Mortal Men

by Peter Canning

  The morning was one where fender benders were breaking out all over town. We’d pull up and people would be sitting there slumped in their seats, trying to look like they were in pain, while the other driver—of a Cadillac or a Volvo—paced about, talking on his cell phone telling work he’d been in an accident and would be late. We’d walk about checking the cars for damage, not seeing any. “Guy’s got neck pain, wants to go to the hospital,” the cop said.

  I felt the tension building in Troy all day. We were called to the home of a double amputee who was running a fever, and the visiting nurse said he needed to be evaluated at the hospital. “He just needs a ride to the hospital,” the nurse said. “I’ve called ahead, they’re expecting him.”

  “You called nine-one-one because he has a fever?” Troy said.

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “You’re damn right it is. We came here lights and sirens for difficulty breathing.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I told them he was stable.”

  I interjected then. “It’s not your fault. The problem is with dispatch. Generally though, if it’s not an emergency, call this number.” I wrote the non-emergency down on a paper I handed her. “You’ll get an ambulance promptly. It just won’t come lights and sirens.”

  Troy was still stewing as we left for the hospital.

  “Since we got called,” he said to the man. “I’m going to have to put in an IV.”

  “Let them do it at the hospital. I’d rather you didn’t,” the man said.

  “Look,” Troy said. “We’re a nine-one-one ambulance. I’m a paramedic. This is my job. You don’t want anyone to take care of you, call a taxi next time.”

  “But I have no legs,” the man said.

  Troy looked even more annoyed that the man had zinged him so innocently.

  “Get a handicapped van to take you,” Troy snapped back.

  “Can I get you a candy bar?” I said afterwards.

  He took out his glucometer and had me watch as he pricked his finger. The result came up 160.

  He walked away.

  Chapter 43

  Not a day went by that Troy didn’t drive by the abandoned building on Lawrence Street where Pat had been killed. Sometimes Troy had me park at the curb. He’d just sit there and stare at the place. I wondered what he was thinking. Maybe he was replaying in his mind what might have been had he been there. I don’t know whether he saw himself taking the bullet for Pat or maybe sensing something not right, hearing a creaking board in the dark house, in his mind he pushed Pat aside, dove to his right, then came running up the stairs, pursuing his fleeing assailant, tackling him, and then punching him senseless. Or maybe finding Pat shot, he put his finger in the hole in his heart, plugging the dike, and carried him out in his powerful arms, working his magic, getting him to the hospital where a surgeon could have time to work his craft.

  We spent a lot of time driving slowly through the neighborhood. Troy would watch the street, eyeing the residents, the passersby, the hangers-on. It was as if he were looking for a sign, a clue, something to make sense of who would do this deed.

  One afternoon we went into the El Mercado on Park Street for an early lunch. El Mercado was a Spanish marketplace that included a supermarket specializing in Hispanic foods and produce, small merchants who sold beepers, Spanish musical tapes, and trinkets, and several cafeteria-style food vendors. I had just gotten my order of arroz con pollo, and Troy was ordering kingfish, when I noticed a man in a New York Yankees hat getting a bottle of Coke at a stall. It was Hector Ruiz.

  Troy saw the look on my face. He turned and saw Hector, who was walking toward us on his way to the back door.

  Hector stopped stared at each other like they were both seeing something that had troubled them, but they weren’t yet certain what it was.

  “Where’d you get that hat?” Troy demanded.

  “Are you asking me?” Hector said.

  “Yeah, I’m asking you. Where’d you get that hat?”

  I glanced toward the market entrance. Denny Creer and another cop had walked in.

  Slowly recognition crossed Hector’s face. “I know who you are now,” Hector said.

  Now it was Troy who looked confused. I had a sudden horrible understanding, but I dismissed it just as quickly.

  “Who am I?” Troy said. “What are you talking about?”

  The cops were walking towards us.

  Hector took a long drink of his Coke, stepped back, and retreated toward the back door.

  “Hey, what’s good to eat here?” the other cop said.

  “Try the chicken,” Denny said. “It’s Troy and Lee. What’s up, guys?”

  Troy was still watching Hector. He looked troubled, like he was trying to figure out a calculus problem.

  “You know who that is, right?” Denny said.

  “I’m not sure,” Troy said.

  “Hector Ruiz,” Denny said. “I’m surprised to see him in public. We just heard there’s a contract out on him.”

  Troy’s eyes narrowed. He nodded, but said nothing more.

  That afternoon when we stopped at Capitol and Broad, Troy went over to the pay phone and called Victor. He turned his back on me and spoke in a hushed tone.

  Chapter 44

  It was a cool evening after a day of late autumn rain. I was outside Hartford Hospital. I remade the stretcher and slid two long boards in the empty slots under the bench. We’d just brought in two patients from a minor motor vehicle accident, both claiming neck pain after being tapped by a Lincoln Continental. I was rolling up a nine-foot strap by the supply closet when Troy came out, and said, “Let’s go. We need to go back to the office to change our oh-two.”

  “I changed it this morning,” I said. “We have fifteen hundred in the main. We didn’t even use any on that call.”

  “Just head back there,” Troy said.

  I got in the ambulance, turned the headlights on, and drove out the back way onto Retreat Avenue. Troy was silent as I turned left onto Washington, then took a right onto New Britain and followed that through traffic all the way to the office.

  When we got back to the parking lot, Troy had me stop by his gray Chevy pickup. He took a duffel bag out of the passenger side door.

  “What’s that for?”

  “You can tell dispatch we’re clear,” he said.

  Around ten thirty, we swung by Capitol and Broad. Troy looked around, but not seeming to find what he was looking for, told me to circle the neighborhood. When he spotted Annie Moore standing in the doorway a few blocks up the street, he told me to pull over. Troy called to her.

  “Tonight my lucky night?” she said. “You got five bucks for a girl on her birthday?”

  “Your birthday was last month. Get in back.”

  “I’m not done drinking,” she said. She showed her forty that had at least ten left in it.

  Troy reached into his duffel bag and pulled out a fifth of Southern Comfort, which he showed her. “Present from Sidney. Now get in back,” he said.

  “This a trick?”

  Troy stepped out of the car, and walked around to the back. He opened the door for her. “Sit on the bench. Go on.” He helped her up.

  “Head over by the cemetery,” he said to me.

  “You’re not going to rape and kill me, are you?” Annie called from the back.

  “No,” Troy said distractedly.

  We drove into the cemetery. Troy helped Annie out, then gave her a blanket, the bottle of Southern Comfort and some crackers. “Go up and keep Sidney company for a couple hours and we’ll be back for you.”

  “Oh, I’ll be good company,” she said, quickly taking possession of the bottle.

  “You’re still here in a couple hours, I’ll give you fifty bucks.”

  “It is my lucky night.”

  “Just be here.”

  “What are you up to?”

  “Just taking care of business,” he said without looking at me.

  At eleven thi
rty, as soon as we’d dropped off a psychiatric patient at Hartford, he told me to drive back to the cemetery. On the way, Troy checked his sugar, and then carefully ate a peanut butter sandwich. At the cemetery, Annie lay not ten yards from where we left her. Troy shined the ambulance spotlight on her. She was out cold, resting against a tombstone. He stepped out of the ambulance, then took off his uniform shirt and handed it to me. He reached in for his backpack, and then threw the backpack over his shoulder.

  “Where are you going? What are you doing?”

  “We get a call,” he said. “Tell them we just got flagged down for Annie.”

  I looked at him closely. He didn’t avoid my eyes.

  We stared at each other.

  I offered him the radio.

  He shook his head.

  “I’ll be back after midnight.”

  I watched him walk up the hill, and disappear in the darkness.

  It was quiet in the city. Four seventy-three did an asthma on Westland Street. Four fifty-six a chest pain out in Newington. A police siren passed nearby, and then it was quiet. I couldn’t see anything up the hill. A dog barked. Mist rose off the pavement. I was tired, but restless. I drifted off into a troubled on-and-on sleep.

  A shape emerged from the night. Troy was back. He wore a Yankees hat. I saw a welt under his eye. We stared at each other. He looked tired, but defiant.

  He took off his muddy boots and stowed them in his sack, from which he’d removed another pair. He put his paramedic shirt back on, and then quickly ate a sandwich and drank it down with apple juice. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “We have to get Annie.”

  “All right.”

  “Four eighty-two,” I said into the radio. “We’re getting flagged down for a drunk here. Looks like Annie.”

  “Okay eighty-two, I’ve got you out.”

  Jean Rushen, the triage nurse, asked Troy about his eye.

  “She clocked him,” I said.

  “But she’s out cold.”

  “With a bottle in her hand, she’s never out cold.”

  “You should get that looked at,” Jean said to Troy.

  He didn’t answer.

  At four, right before we were supposed to get off, we were sent back to the cemetery. “Possible seventy-eight,” dispatch said. “See the PD on scene. Priority Two.”

  There were five police cars there when we arrived. One officer told us, “It’s just a presumption.”

  Troy slung the monitor over his shoulder and we walked up the hill to where we could make out the flashlights.

  Hector Ruiz lay before a grave, his neck twisted at a horrible angle. I looked at the gravestone. Maria Ruiz.

  “There was quite a scuffle here,” Denny Creer was saying. He shone his light on footprints. “They fought. The killer chased him around the grave three times, must have caught him, snapped his neck. Stabbed him in the gut. Left the knife in him. I doubt there’s prints on it. Somebody wanted him dead.” He looked at Troy. “You didn’t do it, did you?"

  Troy looked at Creer with his dark eyes. I thought for a moment he might answer.

  “We were on another call,” I said quickly.

  “I was just joking,” Denny said. “Had to be gang-related. They’ve had a hit out on him. Pretty smart, I’d say. They knew he’d be coming here to see his sister. It’s the anniversary of her death. Can’t say as it’s a great loss. It’s a shame, though. It’s just going to open up the OK Corral. Wild West time again. Keeps us all employed anyway.”

  Troy wrote his name, date of birth and unit number on a piece of paper along with the time of presumption. He handed Denny the paper. Creer thanked him, and then turned to talk to his sergeant. I saw Troy carefully fold the six-second asystole strip he’d recorded and put it in his pocket. Troy looked down at the body. He spat on the ground.

  Chapter 45

  Troy looked terrible the next morning. I had to buy him some Scope so he could get the stench of alcohol off his breath. His eyes avoided mine. His face was pale gray.

  Around noon, a sixty-two-year-old man dropped on a city bus. We were there in three minutes. He was in v-fib on the monitor. Troy shocked him at 200. He went flat line. I started CPR while Troy intubated him. I noticed the bag wasn’t reinflating quickly. Troy looked confused. Melnick and his partner had arrived to back us up. Melnick listened to the man’s chest as Troy squeezed the bag. He switched his stethoscope to the belly. “You’re in the stomach,” he said.

  “What?” Troy said.

  “Listen for yourself, or look at his belly. It’s getting bigger. You’re in the esophagus, you have to take it out.”

  Troy tried twice more, but couldn’t get it in. I’d never seen Troy have such trouble. He’d never missed a tube before. Andrew had to push him out of the way and take over. Despite Andrew getting the intubation on his first attempt, the man remained asystole, and was pronounced dead at the hospital.

  “What’s up with Troy?” Andrew asked in the EMS room afterwards.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Everyone’s entitled to a bad day.” I walked away.

  “Troy looks terrible,” Linda said that afternoon when we’d stopped back at the office to resupply and wash the vomit out of the rig. “I just asked him how he was. He completely blew me off.”

  “He’s in a funk.”

  “Did something happen?”

  “He just missed a tube.”

  “You’re kidding? Troy?”

  “Yeah, he’s in a deep funk.”

  “Do you think there’s anything I can do?”

  “Call dispatch and ask them to go easy on us. Try to keep it BLS.”

  “I can do that.”

  “If we can get him through the day, maybe he’ll be better tomorrow.”

  They posted us at Capitol and Broad next to 462. When a call came in they gave it to sixty-two, then sent another car down to sit with us. The next call went to the other car. It went on like that for three hours. Troy didn’t even notice. When we were sitting there, Annie Moore came up and gave Troy her big smile. “Hey, handsome, I’ve feeling real lucky. I know today I’ll be a winner.”

  He took out his wallet, handed her a twenty, and before she could say anything, used the automatic button to roll up the window. “What’s up with him?” she said to me after she came had back around the corner from the liquor store as I was on my way in for a coffee.

  “He’s moody,” I said.

  “He’s gonna make me sad, but as long as he keeps giving me twenties, he’ll never break my heart.” She smiled at me as she stuffed the change in her pocket.

  “I think you ought to take some time off,” I finally said to Troy. “Maybe take a whole month. You need to get out of here, clear your head of everything that has happened. People won’t think it’s strange.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “You’re not doing anyone any favors coming to work like this. Did you even sleep last night?”

  He looked straight ahead. He looked like a man condemned.

  Chapter 46

  Troy was a half-hour late the next morning. I had already checked out the ambulance, including all of his ALS gear. I was gassing up the truck when he finally showed up. “I was worried about you,” I said.

  He had deep bags under his eyes. “I stopped and saw Pat’s father.” His hands shook as he drank from his bottle of Coca-Cola.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “Okay, he’s all right.”

  “How are you?”

  “Okay,” he said.

  “Did you get some sleep?”

  “A little.”

  He still looked awfully pale.

  “You sure you don’t want to just go home?”

  He shook his head.

  “This is where I belong.”

  “You need something to eat?”

  “I’ve got a sandwich.”

  I didn’t question him further. I noticed he had a small ceramic box with him that he set on the console.
r />   Our first call was for an elderly woman with a fever, who’d spent the night vomiting. The visiting nurse said, “I’ve already called in the report. They know all about her at Saint Francis. I promised her you wouldn’t try to stick her with any needles. You’d leave that to the nurses in the ER.”

  I was putting the sheet across the stretcher when she said that. I turned to look at Troy. I awaited his explosion. “Thank you for your report,” he said instead, without sarcasm. He knelt down by the patient’s side and took her wrinkled hand. “Hello. My name is Troy. I understand you’re not feeling very well.”

  His voice sounded a little mechanical, but not insincere.

  “I’ve been a bit queasy,” the woman said.

  Troy patted her hand. “Well, we’re going to do our best to see that you have a comfortable ride in to the hospital. I’m going to do a couple things on the way there. I’m going to take your blood pressure, listen to your lung sounds, put you on our heart monitor, and ask you some questions I know the nice woman here has already asked you. They’ll ask you the same questions at the hospital, but we’re doing it just to make sure you get the very best care. We want to get you healthy and get you back here to your lovely home as soon as you are well enough.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I hate to bother you.”

  “It’s no bother at all. It’s our job, our pleasure.”