by Rachel Brune
Scott tried to shrug, ended in a wince. Kyle shook his head.
“Listen, Scott, I’m your friend but I’m also your boss,” said MacAllister. “Do yourself and me a favor. Listen to Morris. Get better and go home.”
“Fuck.” Scott gave up trying to get comfortable.
MacAllister flushed red. “Don’t get pissed at me. You’re the one bleeding out in the middle of the street. A few inches one way or the other, a few more minutes waiting for the paramedics, and I’d be sending flowers to your mother, not pretending to ream you out for being your usual dumbass self.”
Scott looked down. The bandages across his mid-section were spotted red. “Fine.”
“Fine like you’ll act like you got some sense?” Kyle stood up. “Or fine, like you’ll pretend to agree with me and as soon as I turn around you’ll pull some dumb stunt like you did that time in Al Hillah?”
“I’m fine, Mac,” said Scott. “I promise I’ll get better, go home, and you and Morris and everyone else can quit worrying about me.”
The two men regarded each other. Finally, Scott dropped his gaze. He rested his head on the pillow.
“Great.” MacAllister turned. “I need to get out of here, get back to the office. I’ll let Gina know you’re all right.”
“Yeah,” said Scott. “Tell her too bad, a few more inches and she’d have the desk all to herself.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” said MacAllister. “You scared the shit out of us.
“I know, Mac,” said Scott. He looked like he wanted to say more, but stopped.
“Take care of yourself,” said MacAllister. “I’ll check in on you later in the week.”
Scott listened to him leave. Silence settled back on the room. The television mounted on the wall in the center of the room switched from a commercial to a news segment. Mark Granger, slickly dressed in a suit and tie, with trench coat and maroon scarf, stood in front of the remains of the mosque. His forehead sported a small bandage around which his hair blew trendily. Scott turned his head. The privacy curtain blocked his view of the other bed.
“Hey.” Scott tried to pitch his voice loud enough to be heard, but not loud enough to wake his mystery roommate.
There was no answer.
“Mind if I turn this off?” Scott asked. Again, no answer. Scott looked around for remote.
The picture changed from footage of Mark on the corner. Scott recognized himself in the picture. It was night, and the EMTs and firefighters blocked most of the screen, but he was the center of the frame, bleeding out on the street.
“Shit.” Scott closed his eyes and pressed the call button, but by the time the nurse arrived, the story had changed. He asked her to turn off the television anyway, and lay awake in the empty silence.
The hallways of the hospital were neat but crowded. Scott Mabry’s room was at the end of one of the few empty corridors. A uniformed patrolwoman sat outside his door, but it was otherwise indistinguishable from the other passageways. Even here, the familiar vomit-under-bleach smell contributed to MacAllister’s unease. He hated hospitals, hated being in hospitals, hated visiting friends in hospitals. He hurried his steps toward the exit.
Something pulled him up short. He looked up to see Mark Granger walking toward him.
“Hey, can I help you?” MacAllister positioned himself in front of the reporter.
Mark pulled out a rectangular piece of plastic from his pocket. He flashed it for MacAllister. “I’m here to see Detective Mabry.”
MacAllister grabbed the plastic and pulled it toward him. It was attached to a retractable cord tied to Mark’s belt, and the forced movement pulled him an involuntary step forward. “Mark Granger, New York Central News. Nice. You’re the reporter’s been making the most of this little adventure?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” said Mark. He took the press pass back, tucked it into his pocket. “Is his room down there?”
“You don’t have permission to film in here.” MacAllister folded his arms across his chest. He wasn’t a tall man, but he could project immovability like a brick wall.
Mark gestured to the empty hall. “I’m not here with a camera crew.”
“What are you here for?” MacAllister added a glower to his folded arms.
“I’m just here to see Detective Mabry.” Mark wasn’t intimidated. He had been stonewalled before, by men and women who were better looking and possessed more rank than MacAllister.
“The man’s asleep,” said MacAllister. “He took some pretty bad shrapnel from that explosion. He shouldn’t be talking.”
Mark shrugged. “Then I’ll wait for him to wake up.”
“Fine. Wait here,” said MacAllister. “I’ll call hospital security and they’ll come help you find your way out.”
“Don’t bother,” said Mark. “They know me here.”
“They know my badge here, too,” said MacAllister.
“Should this be part of my story?” asked Mark.
“Don’t threaten me, reporter boy,” said MacAllister. “The department agreed to let you do this stupid story to keep Scott out of trouble.”
“I—”
“You were supposed to do a quick interview, write some bullshit about how wonderful he is, and leave,” said MacAllister. “Instead, your story is about one of my cops with his guts splattered all over the street.”
“This isn’t my story,” said Mark. “My story is the one I’m still working on.”
“Unbelievable.” MacAllister unfolded one arm to point his entire hand at Mark. He jabbed it forward for emphasis. “Stay away from my cop.”
“Fine.” Mark shrugged. “Can I talk to you?”
MacAllister frowned, taken aback. “What for?”
“You’re his boss,” said Mark. “I’ve been needing some background. Detective Mabry doesn’t talk about himself.”
“If he’s not talking to you, then why would you think I’m going to?” asked MacAllister.
Mark shook his head. “Listen, Mr. MacAllister, I’m going to write this story. You can help me get it right, or you can complain about what you get.”
Silence.
Mark tried again. “It’s just a few questions to help me get a handle on his background.”
MacAllister frowned harder.
“I won’t even quote you,” said Mark.
“So I’m off the record?” asked MacAllister. “Or are you one of those reporters with everything always on the record?”
Mark said again, “I won’t quote you on this. And if you need me to be discreet about something, I can do that too.”
Mark watched as MacAllister returned to his arms folded stance. He waited a few more minutes and MacAllister dropped his head into his hand, rubbing his forehead. Finally, MacAllister dropped both arms, resting them on his hips. He looked around, indicated an empty room.
“Fine.” He motioned to the room. “Why don’t we talk in there?”
When they had settled, Mark pulled out his notebook.
“You need that?” asked MacAllister.
Mark put away the notebook.
“So, what are your questions?” asked MacAllister.
“Tell me what you think I should know about Detective Mabry.”
MacAllister laughed.
“That’s funny?” asked Mark.
“Yeah, it’s pretty fucking hilarious,” said MacAllister. “I think you shouldn’t know anything about Detective Mabry, but since you’re here, what do you want to know?”
“Why does he do what he does?” asked Mark.
“You mean why is he a cop?” asked MacAllister.
“Why is he a cop? Why did he join the Army? What makes him tick?” asked Mark.
“The man’s a great American,” said MacAllister.
“Seriously?” asked Mark.
“Seriously,” said MacAllister.
Questions weren’t working. Mark decided to try another ploy. He stared at MacAllister. MacAllister stared back. Finally, Mark blinked.
; “Mr. MacAllister, I’m sorry about what happened,” said Mark. “I asked Detective Mabry for some help with a story I was working on, but I didn’t think that something like this would happen.”
“What story?” asked MacAllister.
“An e-mail I received,” said Mark. “It was a…I thought it was a possible terrorist threat. So I asked him about it.”
“And?”
“And he said it was nothing,” said Mark. “When we went to Brooklyn, he was running down some lead on a series of robberies.”
“Huh.” MacAllister thought about that one.
“Mr. MacAllister—”
“Call me Kyle.” He shook his head. “All right, here’s the deal with Scott. The man’s a great American, but sometimes he just doesn’t have any sense.”
Mark waited.
“Look, I’ve known Scott for about six years,” said Kyle. “I met him on my first deployment. We served together as squad leaders in OIF I.”
“Operation Iraqi Freedom?” asked Mark.
“Yeah, the first phase, back in 2003. This was before he went over to the dark side and decided to become an officer.”
“Was he a cop, too, then?” asked Mark.
“Yeah,” said Kyle. “He had been on the force a couple of years by then. Anyway, Scott was the type of guy you’d have to tie to a desk to get him to sit still. He would be out all the time with his troops.”
“What were you doing?” asked Mark.
“At that time,” said Kyle, “most of the units in Iraq—especially the Reservists—didn’t have any of the uparmored Humvees like you see nowadays. So, these logistics units needed somebody to protect them. We were military police, we had the armored Humvees, so at that time, we were protecting the transportation units that were bringing up the fuel and food and mail that everyone needed.”
“Where were you based?” asked Mark.
“At that time, we were escorting supply convoys from Kuwait to Baghdad,” said Kyle. “We weren’t just running our own trucks, but we had long trains of TCNs driving too.”
“TCNs?”
“Third-country nationals,” said Kyle. “Basically truck drivers from Kuwait, Turkey, wherever, we could hire to carry supplies. Anyway, one time, we’ve got this convoy of about twenty TCN trucks and one squad of MPs, which is about four trucks. Scott decides he’s going to go out with them.”
“Twenty to four?” asked Mark. “Was that safe?”
“It’s what we did,” said Kyle. “Listen, you want me to tell you about Scott? Quit interrupting. Anyway, they tell us to keep the trucks on the road and get them from point A to point B. But we never knew who the hell was driving, and sometimes the truck drivers would try to pull something screwy.”
He waited for Mark to interrupt, but the reporter kept quiet, merely scratched at his bandage. Kyle continued. “They would sometimes try to jump out of the convoy, head in another direction. See, the coalition had already paid them for the trip, otherwise they would never have made the run into Iraq. So if they could slip the convoy, they could have that payment, plus whatever they could get for whatever was in their truck.”
“Ah,” said Mark. He kept scratching at the bandage. It had come loose, and he was itching underneath it.
“This time, Scott’s in the middle gun truck,” said Kyle. “And suddenly one of the TCNs decides it’s his lucky day, and takes off out of the pack. This genius decides to drive his tractor-trailer off the road and into the middle of the desert. Scott smacks his driver on the back of the Kevlar and tells him to go after him. So, Scott and his truck take off after this truck driving off into the sunset.
“Will you quit that? It’s freaking me out.”
Mark had pulled off the bandage and was examining it. He quickly rolled it into a ball and stuffed it into his pocket. “Sorry.”
“Scott and his truck head off after this tractor-trailer, the entire convoy is at a standstill until they corner the driver in the middle of this big sandy field,” continued Kyle. “They get out of the truck, and there’s a lot of shouting and arguing, but Scott convinces the driver to get back in his truck and get back in the convoy. The truck driver turns to get back in his truck, when he suddenly spots something sticking up out of the sand.”
Kyle waited expectantly. Mark asked: “What was it?”
“A land mine.” Kyle paused again. Usually this story was good for a round of beers at the local cop bar, but the look on the reporter’s face was its own reward. “Yeah, they had chased the driver out into the middle of an unreported minefield. The driver is almost pissing his pants, but Scott played it off like he did it on purpose. Like he wanted the driver to see how serious he was.”
“So what did they do?” asked Mark.
“They drove back to the road,” said Kyle. “Very slowly.”
“What happened then?”
“What happened then was, the word spread around not to take off out of any of our convoys,” said Kyle. “We never had a problem with our drivers again.”
“Damn,” said Mark.
“Yeah,” said Kyle. “That’s what I wanted you to understand about Scott.”
Mark had scratched open the cut on his forehead, and now attempted to mop up the blood with a tissue from his pocket. Kyle averted his gaze.
“Scott’s a pain in the ass,” said Kyle. “But he is one damn lucky cop.”
Kyle paused. “And there’s one more thing you should understand. Scott—you can never tell him anything; he has to learn everything for himself. Usually the hard way. Whatever bug he’s got on, he’s not going to stop going after it, no matter what anyone tells him.”
Kyle reached in his pocket and drew out a business card. He handed it to Mark. “I’m giving you this as Scott’s friend, not his boss. Call me if something happens. Got it?”
Mark took the card with his free hand. He dabbed one last time at his cut and put the tissue in his pocket. “Here.” He pulled out his notebook and took out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Kyle.
“What’s this?” asked Kyle.
“That’s the e-mail I originally brought to Detective Mabry,” said Mark. “It’s a copy with all of the notes I made of where we went and the questions he asked.”
“What do you want me to do with it?” asked Kyle.
“Nothing,” said Mark. “I just thought you might want to know what he was up to.”
“Thanks.” Kyle pocketed the paper and stood up. Mark stood up, too. “Any more questions?”
“No,” said Mark.
“Good,” said Kyle. “I’m leaving. Don’t try to bully your way into Scott’s room. He needs to stay quiet and rest.” He frowned. “And you need a new bandage. You’ve got blood all over your face.”
Chapter Eleven
The woman in gray had a small, mean face and a thick neck.
“I explained to you, sir,” she said. “The bathroom is only for use by lawful tenants and their guests, and policy forbids me to give you a key.”
Standing before her, Marcus thought her voice sounded like a rat—squeaky and scratchy. He smoothed back his dreadlocks and shrugged. His voice was tinged with just a hint of Jamaica. “Ma’am, you just signed for the package I brought. Can I be a lawful tenant guest?”
“No.” The woman glared. Marcus thought he could see eyeteeth. “Our policy is not to allow use of the facilities to messengers or members of courier services.”
The receptionist squinted up at Marcus. He was a tall, skinny man, with bicyclist’s tone under his dark skin. She looked down her short nose and stared at the door.
After a few minutes, Marcus shrugged, slipped the strap of his green, yellow and red messenger bag over his shoulder and headed to the elevator. Outside, he unlocked the chain holding his bike to a nearby light pole and slung it around his neck. The apartment where Eddie was staying was a bit of a ride away, but he would be fine as long as he was sitting down.
Alan looked across the table at Eddie. “Is your cousin all right? He�
��s been in there for a while.”
Eddie raised his voice without looking up from the laptop he was currently struggling with. “Marcus! Man, you all right?”
The toilet flushed and Marcus came out of the bathroom, drying his hands off on his bike shorts. He went to the refrigerator and opened the door. He looked surprised, then looked over the door at Eddie.
“Hey,” said Marcus. “Where’d my forties go? I had two left.”
“Sorry, man,” said Eddie, hunting and pecking his way through the internet. “I thought they were the ones I bought.”
Marcus shrugged and pulled out some milk. He sniffed it, then took a swig from the bottle and put it back in the fridge. “No worries. I’ll get some more later.”
Eddie ignored Alan’s glower. The day after Abdel showed up—the same day another man, Said, had arrived—Alan had told him to get rid of the beer from the refrigerator. Eddie tried to convince Alan to let Marcus keep some alcohol in his room for his own use; Eddie didn’t need to drink, and Dodger never bought his own booze. But Marcus’ evening ritual wasn’t complete without cracking a Corona and watching The Daily Show. Alan hadn’t been convinced.
With the three new bodies in the apartment, it was getting crowded, even for Eddie. He was used to sharing space, but Alan’s new friends added an additional factor to the small apartment. They were completely different from any men Eddie had met. They were different from the prison Muslims he had stayed away from. They were quieter, and kept to themselves. Eddie felt uncomfortable in their presence.
The living situation hadn’t improved anything. The kitchen had now become Eddie’s center of operations. Alan, Said, and Abdel stayed in one room, with Dodger, Marcus, and Eddie in the other. Eddie had taken to falling asleep on the couch in the living room to stay away from the two others. Marcus’ bike took up most of the small bedroom, and Eddie took every opportunity to get out of the now-claustrophobic space.
A burst of static came through the police scanner. The men quieted to listen. Police officers were responding to an armed robbery ten blocks down.