He’d suggested there was enough to go around, share the love, but Candice only shook her head. “April doesn’t do guys, and she doesn’t share. She’s good to me, and she pays half the rent, so keep that thing in your pants when she’s around.”
He told himself once again, find a decent woman and stop fantasizing about girls who would rather play with silicone than have a hairy, stinky man in their bed.
The angry red numbers on his alarm clock blinked three in the afternoon. Rise and shine. He showered and shaved, hit the Keurig for a fast cup of mocha, and sat out on the balcony patio to survey the grounds below. Some kids got off the bus that stopped in front of the apartment complex. They headed straight for the playground swing set and the yellow spiral slide.
The sliding glass door opened on the left side and the twanging noise of country music poured out onto the neighboring patio. Crenshaw strolled into the fading light of sunset in a muscle shirt, lighting up a cigarette. “Evening.”
Adrian nodded, looking pointedly at the foul-smelling cigarette in his tattooed neighbor’s hand.
Crenshaw artfully ignored Adrian’s unspoken irritation. “Guess it’s morning for you, eh?”
Adrian nodded again. So much for catching some fresh air.
A squealing noise filtered through the open sliding glass door to his right. Candice’s apartment. Adrian rubbed a hand down his face, envisioning all that could possibly happen with him and those two giggling women.
“Now that’s what I call a ready-made sandwich. Them girls need some meat between their buns.” Crenshaw winked at him.
“As much as I agree with you, I think the ladies have all their bases covered. I bet they know exactly what they want, and exactly how they want it, far better than we’ll ever know.”
“Yeah. I suppose the world needs a few more lesbians. Might slow down the population growth. This place is getting mighty crowded.” Crenshaw’s gaze swept across the hundred odd apartments splayed out in a rectangle around the central pool and swing set. A muscle-bound biker with prison tattoos, he was forever talking about ‘overpopulation’ and government conspiracy theories.
Adrian killed off the last of his coffee and squinted at the swarm of children climbing all over the playground. “I don’t think women loving women is going to stop them from having kids. There’s always a willing donor around the corner.” Or right next door, on the other side of the two-by-fours and sheetrock.
“Damn straight. I’d donate ‘em so hard, they’d never need a vibrator again.” Crenshaw grabbed his crotch. “These batteries never run dry.”
Crenshaw the macdaddy. God’s gift to the women of San Antonio. The man hadn’t gone more than twenty-four hours without getting laid since his release from Dominguez State prison six months ago.
Adrian just shook his head. He considered himself lucky enough to have the right equipment hanging between his legs, and once in a while he could convince a woman there might be something more to him, but not very often. The lesbians next door pretty much robbed Adrian of any notion of his usefulness to a woman.
He sympathized with the ladies on that one. Why does a woman need a man? To piss all over her toilet seat and leave her knocked up? Adrian had never really felt the need for people, for a live-in girl, a wife and family. He never wanted the hassles. Mainly, he just wanted to look more normal, like everyone else. Normal guys have girlfriends … not just sex partners.
Crenshaw’s eyebrows rose up and he looked back towards his apartment. The radio announcer spit out news of yet another Mexican Mafia shooting. Not again. Adrian had quit listening to radio news months ago. It all sounded too much like an ambulance call in the making.
Adrian shook his head, recalling too well that woman’s blood on the tile floor, another nameless victim of the drug war. “Damn. Must be some rival gang moving in or something.”
Crenshaw eyed him and puffed his cigarette. “Territory, man. We’re all just animals fighting over territory.”
“Speak for yourself.” Adrian chuckled.
“Can’t kill each other off fast enough.” Crenshaw smiled back at him. “Not fast enough for me anyway.”
Biker, ex-con, bigot, horn-dog, Crenshaw was a Jerry Springer episode waiting to happen. But he always made Adrian laugh. Adrian needed more laughter in his life.
Adrian grinned at the joke that most people would find highly offensive. “You guys ever get into it with the Mexican Mafia?” Crenshaw had done hard time for running drugs in a local Texas biker gang. His probation officer wouldn’t let him have a bike, but the tattoos exposed by his wife-beater tank top testified to his colorful history.
Crenshaw squinted at him as though trying to figure something. “I ain’t into that shit no more. I’m a good boy now, just ask my probation officer. But if I was in it, we’d be mopping those grease stains off the floor. Think they run the whole fucking state.”
Oh god, not again, not the when I was locked up speech…
“When I was locked up in the Fed joint, they gave the Texans our own tables, our own cells, even our own television. Mexican Mafia didn’t come near us. Not even the Aztecas and Latin Kings fucked with the Aryan Brotherhood of Texas.”
“Okay, okay, let’s not go there again. You’re a badass born from backwoods badassary. I get it.”
Crenshaw smirked. “No, I don’t think you get it, but I’ll spare you the details.”
“Thank you. I’m pretty sure you told me the details, repeatedly.”
Crenshaw sucked hard on his cigarette, and squished the butt out in the ashtray on his patio table. “Yeah, it’s a real game changer. Prison. You’re never the same man afterwards.”
Adrian had no desire to think about the things Crenshaw might be alluding to. He simply nodded and raised his empty coffee cup. “Going for round two.”
Crenshaw nodded back. “I’ll hang here and enjoy the musical sounds of feminine love.”
The women’s giggling danced out onto the patio again, perfectly timed with Crenshaw’s grin and wink. Adrian snickered and headed back to the Kuerig for another shot of caffeine. These days he was drinking two to three cups a night, and that was before his work shift started.
* * * *
Fire lanced across her ribs as she shifted in her bed. Her tongue felt heavy as lead and stuck to the roof of her mouth. Her mind swam through a syrupy haze of pain and confusion, attempting to comprehend what was happening. Bullet wounds. The doctor said something about how many bullets they had removed from her.
She moved again and pain lashed her whole torso from hip to shoulder. She whimpered. Morphine. The female nurse said something about giving her more morphine.
She shouldn’t have morphine. She shouldn’t be in this place, in this bed. This was all wrong. The nurse reached up to the IV bag and clicked a button. “There you go. That’ll help.”
As if she could hear her unspoken pleas, the nurse spooned a bit of crushed ice into her mouth. Cool and smooth, the ice should have helped, should have relieved her horrid cotton mouth. But it was wrong. All wrong.
She gagged and struggled with the simplest task of spitting out the foul, brackish liquid. The nurse with the nasty ice-water dabbed her lips with a napkin. “You need fluids ma’am. You need all the fluids you can drink.”
Yes, fluids. Something other than what was in that plastic cup. Then the drug took hold, pressing her down into the bed in a thick, hazy fog of relief. So tired, she couldn’t hold her eyes open any longer.
* * * *
Whispers filtered into her dark world. Heart monitors beeped through her drug-hazed dreams. Men and women babbled. She recognized one voice – her doctor. “There’s no real change in her condition.” Female voices murmured. His voice responded. “Amazingly, she’s stable.”
Another voice she had never heard before. “Has she woken up yet?”
The doctor sighed. “She’s been in and out, but nothing really lucid. She’s in a lot of pain right now, and frankly, Officer, it’s a damn mir
acle she’s alive. I’m surprised she’s made it this far, and to be awake at all is just … incredible.”
“Doctor, we believe this shooting is part of an ongoing situation with the Mexican Mafia here in San Antonio. This woman knows things. We have reason to believe she may be involved with the mafia at a high level. If they learn she’s still alive, they may try to finish the job.”
“Are you saying this was some kind of mafia hit?”
The man hemmed and hawed, and then whispered even lower. “We can’t be certain, but, it’s a pretty good possibility. One of our informants says there’s buzz on the south side about some kind of legendary mafia woman out of South America. She’s wanted in Mexico, and by the DEA, but there are also rumors of a contract on her head.”
The doctor scoffed. “Look, detective, she’s here, and she’s not moving any time soon. Your officers at the door are not going to let her leave, and I doubt anyone unauthorized is getting past them. We have no ID on her, so the media can’t report who she is, and she’s not talking. Honestly, I would be surprised if she ever moved again. Seven bullets ricocheted through her body, wreaking havoc on her kidneys, spleen, intestines, and spinal column. This woman is not going anywhere. If she is ever able to speak again, you’ll have your chance to chat with her. That’s a pretty big IF.”
“Chingao madre!” The man hissed in frustration. “I know you want to take care of her – protect her. I understand. You’re a doctor. That’s what you do. We want to protect her too. But we have to know who she is. We need to know who’s gunning for her and why. We both want the same thing.”
The voices faded as she drifted off into the blessed haven of sleep.
* * * *
Chapter 3
She woke again, in the same room, same beeping monitors, same pain and thirst. She knew she needed something and now. She needed something they couldn’t give her with their machines and IV bags full of sickening clear fluids. Her tongue had swollen so thick she could hardly move it in her mouth. Nauseating waves of headache pounded in her skull.
She needed a drink, but not water. She didn’t know what she needed. But if she didn’t get it soon she’d go mad.
“Wow, darling, y’all are one tough cookie. I can’t believe you’re awake and looking at me.” The nurse shook her head and reached out to check the buttons on the IV.
No! No more drugs. She struggled to speak, but all that came from her mouth was a strangled sound. Too late, the nurse clicked the button, and the IV pump kicked in to send more morphine into her arm. The nurse smiled with lines of sympathy etched into her face. The woman meant well, but she wasn’t helping at all.
She couldn’t explain, because the fuzzy cloud of drugs was already settling in, dulling her senses, taking the edge off the pain, but not the thirst. The thirst was ever present, a driving need. She had to get out of this place, now. The well-intentioned nursing staff wouldn’t help her. The police were waiting to talk to her.
What could she tell them? Was it all just a dream, the police? As the drugs wrapped her mind in layers of confusion, her only certainty was she must leave, an undeniable directive that chased her back into unconsciousness. Escape.
* * * *
“God, that was one of the worst nights I can remember in a long time.” Adrian rested his head back in the passenger seat of the ambulance, closed his eyes, and wished he was already home, in bed. His knees burned from kneeling in the asphalt with a stroke victim. His back ached from wrestling an obese man with dehydration sickness onto a stretcher and down several flights of stairs.
Most of their non-accident calls came from seniors and overweight people. Strokes, heart attacks, the ole I’ve-fallen-and-can’t-reach-my-beer routine. They never fell in a convenient location, like at the front door. Nope. They always fell and broke their shit on the top floor of an apartment complex with no elevator.
Jose groaned along with him. “I don’t know about you, but I’m going straight for the shower and then I’m out. Thank God this is my last night on shift. They wanted me to do overtime tomorrow.” He shook his head. “I can’t. I could use the money, but I need a break. I can’t believe how heavy that guy was.”
“And why do they always live on the third floor?”
Jose laughed out loud. “They do, huh. I thought I was gonna drop his ass, I could barely handle that guy.”
Adrian had carried the brunt of the patient’s weight, on the low side of the stretcher, walking backwards. Jose was too small to handle some of these people equally. Adrian was forced to take up the slack. He would have complained about it months ago, but, Jose had backed Adrian several times on their written reports. They stuck together, and it worked out. Besides, a little extra weight on the stretcher helped Adrian stay in shape – a paramedic’s workout.
Adrian opened his eyes and caught Jose with a smirk on his lips. “Fifty bucks says he’s over three hundred pounds.”
“I’ll take that bet. A pound under three hundred and you owe me fifty.”
“Deal.” He’d lifted enough people in his time to know this dude was definitely over the mark.
After stowing their gear and restocking the truck with all the necessary medical equipment for the next crew, Adrian headed straight for the emergency room, for the evidence he needed to collect some cash from Jose. Walking down the hallway, he ran straight into the Latino detective from the crime scene two nights ago, Coronado. Before Adrian could slide past, Coronado grabbed his arm with chubby brown fingers. “Hey, you’re Adrian right? You were there for that shooting the other night?”
Damn, not again. He hated being touched by creeps like this. He shook the detective off his arm. “Yeah, that was me.”
“I haven’t seen your report yet –”
Adrian cut him off. “I know. I haven’t filed a statement. I keep forgetting you guys are treating this like a homicide case. Usually the police get their medical reports from the hospital and it’s not my problem.”
“It’s Adrian, right?” Coronado pulled a little notebook from his pocket and flipped through a page, confirming his notes. “Adrian Faulkner.”
“Yeah. Hey, I’m off for the next three days, so I can probably swing by the station then.”
Coronado looked back over his shoulder at the two uniformed officers standing by the door to room 335. That’s when it clicked – this must be her room, the woman. Adrian hadn’t checked on her since two nights ago. Too much crap going on, too many new emergencies to find time to stay in touch with the old ones.
Shit. He should’ve at least stopped by to see her again. That’s what a normal person would have done. He shrugged it off like always, but, his inner voice whispered the truth, sociopath.
No matter what he did, Adrian couldn’t escape that haunting diagnosis from the Army shrink. Borderline sociopath … characterized by a lack of concern for others … having few if any real friends. Then the bastard had told Adrian this was acceptable for soldiers in the field, and that Adrian’s lack of guilt would be useful to provide a measure of ambivalence when he had to pull the trigger in the line of duty. In fact, it could be considered an advantage. Most soldiers wished they could be as guilt free as Adrian when it came to killing.
And the bastard had been right.
The touchy-feely detective patted Adrian’s arm, like they were old friends. “You make sure to stop by, soon. We need to know everything she said, everything you saw, anything you might know.” He pointed towards her room. “She’s a target you know. We need your help to protect her. Any information you have might be important, even the smallest detail.”
Yeah, right. Coronado wasn’t looking to protect anyone. He wanted the bust. Adrian had learned as a teenager, drinking underage and raising hell, police officers weren’t there to protect and serve. In fact, some got offended at the mere suggestion that was their job.
They are enforcers of the law, paid and evaluated by how many times they enforce the law. Arrests, tickets, reports, they work for the bookings an
d the busts. Protecting people is supposedly part of the package, but it’s not what they’re paid for.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Promise.” He considered that the detective could probably wait a few more days. The woman wasn’t going anywhere soon. The Army shrink would cite this as further evidence of Adrian’s sociopathy.
Adrian just wanted this conversation over, so he could get his hands on Jose’s fifty bucks and go home.
“Thanks, Adrian. I appreciate it.” Finally, Coronado let him escape.
Adrian glanced at room 335 as he walked past. He really should look in on her, but he didn’t. He kept on walking for the emergency room – had to find that fat guy’s chart before Jose took off and he missed out on his money.
* * * *
So thirsty, so hungry, her guts boiled with need. She needed to … what? Drink. She needed a drink … of something. She couldn’t recall what. The need had a mind of its own. The need said get out of bed, now.
Exhausted, her vision filled with blurred tracers of light every time she moved her head. She managed to slide off the bed. Cords and lines wrapped her in a tangled embrace, pricking at her arms when she tried to pull free. The cool floor hit the soles of her feet and she swayed like a drunkard. If not for the mattress pressed against her thighs she would have fallen. She tried to move from the bed, but the cords wouldn’t let go. Tug-snap, one fell away. Tug-snap, another.
The monitor screeched in protest like an alarm designed to tell the world she was trying to escape. She knew someone would hear the racket. If they put her back in the bed it would be bad, very bad. She had to escape, now.
Tug-snap, another cord fell away. She took two shaking steps forward and the ECG sticky pads started falling off her torso as she hit the farthest reach of the cables. The door loomed, so close, just a few steps. As she reached for the knob it turned of its own volition and clicked open. A man in uniform followed the door as it opened into her room.
The Nightlife: San Antonio Page 2
