"Call me tomorrow," Demarco said.
Jack waved over his shoulder, not bothering to turn around.
As Demarco neared his building a woman was standing outside at the foot of the steps. She was tastefully dressed in a black knee-length skirt and a black and white print blouse. Her hair was shoulder-length, beneath a pillbox hat, and she was wearing expensive-looking black gloves with single, tiny white bows on the cuffs.
She was clutching a gorgeous bag by the handles with both hands, looking up and down the block, clearly waiting for someone.
Must be Uber...Demarco thought.
As he got closer, he was struck by her resemblance to Jackie Kennedy. It was almost as if she were trying to emulate the former first lady.
Hermes, Luis Vuitton, and vintage Cassini... who uses a ride-share dressed like that?he thought.
"Can I help you?" he said.
The woman looked up, relieved. "Yes, thank you," she said, her accent was melodic and southern. She began rummaging through her purse, searching. "I'm looking for—"
"Love your ensemble, by the way," Demarco said, gesturing with a single jazz-hand, one circle.
The woman looked up again. "Thank you... that's very kind of you," she said. Up close, Demarco could see the lines beneath her heavy makeup, and her red, weary eyes. She looked like an elderly drag queen in top-dollar garb.
"I'm looking for a man..." she continued. "His name is Demarco Alford."
"Well, you found him," Demarco said, smiling, "I'm Demarco Alford—the one and only."
"I thought that might be the case," the woman said. She removed a small pistol from her purse, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Demarco clutched his stomach and fell to the ground, his point-of-view suddenly yanked vertical.
And as the woman turned to go, the world spinning and slowly, fading, darkening... the last thing Demarco saw were the red soles of her Manolo Blahnik's as she walked away.
18
Demarco awoke to the sounds of beeping. He was groggy... horizontal... and from his position could only see the ceiling and the glimpse of an IV pole in his periphery. There was a semi-deflated bag of clear liquid suspended from its hook and a tube running down... presumably to him.
He could hear voices in the hall, quiet shuffling, and a phone ringing far away. He closed his eyes.
When he opened his eyes again, a face was looking at him.
"Welcome back," she said. Her skin was dark in contrast to her light-blue nurse's scrubs, and she spoke with a lush, island accent... Jamaican maybe.
Demarco opened his mouth to speak and all that came out was a dry rasp.
"Hold up," said the nurse. "Sip on this."
She held a Styrofoam cup to him and guided a straw between his lips. It was only water and crushed ice, but the liquid was pure heaven on his tongue.
"Not too fast," she said. "You haven't eaten in over a week. We have to go easy. Your stomach is... tender."
A week, Demarco thought.What happened?
As if hearing these thoughts, the nurse answered. "You were shot in the stomach. You've had several small surgeries and you're recuperating well. But remember... baby steps."
Demarco closed his eyes.
Again, he awoke to beeps. The same nurse was there, but she was wearing different colored scrubs. "I know," she says. "You could get some decent sleep if I wouldn't keep coming in here, poking you."
Demarco smiled through a haze of painkillers. "Poking..." he said.
"Well, that's your first word. I'm sure there will be plenty more to follow."
