Still River

by Harry Hunsicker

  “And what?” I said. “What else is there?”

  “There’s the stuff at the unit.” He lowered his voice even more. “The drugs. Evidently there’s been a lot of missed deliveries. Four more people have been killed since last night. None of them have exactly been pillars of the community but it’s getting to be a war zone out there.”

  Olson came around to the other side of the bed and leaned in. “Say the word and we’ll set up the delivery. Get rid of that stuff.” There was a lack of enthusiasm in his voice that I recognized.

  “That’s not gonna bring back Nolan.” My mind ran through possibilities. “We get her back. You don’t leave your people behind.”

  Olson nodded and smiled faintly. He understood, as did Delmar.

  “Where’s my cell phone?” I said.

  Delmar pointed to the nightstand. “We got it at the scene. Nobody’s called. The number we got last night doesn’t work today. Disconnected.”

  I tried hard to put the emotional aspects of Nolan’s dilemma out of my mind. The situation required cool, level-headed thinking. Then a rather obvious question dawned on me. “What time is it?”

  “Noon, Monday,” Olson said.

  I swore to myself. Please let her be in one piece.

  “You got hit a little less than fourteen hours ago. We’re doing what we can for Nolan.” Olson seemed to read my mind. “We’ve reached out to some of your contacts who might know anything. So far nothing. The police know to look for her. So does our guy at the DEA. But it’s a delicate situation. He’s aware there’s a missing shipment. And we’re pretty sure he knows we know something about it. And, well …” His voice trailed off and I understood. You couldn’t exactly tell your cop buddy that you were sitting on thirty pounds of cocaine.

  Over half a day, poof, and gone.

  Nolan kidnapped.

  I felt the bandage on my side and started to say something but the door opened before I could. Bertrand and a skinny guy wearing scrubs and a white lab coat, stethoscope dangling from around his neck, entered. No Sandra Jo.

  Bertrand spoke first. “The police are outside. They’re going to want to ask some questions. But first of all, Dr. Morgan here needs to check you out again.”

  Dr. Morgan looked like he should still be an undergrad somewhere, copping a feel off a Delta Gamma while the pledges tapped another keg of Schlitz. He harrumphed at Delmar and Olson. “I thought I specified this patient required complete rest.”

  Bertrand spoke up before anyone else could. “These men are my, uh … paralegals. They’re assisting me with Mr. Oswald’s case.”

  The paralegals glared at the doctor, then turned and said good-bye to me. Olson shook my hand and pressed something metallic into my palm. “We’ll be around.”

  I clasped my fingers around what felt like a small semiautomatic pistol and slid it under the pillow. Dr. Morgan examined my side and pronounced it free from infection. He then told me he had taken the liberty of rebandaging the flesh wound in my calf.

  “It certainly seems like you’ve had an interesting few days,” he said.

  “Yeah. Guess you could say that.” I scratched at my bandaged forehead. “When do you think I can get out of here?”

  “Out of the hospital?” The doctor appeared horrified. “It’ll be at least a couple days. Even though no major blood vessels or organs were damaged, you’ve still sustained a serious wound.”

  I nodded solemnly and tried to look contrite for even asking. The doctor’s cell phone chirped and he answered, turning his back to me for a moment. Bertrand leaned over and whispered that he’d sent Sandra Jo to get me some clean clothes. It’s nice to have a full-service attorney.

  Dr. Morgan hung up his phone and made some notes on my chart while clucking his tongue. “I’ve prescribed some Tylenol Threes for any discomfort you may have.”

  “I’m in a lot of pain, Doc. How about some Percodan?”

  He frowned and left without replying.

  He’d been gone for about a second and a half when the door opened again and a passel of LEOs barged in. There were two Highland Park plainclothes, since the attack happened in their jurisdiction, a Dallas narcotics investigator, somebody from the district attorney’s office, and a DEA agent. I didn’t know if he was Delmar and Olson’s guy or not. They asked a bunch of questions and I answered all of them, some even truthfully. The DEA guy kept looking at me whenever the inquiries got around to why these guys were after me. For a moment I debated telling them about the debacle at Roxy’s and Coleman Dupree. Only for a moment.

  It didn’t take a crystal ball to see that I had signed the death sentence for Nolan O’Connor, my dying partner’s niece, who had been kidnapped because I was a dumbass and took something that wasn’t mine, trying to bust open a case.

  After thirty minutes, a nurse’s aid came in with a tray of an unidentifiable protein and carbohydrate mixture, cleverly designed to resemble food. Bertrand looked at his watch and said I needed to eat and rest, what with the gunshot and the trauma and all. There was a lot of posturing and zingers about grand jury investigations and threats to not leave the county. Bertrand nodded a bunch and said hmm while he looked thoughtful and stroked his chin.

  Finally everybody left. I devoured the tasteless food like I had just been released from a Soviet gulag. When I was finished I washed down a couple of the codeine Tylenols.

  “You know, Hank, I don’t usually pry into my clients’, uh … activities.”

  “Then don’t start now.” I looked at my cell phone to make sure it was still juiced up and switched on.

  He ignored me and continued. “But you seemed to have reached a new plateau vis-à-vis your involvement with certain criminal elements—”

  The door to my room opened and Sandra Jo came in, cutting short her husband’s sermonizing. She carried an oversize shopping bag that said “Prada” on the side and was breathless. “Got back as fast as I could. Not many decent shops around here.”

  Bertrand and I both watched her as she plopped the bag on the foot of my bed. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “You went to Prada to get Hank some clothes?” The first traces of anger started to show up in his otherwise unruffled voice.

  “What exactly is a Prada?” I asked, afraid of how much it was going to cost me.

  Sandra Jo ignored me and talked to her husband. “Don’t be silly, sugar. I got Hank some stuff at the Gap. While I was out, I just happened to stop at the Prada store, and there was this most adorable leather jacket. It’ll be perfect for the bar association meeting next month.” She pulled out khaki pants, some socks, a denim shirt, and a set of underwear, including two pairs of maroon boxer shorts, and handed them to me.

  “Hmm. Yes. I see. The bar association meeting.” Bertrand took several deep breaths and pursed his lips. “Hank, do you feel able to leave the hospital?”

  I pulled the clothes toward me. “Yeah, I’ll be fine.” Gingerly I swung my legs off the bed. Not a smart thing to do so fast. I got an eight-beer, dizzy head. I closed my eyes for a moment. I opened them again when I heard a fizzing noise.

  It wasn’t a beer, but a Fresca. Sandra Jo sat next to the bed, leafing through a fashion magazine and sipping on the soft drink. I blinked my eyes.

  “What time is it?” My voice had returned to a croak.

  Sandra Jo looked at her Rolex. “Little after three.” She put the magazine down. “You fell asleep, right after trying to stand up. Bertrand left.”

  I eased myself up to a sitting position. “I’ve got to get dressed. Get out of here.”

  Sandra Jo took a sip of Fresca. “Are you sure, Hank? You’ve been shot.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure.” I grabbed the soft drink from her without asking and drank half of it in one gulp. “Where’re the clothes you brought?”

  She handed them to me. “This is about that girl, isn’t it? The one called Nolan.”

  “Yep. How’d you know about her?”

  “I heard them talking. Your two friends, the blond
one and the other guy.” She stood up and went over to the window. The sun accentuated her profile, the strong jawline. She brushed her hair behind an ear and turned around. “You’re very loyal, Hank. I’ve always known that about you. Remember that time at our Christmas open house a couple of years ago? You left early because your friend was in trouble. I admired you for that.”

  I vaguely remembered the party in question. I seemed to recall leaving early with one of the caterers after I told her I was in the CIA. I may or may not have come up with some excuse for Sandra Jo about helping a friend in need. It had been a while ago.

  She turned back from the glass, leaned against the windowsill, and looked at me, arms crossed underneath her breasts. “Yeah, Hank. You’re very loyal. I like that. Bertrand, he’s not loyal to anything except money, and a piece of ass. You know he’s got somebody new, don’t you? Met her at a conference. She’s a second-year law student. Twenty-five years old.”

  I stood up beside the bed on wobbly legs, new clothes clutched to my chest. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I rummaged around and found my wallet, keys, money clip, and pocketknife. I left them on the nightstand but grabbed the pistol from under the pillow, and my cell phone. “I’m going to go in the bathroom and clean up. Then get dressed.” I wobbled a little more but managed to stay standing.

  Sandra Jo reached out and took hold of one arm, her fingers caressing rather than holding. “Are you sure you’re okay, Hank? I could help you.” She took a step closer. “If you wanted me to.” She tugged at the bottom of her blouse, a quick gesture that accentuated the slimness of her belly and made her breasts bobble. We were both quiet, staring at each other. I picked up the pile of clothes and clutched them to my chest as my breath became shallow.

  She was only a few inches away now, the guest star of more than a couple of my fantasies, dancing close to the edge of offering herself to me because her husband, my attorney, had tired of her, as was his pattern. One of her lovely, exquisite breasts pressed against my arm. I could smell her, some herbal shampoo and a trace of expensive perfume. Visions of her—naked—skittered around in my mind until the ugly picture of an abducted Nolan O’Connor forced them away.

  “S-S-Sandra Jo.” My voice faltered and I cleared my throat. “I don’t think—” She moved closer until our thighs touched. I cleared my throat again and willed my body not to react. “Thanks. I think I’ll be okay. I’ll holler if I need help.” I pulled away from her and turned to the bathroom, holding the wad of new clothes in front of the thin hospital gown.

  “Really, I’ll be okay.” I shut the door. Once inside I leaned against the cold tile wall and took several deep breaths. Today of all days. Gut shot and a kidnapped partner. I set the clothes down and left the gun and cell phone within easy reach.

  There was some plastic of the type used to cover dry cleaning and a roll of adhesive tape in a drawer. I made a waterproof cover for my latest gunshot wound and hopped into the tiny, hospital-size shower. Soap and warm water did wonders for my outlook, washing away the remainder of the dirt and dried blood from the attack as well as a small layer of fatigue. I brushed my teeth and slipped into the new clothes. Sandra Jo was better at picking sizes than husbands. Everything fit fine.

  When I left the bathroom she was still there, sitting quietly in the chair, magazine laying open on her lap. “The nurse came in. I told her you were in the john.”

  “Thanks.” I put the keys and stuff in my pockets. My shoes were in the closet and I retrieved them. Bending was not fun but hurt less than I thought, sort of like someone had replaced my liver with a nail-studded brick.

  She stood and grabbed her purse. “What do you want me to do? Bertrand told me to do anything you asked. Anything.”

  I ignored the breathiness in her voice and the implied offer. “Sandra Jo, here’s the deal. You and I are gonna walk out of here like nothing’s going on. It’s important for me to not check out, so that the bad guys think I’m here for a while longer. Then I need you to get me to a car, because I’m having the worst luck with automobiles the last few days.”

  She pulled a compact out of her purse and fluffed her hair. “I can handle that. How about I take you home and you use one of the Cadillacs? Or you can drive the Range Rover.” She pursed her lips in a kissy face to the mirror, checking her makeup.

  “Uh, no thanks. I’ve got a better idea.” With that, I eased open the door to my room and slid out, Sandra Jo following in my wake. It was another typical day at the county medical facility, sick people and doctors and nurses, blaring intercoms and clanging bells. Nobody paid us any mind, and we slipped out.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  “I don’t think I’ve ever actually been on this stretch of Ross Avenue,” Sandra Jo said. A pothole loomed ahead. She jerked the wheel of the Porsche, narrowly missing the cleft in the asphalt, instead almost sideswiping a stooped Hispanic man pushing an ice cream cart. I held on to the dash in a death grip, willing away the potholes and sudden turns. They were hell on a fresh bullet wound.

  “It’s just like any other part of Dallas,” I said. “Maybe a little rougher. People are the same everywhere. Just trying to get by in this big, bad world.”

  Before she could respond, something red and tomatoey splattered on the front windshield. We turned to see a large man with flowing auburn hair and matching beard standing on the sidewalk, cackling. He wore a pink and teal sundress and a straw cowboy hat, and leaned on a grocery cart full of crushed aluminum cans. He pushed the cart into the street and disappeared into a bar called Treading Water as a group of Vietnamese teenagers strutted down the street, their hair slicked back as if they were extras from the movie Grease. I made them for one of the new Asian Triads, a vicious group of newcomers intent on conquering turf belonging to the traditional Hispanic and black gangs.

  “Just trying to get by, huh?” Sandra Jo turned on the windshield wipers, smearing the red stuff everywhere.

  I didn’t say anything.

  She laughed and then flipped on the auto washer, and the sprayers streamed water on the soiled glass.

  When we passed the Croatian Food Mart, Sandra Jo broke the silence. “How much farther?”

  “The next block, on the right.” She slowed down until we pulled abreast of Calamity Jane’s House of Used Cars. I said, “Stop. This is it.”

  She pulled to the curb and I eased out, moving gingerly. The asphalt street was hot, absorbing the relentless heat from the sun high overhead in the empty sky. A trickle of sweat dribbled down my back. Sandra Jo leaned across the console and said good-bye. I said see you around and to find a good lawyer and start rat-holing money if she was gonna dump Bertrand because she’d need it. She pondered that for a moment and then drove off without saying anything more.

  I turned my attention to the used car lot in front of me and shuffled my way into the Quonset hut that served as a sales office. Jane, of Calamity Jane’s, was my former mother-in-law, mater to the demon child Amber, whom I met in the aforementioned bar in Waco when she was conducting research for her doctoral thesis on the similarities between the male orangutang during mating season and American men. My contribution had been the title, Of Monkeys and Men, and the tome had eventually been published by some company in San Francisco.

  I always had more in common with Jane than I did with her penis-hating daughter, and she was glad to see me. She hadn’t changed much, hair still dyed the color of the sun, skin still fake-’n’-baked the hue of mahogany, same uniform of a denim prairie skirt and a pearl, snap-button western blouse. Lizard-skin boots and enough turquoise to feed a family of Navahos for a year completed the look. I did some quick math. She must have been past retirement age but still had the figure of someone half her years.

  She’d been in the used car business for a long time, as well as several other lucrative but not-entirely-legal enterprises, and took no note of my condition or request. I’ve got just the thing for you, she said, when I asked her for a clean rig, nondescript but in good shape. And no
title problems. She called in one of the fender lizards she employed as a salesman and threw a key at him.

  Ten minutes later I heard a horn honk. Jane and I went outside. The salesman sat behind the wheel of a five-year-old Ford Taurus, idling smoothly next to a row of cars for sale. The body was the color of emptiness, a pale gray like fresh concrete. It had new tires, a police suspension, and a rebuilt engine. Gassed up and a clean title, what else did I need?

  I asked Jane another question, one I knew she wouldn’t like but would answer anyway. She swore and pointed across the street to an emaciated Hispanic guy loitering near the front door of a Mexican supermarket, next to a shopworn quartet of mariachi players. The man watched me hobble across the street as the mariachis strummed their guitars and sang into the oily air of Ross Avenue. He nodded once and uttered a few words and the transaction was complete. I passed him some folded bills and he handed me a cellophane package of small white tablets. The finest meth money could buy, he assured me, enough speed to keep me rocking for as long as I wanted. The way things were shaping up, I would need it.

  The time had come to visit Aaron Young, but on my terms and after a quick stop. I said good-bye to Jane, eased myself into the Taurus, and headed south to Interstate 30. I got on the freeway and stayed in the right-hand lane. Traffic was light.

  Cars zoomed by as I held to a steady fifty miles an hour. One mile passed. Another quarter of a mile and I pulled even with the Dolphin Road off-ramp. At the last possible instant, I exited, yanking the wheel hard to the right and running across the part where you’re not supposed to drive. I missed the concrete embankment by a couple of feet but saw that no one followed me. Back under the highway, I turned left on Samuell Boulevard and headed back toward town. The neighborhood was rough, even for this section of East Dallas, a row of dark taverns and smoky nightclubs where the sound of dice tumbling in the back rooms often competed with the rattle of gunfire when the sun went down.