homosexual’s goal to turn straight men gay.”
“You don’t have to make fun of me, Jimmy. It was an honest question.”
“No, Mom,” I say. “He has been a tremendous friend through all of this.”
She nods and looks at her hands in her lap. “He has taken care of you through all of this?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, and now I look away.
We are silent for a long time, longer than I am comfortable with, but she seems to be in no rush and so I wait it out. “I’ve made it no secret that I blamed you, Jimmy.”
I say nothing. Truth is, I couldn’t speak if I wanted to.
“I’ve been terrible to you, Jimmy.”
I take in as much air as I can. But it feels like only one lung is working. For the first time in a week, I can’t seem to catch my breath again. I keep fighting for breath, silently, as my mother continues speaking.
“I had to blame someone, and since the killer was never found, it was easy to blame you, and I did.”
I keep trying to breathe. I grip the arm of the couch.
“But that was wrong of me. Horrible of me. I lost two sons that day, and I’m so sorry, Jimmy.”
My lungs seem to be shrinking. I feel myself panicking now. A horrible feeling to not get enough air. So horrible. So messed up.
She reaches out and takes my hand, and I am certain it is the first time she has touched me in twenty-two years. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to forgive myself for putting you through this, Jimmy. It wasn’t your fault. It was never your fault—”
“It’s okay, Ma,” I say, but my voice sounds strangled.
She suddenly turns and faces me, alarm on her face. “Jimmy, are you okay?”
I sit forward and raise my arms, trying to open my lungs. I can’t speak as tears find my eyes. Tears always find my eyes when I can’t breathe.
“I…” But the words fail me.
“Jimmy…”
I try again and I keep trying until I finally say, “I can’t breathe, Ma.” And just saying that takes the last of my air.
“Oh, baby.”
And my mother does something that surprises the hell out of me, something that I have been hungering for seemingly all of my life. She grabs me and pulls me into her and holds me tighter than I’ve ever been held before, and as I feel her love for me wash over me, something amazing happens.
My lungs open and I suck in air, lungful after lungful, and I’m not very surprised to hear myself weeping into my mother’s shoulder as she rocks me there on my couch.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“You look good, cowboy,” says Mary.
I laugh, although that causes a great pain in my chest. She’s been around Numi enough to pick up on my friend’s terms of endearment.
The past two weeks have been rough on everyone I know, especially Numi. He is in the living room with my mother and Detective Dobbs. I can hear them talking quietly. Mary is sitting at my side.
“I look as good as a dead man can look,” I say.
I’d been bedridden for the past two days. Numi had called my mother and Mary, and all three had been here throughout those days. Detective Dobbs had only swung by today. No other friends came. I didn’t want anyone else here.
“You shouldn’t say that,” she says, and tries to smile down at me.
“Life sucks, you know,” I say. “Here I fall in love with the girl of my dreams, and I only get to be with her a few times.”
“Twice, if I recall.” And she pokes me in the belly. Yes, she and I had rekindled what we had started a few weeks ago, making love for the second time. A session that had nearly wiped me off the face of the earth.
“I love you,” I say, and mean it. It is the first time I have told a woman that I love her. At least, the first time that I meant it.
“I love you, Jimmy Booker. We need to get you better, young man. We have a whole life to live.”
I smile at her. It is a running joke we have. Truth is, there is no getting better to me. I’ve seen the signs, and so has Numi. I’ve declined hospice. Or, rather, Numi declined. Truth was, I didn’t need hospice care, not with Numi there every step of the way.
Earlier in the week, I’d gone through what is called a pleurodesis to help my breathing. The procedure helped some, but not enough. Still, I am grateful for those who have been there for me, especially the doctors, although, admittedly, if I never see another doctor again, I will die happy.
Or so I joke. Numi doesn’t like that joke.
Two days ago, I finally admitted to Numi that I had to stay in bed. He didn’t want to hear that, either, but only nodded and helped me into my sweats, and then into bed. He brought me food and drinks, but I wasn’t hungry or thirsty. I declined his offerings, and not too long after that, a deep chill came over me.
Numi had covered me with an electric blanket and had even gone as far as to lie next to me, holding me close to him. I had told him to quit being so gay, but I appreciated his help. More than he knew.
Nothing can beat the chill now. When I break out in a sweat and my skin begins turning bluish, mottling, according to the doctor who comes out to see me—he is a young guy who speaks too loudly from the living room—I hear him tell Numi that I am in my final days.
Always nice to hear that. Secondhand.
Yesterday had seen me decline further, and that’s when the call had been made to my mother and Mary.
Today, I am faring a little better, but that could be due to the activity, although a final burst of energy is almost common for those on their deathbeds.
Enough energy for a final good-bye.
My lungs have gotten progressively worse, along with the pain. I am on more pain medication than I want to admit. Mary and I spend a quiet moment just sitting with each other. The moments remind me of our sessions, when I didn’t always have the strength to speak, and she would tell me that that was okay, and we would sit quietly together. It had been those small moments that had made me fall in love with her. That and her cute nose.
“Get better, Jimmy boy,” she says. “I’m not done with you yet.”
I smile at her positive words. She, perhaps better than most, knows that there is no getting better for me. But I appreciate her optimism.
“Miracles do happen,” I say.
But now she can’t stop the tears, and her brave face is gone. She lies across me gently and holds me tight and runs her fingers through my hair and tells me over and over again that she loves me and will always love me, no matter what. I tell her the same, but my whispered words are drowned in her own, and so I lie there and absorb her love, and relish her love. Finally, she stands and wipes away her tears, smiles at me for a long, long moment, and then she turns and leaves.
A moment later, Numi steps in and closes the door behind him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
My friend does not lo
ok good.
I want to make a joke that I’m the sick one, but I let it go. Numi does not look like he’s in the joking mood. I’ve joked with him long enough. I’ve made light of my sickness long enough. Numi never once joked about my illness. Numi took it seriously. Took me seriously. Took our friendship seriously.
Numi is not handling any of this well. And why should he? His best friend is in his final days. And we both know they are my final days, no matter how much Numi wishes otherwise.
“How do you feel, kemosabe?” asks Numi as he sits on the edge of the bed.
He rests his hand on my chest and I let him. No longer do I try to shrug him off. Or move away from him. I don’t have the strength to shrug or to move, and now that I have had time to reflect on it, I realize that I appreciate his touch.
No, I think, as his big hand spreads over my chest and pats me gently. I need his comforting touch.
“I’ve been better,” I say.
Numi’s stoic face cracks in a small smile. “Yes, boss. You have definitely been better.”
“Have you been painting?” I ask, although I know the answer to the question.
“Not for many months, cowboy.”
“Do you miss it?” I ask.
Numi stares down at me a long time before answering. “I’m going to miss you more, brother.”
Now it’s my turn to smile. “Hey, that’s the first time you’ve acknowledged that I’m dying.”
“I ain’t acknowledging shit.”
I smile again, and so does he. Outside, through the closed door, I hear someone laugh lightly. The detective, I think. Nice of him to come. He has already stopped in to say hello, although, of course, I knew it was to say good-bye.
“You going to miss me?” I ask Numi.
“I sure as hell ain’t going to miss your racist, homophobic jokes.”
“You like my racist, homophobic jokes.”
He nods and gives me a full smile. “Some were funny. But I’m still pretty sure you have issues to work through.”