“Yes,” said the boy bitterly. He held up his tiny hands. They were skinned, but not very badly.
“And your hands too?”
The boy shook his head yes. “I want Mommy!”
“Mommy’s coming,” said Joe. He was wet from the sprinkler, and the trickle of blood from the boy’s knee had made a small stain on his shirt. “Tell you what,” continued Joe, “when you get home, ask your Daddy to make you new hands and a new knee.”
“Out of wood?” asked the boy.
Joe wiped a tear from the little chin. “Sure… tell him to make them out of wood.”
The young woman was upon them now. She wore shorts; her hair was in curlers. She was chewing gum. She shook her head in disgust. Joe placed the boy on the ground, and he ran to his mother, hugging her hips and burying his face in her stomach.
“Two seconds!” she said angrily. “You can’t play for two seconds without something happening!” She detached him from herself and pulled him roughly along. “Let’s go! Come on! Now!” She headed back toward her friends without saying a single word to Joe.
Joe returned to the bench. “You know,” he said to Willie, “I don’t mind she didn’t thank me—that I don’t expect—but she didn’t even look at me. It’s like I didn’t exist.”
The old woman next to Willie turned down her radio. “For her you dont exist,” she offered. “If she doesn’t care about her son, you expect she should notice you?”
“I suppose not,” said Joe. He strained to hear. “Excuse me, could you turn up the radio a bit? I’d like to get the weather.”
The old woman looked at him skeptically, but nevertheless increased the volume. “… partly sunny, but with a chance of afternoon showers,” came the announcer’s voice. “Precipitation probability is thirty percent today, forty percent tonight and fifty percent tomorrow.”
“This you’re interested in?” said the woman. “After they’re finished with all their probabilities, the only thing they’ve told you is that it may rain. For that, you don’t need a radio.”
“In this half hour,” said the announcer, “new OPEC price hike, Carter to visit Turkey, teamsters demand wage increase, man murdered in Crown Heights, Mets win, Yanks lose, Borg advances. But first—a unique bank robbery in Manhattan.”
Joe nudged a beginning-to-doze Willie. “Listen!”
“Not too long after they opened their doors this morning,” continued the radio voice, “the Union Marine bank on Fortieth street in Manhattan was taken over by three masked gunmen.”
Joe felt his blood racing. “You hear?” he said excitedly. “Gunmen!”
“You’re reliving your childhood?” asked the old woman. “You like cops and robbers?”
“Shhh!” said Joe. The woman seemed offended. He’d seen her in the park before—a sour, cynical old crab, he’d always thought—but had never engaged her in conversation. “I think my son has an account there,” he whispered urgently. The woman nodded.
“It is believed that the thieves made off with over fifty thousand dollars in cash,” said the announcer, “a tidy sum, but hardly unusual in a crime of this type.”
“Hardly unusual,” echoed Willie, grinning.
“However, what does make this robbery different from nearly all others is that the robbers were not the sort of people you might expect.”
“I was expecting Billy Carter,” said a new voice.
Joe turned. It was Al. He slid over on the bench next to Willie. “No problems at all,” he said.
“Shh!” ordered Willie.
“Wha? Pete didn’t even—”
“Shh! Listen to this!”
“Eyewitnesses at the scene,” droned the announcer, “claim that, despite disguises, it was obvious that all three gunmen were well into their seventies.”
“Good for them!” said the old woman.
“The Gray Panthers, an organizaton for Senior Citizens’ rights, while not claiming any responsibility or prior knowledge of the septuagenarian stickup, do point out that the incident dramatizes what the Panthers call ‘the woeful inadequacy’ of current government programs that attempt to deal with the elderly. At this time, the police would not discuss the case further, except to state that a full investigation would be launched and that the perpetrators, regardless of age, would be subject to the full penalties of the law.” There was a pause. “In a moment, more news… but first, this about hemorrhoids. Do burning, itching sores make—”
The old woman clicked off the radio. “Last thing I wanna hear is about burning and itching sores,” she said. “Bad enough to have ‘em, don’t need any lectures on ‘em.” She looked shrewdly at Joe, Willie, and Al. “Nice story about that robbery, huh?”
“Don’t sound believable to me,” said Joe. I figure the crooks just had two disguises, one over the other. The top one covered their faces, the bottom made ‘em look like they was old. I mean, I happen to be in the seventies myself, an’ you can’t convince me someone my age could go and rob no bank.”
The woman shrugged and smiled faintly. Could she suspect? wondered Joe. He turned to Al. “Everything go all right?”
“Perfect,” said Al. “Pete didn’t miss the guns or nothing, and the money is locked up in my suitcase and buried way in the back of one of his closets.”
“Well,” said Joe, pleased. “Then that’s that.”
“We’re famous,” said Willie quietly. “Famous.” Beads of perspiration dotted his forehead, and his breathing was rapid and shallow.
“Will?” said Joe. “You don’t look so good.”
Willie nodded. Rapid swallowing was failing to relieve his nausea. “Still got that stomach trouble, I think.”
“You wanna lie down?”
Willie was turning white. “Got some gas pains in my chest,” he whispered.
Al stood up. “Try lyin’ down,” he said. He cast a worried glance at Joe.
“It’s nothing,” said Willie. “Don’t make a big deal. I’m telling you, it’ll pass. Don’t—” He winced, as a massive pressure seemed to squeeze his ribs up and back into his shoulder blades.
“Will,” said Joe, “maybe we should get an ambulance. Just to be on the safe side.”
“No,” gasped Willie. “No. I’m telling you, it’s nothing.” But some remote observer inside him was calmly suggesting the opposite. This is a heart attack, it noted. If you don’t get help, you’ll die right here. “I’ll lay down,” he conceded.
Al and Joe stood up. The old woman at the other end of the bench rose and came over. “Here,” she said, offering her handbag, “let him rest on this.”
Joe slipped it under Willie’s head. Willie was grunting and sighing now from the discomfort. “I don’t care what he says,” barked Joe to Al. “Go call an ambulance.”
Al started briskly away, then turned back. “I need some change.”
Joe dug three dimes out of his pocket and handed them over. He watched as Al headed out of the park. “All right, he’s gonna get some help. Few minutes, everything’ll be fine.”
Willie’s mouth was opening and closing like a fish’s. The bloodless flesh of his face was stretched like tissue paper over his cheekbones. “Nnnn,” he said. “Nnnn.”
“I think we should raise his legs,” said the old woman. “I read somewhere, you’re supposed to raise the person’s legs.”
Joe didn’t ask her, What person’s legs? or Under what conditions? It was a thing to do when his friend was otherwise totally helpless and seemingly near death. He lifted Willie’s feet and hooked them over the back of the bench. “Just hang on a few minutes,” he said. “Ambulance is coming.”
Willie closed his eyes. “Cold,” he whispered. “Cold.”
“I’ll get you something,” said Joe. He ran toward the group of young mothers on the opposite side of the sprinkler. “’Scuse me,” he said breathlessly to them. “Would one of you ladies have something I could use to cover my friend?” He pointed back toward the bench. “I think he’s havin’ a heart atta
ck.”
The women, stopped in mid-conversation, just stared.
“He’s havin’ a heart attack,” repeated Joe.
“Oh, my! Here,” said a bespectacled brunette finally. She handed a blanket from her baby carriage.
“Take this,” said a heavy woman nearby, offering a light jacket.
“Should I call an ambulance?” yelled the brunette as Joe started back.
“Thanks, someone’s getting one!” shouted Joe. This will make their day, he reflected. Give them something to talk about for hours. At the bench, he covered Willie’s legs with the blanket, laid the jacket over his torso. “Just hold on,” he said. “Help’ll be here in one minute.”
Willie, shuddering, said nothing.
“Funny,” commented the old woman. “A hot, sunny day, and he’s freezing.”
Joe wondered if he should attempt mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but decided against it. Willie was breathing, although laboriously, and chances were he’d do his friend more harm than good. Joe paced nervously back and forth in front of the bench.
A few of the young children began to edge closer, aware that something was wrong. “Move away!” ordered Joe. “Get outta here!” They scattered.
Five minutes later, two of the women detached themselves from the knot of young mothers and came over.
“Is there anything at all we can do to help?” asked the brunette who had offered the blanket.
“I dunno,” said Joe. “The ambulance….Maybe, if someone could find a cop…”
“I will,” said the brunette.
Joe watched the two women retreat to the group, saw the brunette leave her baby carriage and walk rapidly up the path toward the exit. He turned his attention to Willie, who seemed to be squirming, perhaps trying to sit up. “Stay still,” ordered Joe. Willie’s eyes were open, but the pupils were not focused. “Stay still, or you’ll hurt yourself. Keep your feet up!”
Willie’s look was pleading, his voice quavering. “I’m scared, Joe. I’m real scared.”
Joe stroked his friend’s forehead. “I know, I know. But you just rest easy now and things’ll be all right. Al’s out gettin’ an ambulance—you know Al, he probably stopped for a beer first—and soon’s they get here, they’ll give you somethin’ to stop the pain. They got terrific medicines nowadays, terrific…”
Willie tugged at his arm. “Sorry,” he whispered.
“Aw—
“Sorry to put you to so much trouble.,,
“You just rest now, Will.”
Willie slumped back. Joe looked around desperately, helplessly. Where the hell was the ambulance? It was over a half hour already, why wasn’t it here? “This is like a dream,” he said to the old lady. “My friend is lyin’ here, and everyone is crawling along in a slow motion.”
“Terrible,” agreed the woman. “A terrible thing to be old and sick.”
Five minutes later, Joe felt Willie’s gnarled fingers gripping his arm again. Willie was mouthing something, and Joe put his ear close to Willie’s lips. “I don’t wanna die,” he heard. “I’m not ready.”
“You won’t die,” said Joe. “Don’t you worry now. I promise, you won’t.” He stroked Willie’s cheek, and looked up at the sky. Damn, he thought. Damn, not now. Not now. His fingers felt wet. He glanced back down. Willie was crying, the tears trickling out from under his closed eyelids. “Ambulance be here in just one minute,” said Joe hopelessly.
Presently, the tears stopped.
10
Death of a Stickup Man
The total wait for the ambulance was forty-five minutes. When it did appear, it raced through the park, siren wailing, cutting over the grassy areas and finally pulling up next to the bench. A small crowd had now gathered at a discreet distance, and the two white-clad paramedics, accompanied by Al, had to push their way through. One of them immediately opened Willie’s shirt and put a stethoscope on his skinny chest. It took less than ten seconds before he said, “We’ll need the stretcher.” The two men returned to the ambulance.
“What happened?” asked Joe dazedly. He seemed preoccupied with something, distracted.
“I nearly went crazy,” said Al. “First I dial nine-one-one, an’ I get a busy signal. I wait a minute, try again, same thing. Can you believe it? A busy signal from the emergency number! All right. I look up Elmhurst General Hospital, try them instead. I get through, explain that I think my friend is havin’ a heart attack. They say, sorry, we can’t do nothin’. You want an ambulance, best bet is to call the fire department. The only way the hospital sends an ambulance is if a doctor requests it, or the police.”
“Jesus…” said Joe. “Jesus.”
“Anyway, I hang up,” continued Al. “Then I get an idea. I call back the hospital, get the emergency room, tell ‘em my name is Dr. Alan Feeney. I got a patient needs an ambulance immediately, I say. I hear some talkin’ in the background, and then another voice comes on and asks if I’m affiliated with the hospital because their records don’t list no Dr. Feeney. I tell ‘em I’m new, that I signed in last week, and that maybe my name ain’t entered in their computers yet.”
“That was quick thinkin’, Al.” The paramedics were returning with the stretcher.
“Didn’t do no good,” said Al. “Turned out, they don’t have no computers. Anyway, after I hung up, I called the local fire department. They got only one cardiac arrest unit, the guys tells me, and that one’s out. But they’ll put me on the list, and when their truck comes back, I’ll be next. I feel like cursin’ ‘em, but anyway I give ‘em all the information they want, and I hang up. I decide to try nine-eleven again. By this time I’m going crazy. I’m so frustrated I just wanna kill myself. I mean, here I am in the center of the biggest city in the world, with my friend maybe dyin’—and I can’t get anyone to help me. No one.”
The paramedics placed the stretcher at the foot of the bench. Then the two of them lifted Willie onto it, removed the blanket and jacket, and covered his body with a sheet. “Ready… up!” said one. They grabbed the stretcher at the ends and bore it to the ambulance. Joe and Al trailed behind, exhausted, impotent.
“He ain’t movin’,” said Al quietly, as one of the attendants climbed into the back of the ambulance and helped to hoist the stretcher aboard.
“I know,” said Joe. “I know.”
“You his family?” asked the older paramedic, indicating Al.
“Friends,” said Al.
“We’re closer than his family,” said Joe. “Can we come along?”
The paramedic nodded. “Ride with me.” He extended a hand and helped Al and Joe aboard, while the other attendant raced around to the front.
“Thanks,” called Joe to the women who’d supplied the blanket and jacket. He couldn’t be sure if they heard. His last sight, as the doors closed behind them, was of the old lady who’d sat with them on the bench. She was trudging slowly up the path, out of the park, her head shaking back and forth. Even at this distance, Joe could see she’d forgotten her handbag.
The ambulance started out, siren wailing. Willie’s stretcher was on a raised platform, and the attendant was bending over him, injecting something. The medic was in his late twenties, Joe judged; he had thick, black hair curling down his forehead. After several moments, he turned the knobs on a radio and spoke evenly into a microphone. Joe caught only a few of the words. “Cardiac … pressure, ninety over sixty five… vital signs… respiration… beginning—”
“Is he alive?” asked Al.
The attendant looked up. He seemed not to have heard. His eyes were harried, frantic. “You know, they’re supposed to have another goddamned man in here,” he said angrily. He made some adjustments on a small metal box, unraveled two long, rubber-clad leads. “I mean, I can’t do every goddamn thing myself. Guy’s sick, they gotta get a replacement. That’s the law, for Chrissake.”
He reached over, pulled the sheet to Willie’s waist and quickly unbuttoned the old man’s outer shirt. He used a razor to cut away the stra
ps of the undershirt. He held the insulated metal prongs at the ends of the leads against Willie’s chest. “Do me a favor,” he said to Al, indicating the metal box with his chin. “Just hit that button.” He paused. “Go on. Don’t worry, it don’t matter how long you press it, it’s all set automatically.”
Al hesitated.
“Go on, it’s okay.”
Al pressed the button. Willie’s body flopped and arched like a fish out of water. It seemed his ribs might burst through the skin of his chest. The paramedic immediately placed his stethoscope just below Willie’s collarbone. “Okay,” he said after a moment. “Okay.”
Al looked at Joe apprehensively.
“He gonna make it?” asked Joe.
The paramedic held out his palm, tilted it back and forth. Joe nodded.
The ambulance threaded its way through rush-hour traffic, its siren screaming ineffectually at the slow-to-pull-over cars. It seemed to Joe that they’d been traveling for hours. Willie had electrodes attached to him now; a bluish trace on a tiny portable oscilloscope registered his tenuous, flickering connection with life.
“I had to wait at the phone until they came,” said Al. “They needed someone to give ‘em directions. That nine-one-one… it took so long.”
“You done real good,” Joe reassured him. “There was nothing more anyone could’ve accomplished.”
At the hospital, there was an impressive display of activity when the ambulance arrived. Two attendants ran out to meet it on the concrete ramp, and quickly hustled the gurney-borne Willie through automatic-opening steel doors. Inside, Joe and Al caught a glimpse of Willie being rolled rapidly through the tiled hallway, oxygen tank and intravenous cart already connected up to him. His face was lost beneath the rubber breathing mask, and the rest of him was covered by a blanket. Already, thought Joe, he looks less than human.
“Are you the people who called the ambulance?” asked a nurse behind the emergency desk.
“Yeah,” said Joe.
“We’ll need some information.”
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