“I don’t know her. Only met her when I went to see him after he was shot. She was calmer over that.”
I’m silent a moment, thinking back. My dad was a tough man. My mom had to convince him to go the hospital when he had left arm pain. It turned out to be a heart attack. He lived because of her.
“What if we went to see them?” I say.
He turns. “We?” he asks, looking at me.
“My people are theater people. Hysteria doesn’t freak me out.”
“We’d have to drive back,” he says with a question in the inflection.
I shrug. “I don’t mind.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah, let’s go.”
* * *
Connor
I do not want to deal with the noise from Little Joe’s hysterical wife. I’m tense as I knock on the door to their apartment. I can hear a baby crying.
His wife, Manda, has dirty blonde hair that’s greasy and falling from a clip. She looks wrecked compared to the other times I’ve seen her.
“Mr. McCann,” she says, shocked. “Oh, my God, thank you.” Then she bursts into tears.
Zoe pushes into the apartment. “Hi, Manda. I’m Zoe, a friend of C’s.” Zoe wraps an arm around the girl’s shoulders. “Let’s go get some water.”
“Cecile’s cryin’,” she mumbles.
“Can I get her?” Zoe says, practically pushing Manda into a kitchen chair. “I’ll get her,” she says in a calming, but firm voice. She squats down in front of Manda’s knees. “Don’t let her see you cry though. It’ll scare her. Take a deep breath. Deep breath. Good. Just like that. A couple more. I’ll be right back.” Zoe strides past me.
“Where’s Joe?” I ask.
“Bedroom,” Manda says, wiping her eyes and pointing.
I go to the door and knock a couple of times. There’s no answer, so I finally just push the door open. I don’t like strutting into a guy’s bedroom without an invite, but I’ve come to see him and I’m going to. The air’s stale and musty. I flick on a light, and it’s already no good.
Little Joe’s a skinny guy normally, but he looks like he’s lost ten pounds in a few days. His ribs stick out like he’s been through a famine. He’s wearing gray boxers, and his head’s on a damp towel. The pillows and part of the sheets are bunched up against the headboard, like he’s been fighting demons in his sleep. The bandage around his thigh where the gunshot wound is dry at least, not saturated with blood. The ankle though is bad. It’s swollen and purple, the foot’s ballooned too. The skin on one side of the ankle is stretched tight, like white knuckles.
The baby’s crying stops, which is a relief. I don’t get how he’s sleeping through the noise in his place and the pain in his leg that’s now doubly wounded.
“That’s broken,” Zoe says softly.
I glance over to the doorway where she’s standing and nod.
“The bone’s trying to push through the skin. The skin will die if the bone’s not straightened right away. It happened to someone I know. He didn’t have insurance, so he waited too long,” she says.
I lean over and give Little Joe a hard shake.
When he recognizes me, he tries to straighten up, but he can’t manage it. He grabs his leg and groans. His words are slurred and confused. He’s clearly doped up on pain pills. No wonder he fell.
I stalk to the dresser and dig through the drawers until I find a pair of sweats. “I’ve got this. Tell her if she wants to come, get dressed. Or if she doesn’t want to bring that baby to the hospital, they can stay here, and we’ll call her from the ER. And tell her not to worry about the money. C Crue will cover this bill.”
I get Joe dressed and come up with a cover story for the thigh wound. I drag him over my shoulder in a fireman’s carry and take him out to the Rover. The cold air sobers him some. His eyes are a little more focused when I strap him in his seat.
Zoe, to her credit, opens and closes doors, but is otherwise silent. When we’re strapped in to the front seats, I exhale my frustration.
“She didn’t say he was out of his mind on narcs,” I say, shaking my head.
