“Okay. I don’t feel really bad. But guess the wound needs checking out.”
As I lowered onto the plastic gurney, I looked to the Hispanic nurse, who now stood watching intently.
“Senorita Alvarado, muchas gracias.” I winced as lying down sent a sharp pain through my side. “Thank you for taking time to help me.”
She shrugged as the three from the ambulance lifted me and carried me to the rear of the vehicle. “De nada. Just what any neighbor should do for another neighbor.”
I smiled at her, then sent a pulse of happiness toward her. When she felt it she looked surprised. “Still, you came to help. Some would not have done that. You are a credit to all nurses. And to good neighbors everywhere.”
Her pale brown face went a little pink. She smiled softly. “Why thank you, Senor Hansen. Glad I could help. Get well soon!”
I laid my head back. “I hope so. Got a party for friends tonight.”
The male helper snorted. “You might require surgery, sir. Don’t be rushing things. Let the hospital take care of this wound. Any gunshot wound is serious business.”
I knew that. Years ago while visiting Washington D.C. with my parents we had come across a homeless guy lying against a boarded-up entry. He was bleeding from his belly. Cherry red blood was pooled around his waist and almost to his knees. My parents had pulled me back, then had rushed to a nearby pharmacy to call for police and an ambulance. It was the days before cell phones, when all phones came with a tail. But I’d seen how near death that man was. It had impacted me. Maybe it was the reason I’d become a reporter after leaving my government archaeology job with the Forest Service.
“As you say.”
I felt full of energy. And what I felt was more than healing energy. Which I held back from fixing the rib wound. Would not do to arrive at the hospital with a healed-up rib when I’d been rifle shot. Best to let the ambulance do its task and the ER people do theirs. But I was damned determined to be back at my place at 7 p.m. My buddies would come, even if they had not heard about the shooting. They were loyal people. Good people. People who cared for me, valued me and treated me as if I was as deserving of respect as they were. In today’s world, being given respect without doing some TV stunt had become rare. With my buddies I did not need to be the latest date of the Kardashian women. I just needed to be myself.
A slight prick pain flared on the inside of my right arm. The woman in charge looked down at me, her Anglo face intent, her manner focused. “Mr. Hansen, just relax. I just put in the IV needle. Now the ER folks can take care of you any way that’s needed.”
I noticed her green work shirt showed the name Hildebrand above her right pocket. “Ms. Hildebrand, thank you. I know how to relax. Comes with being 70 years old.” Her unlined face showed surprise. “Well, I am that old. My insurance is Medicare Advantage. So the Santa Fe Ambulance company will not—”
“Shush,” she whispered to me as the bumps and swerves of the ambulance moving fast along downtown roads as it headed for the hospital on St. Michael’s Drive rattled against my back, legs and feet. “We transport anyone in need, insurance or not. And the hospital will treat you no matter what. They are federally chartered. So, please, don’t worry. Let us do our jobs. I’m sure you will recover with the right treatment.”
I knew I would recover even if no one did anything to me. Still, being shot in public came with it witnesses, the arrival of an ambulance and hospital treatment. And likely a visit by one or more cops wanting to interview me as the SFPD worked to figure out why four gangbangers shot at an elderly pedestrian, just before crashing their car against a tree and dying as a result. If I were lucky the cop interview would not include Warren. If I wasn’t lucky, well, I could plead weakness and the need to recover. Which would cause my nurse to order the detective to leave. I smiled to myself. For some reason I liked the image of Detective Harold Warren being ordered around by a short Hispanic woman of middle age who was not about to let her patient be badgered. Maybe there was a small rainbow of luck in being shot. Maybe.
“He’s in here,” came the troubled voice of my ER nurse, Olivia Martinez y Gomez.
I’d felt the presence of a formal persona before she spoke. While I could not raise my barrier field inside the hospital, the drive-by shooting had taught me to leave my psychic alert sense always on, always aware of the life forces that were near me. Inside a multi-story hospital, that made for a lot of glowing yellow-green life forces with the natural red survival aura at their core. Now, that sense had alerted me to the approach of a familiar life force. I opened my eyes.
“Well, you’ve had an adventurous week,” said Detective Harold Warren as he walked into my ER recovery alcove, steno pad in one hand, his dark brown eyes scanning me from toe to head, his manner alert. As if he expected me to jump on him. Or do something he did not expect.
Olivia followed him in, her face concerned. “Mr. Hansen, this is a man from the Santa Fe Police Department. He wishes to speak with you about the shooting you suffered. If his visit becomes too much, just press the patient Call Button on your bed and I will come and usher him out!”
I smiled at her peremptory tone. I’d been her patient for only three hours, counting the time since I’d arrived, been examined, had the bullet dug out, the wound sterilized and gauzed over, followed by a series of flexible bands over my ribs. The ER doctor had said he wished me to stay overnight, “just to be safe”. I had not yet told him I planned to check myself out no matter what anyone said. But to be honest, I liked Olivia. She was at least 50, barely five feet tall, had her thick black hair pulled into a braided bun and her smooth skin was the dark brown of a Hispano family that had been in New Mexico since before the American conquest of the state in 1848. She knew she was in charge of me and clearly had so stated to the detective.
“Muchas gracias, primo senora Martinez y Gomez,” I said, meeting her gaze and giving her proper recognition for her status. “I will push the Call Button if I feel the need. You may leave me with this detective. I doubt he will aggravate my wound.”
“Bueno,” she said, turning and looking at the detective with a scowl. “Keep that in mind, mister!” She then stomped out, flinging the curtain aside so I could be seen from the ER hallway. Down which she regularly moved.
“Seems you have a friend in that nurse,” Warren said as he moved to sit in the plastic chair that was near the end of my elevated bed. “And my chief appreciates your recent donation to the renovation of our Fraternal Order of Police house on Calle Maria Luisa.”
So he knew about the donation I’d given FOP using a hotel computer in Denver. Interesting. Using all my abilities I scanned him. His aura was the same as before, lacking any black streak. For the moment. The surface of his mind was fixed on me and my shooting. I did not go deeper as I had found hearing other thoughts to be disorienting. It was like being in a crowd where everyone was yelling at the same time. So I rarely read someone’s mind, despite Ansgar’s coaching in how to do it. Warren’s normal appearance looked a bit tired, as if he’d jogged a lot. Or had people questioning him. His inner self, though, fairly vibrated with intense eagerness to question me. Still a predatory panther when it came to crime stuff.
“Yes, I do have a friend in Senora Olivia Martinez y Gomez. Tell me, detective, what have you discovered about the drive-by shooters who tried to kill me?”
His thick black eyebrows rose. Clearly he was used to doing the questioning. “Well, Mr. Hansen, the four men in the smashed up vehicle all wore blue bandanas, blue belts and blue sneakers, the colors of the Surenos 13 gang from the Airport Road sector of town.” He paused, his gaze fixing on me. “All four were dead when officers got to their vehicle. Two from sliced open necks as they smashed through the windshield. Two from what appear to be heart attacks. The coroner’s office has made that preliminary diagnosis based on facial discoloration.” His head tilted to one side, like a hawk preparing to pounce. “Seems the air bag sensors failed to operate and cushion the front seat p
eople. And the rear seat nasties were all in their twenties. Which makes their heart attacks a surprise.”
I nodded slowly. “What weapons did they use in the attack? I saw a rifle aimed at me from the front passenger. Then I felt pain and fell to my knees. When I looked up I saw they had crashed into a big tree.”
“That is another strange element in this event,” he said, his look more puzzled than predatory. “The two with revolvers in the rear, they were loaded but their firing pins had melted so they could not fire. The rifle was on the front floorboard. It had jammed after the initial firing at you. Tell me, how many shots were fired at you?”
I gave him an exasperated look. “Detective, I just got shot! Why would I count the number of shots? I did hear more than one shot fired, though.”
Warren crossed his arms over his broad chest. Sitting there dressed in a brown sports jacket, white khakis and a blue shirt under the jacket, he looked casual. But this man was never casual when interviewing people linked to a crime. Even when one was a victim, he was intense.
“Well, you being a former reporter, I figured you had noticed. We found shells from seven shots. They were all .22 caliber. You’re lucky the guy did not use a .308 hunting rifle. And that the .38 rounds in the revolvers were never fired.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Are we yet at the point where you wish me a healthy recovery? From being shot on one of your city streets?”
Warren showed not a scintilla of irritation at my critique of his department. “Actually, I was wondering if you had any idea why this south side gang targeted you?”
I blinked, feeling amazed. “Could me being targeted have anything to do with the café video imagery that showed up in today’s newspaper?”
A brief look of guilt flashed across his face. “The mayor ordered the video’s release to the paper. I objected as our investigation is still ongoing. But I had my orders.”
Bullshit. “Did those orders require you to give such a lengthy interview to the paper’s reporter? Where you named me!”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I spoke too openly.”
That did it. Fake concern I would not take. I slapped the side of my bed.
“Detective! I have no fucking idea why they wanted me dead. Though one of them yelled something about ‘only Surenos 13 members wear blue’. Guess they did not like my blue hoodie.”
“Really? Could it be they blame you for the Tuesday death of three men from the west side gangs? The Barrio West Side, West Side Locos and Main Street gangs?”
“Why would they care? The Tuesday three did not belong to this gang. And why would I be a target of any gang?”
He smiled. “That is what I am trying to figure out.” He reached out to where my hoodie hung from a bottom post of the bed. He held it up, swinging it so I saw the blood stain on the left side. “Tell me, Mr. Hansen, why was $2,142 stuffed inside your two hoodie pockets? The money was found during your change into a hospital gown.”
I knew that. When I had complained about it being pulled out the doctor had ordered it returned to my hoodie. Which he then had brought to me, his expression puzzled. Clearly the fact of the money had been conveyed to Warren.
I frowned at the man. “Detective, people carry money for lots of reasons. I was planning to buy some wine and beer today. And to make a bank deposit. Why is that any concern of yours?”
He shrugged, pretending nonchalance even as his expression hardened. “It is not a concern. Just wondering if that much paper money was a reason to attack you. What do you think?”
“I think I am tired. I’ve told you what I experienced and what I saw. Before today I’d never seen any of the four gangbangers. I had not seen their car. Nor has anyone ever tried to kill me in a drive-by shooting. Seems like Santa Fe is inheriting some bad criminals from Albuquerque.”
His smooth-shaven face stiffened. “The mayor says this was a one-time incident. And our local gangs are not into carjacking and drive-by shooting of pedestrians.”
“Oh, really? Then the drive-by shooting two years ago in the parking lot of the Santa Fe Place mall did not happen?”
He grimaced. “Except for that event, it is not normal in Santa Fe. Tell me, Mr. Hansen, where did you get so much cash?”
I reached out and pressed the Call Button. “The usual places. Banks. Stores. Handyman jobs. Cash from my checking account.”
Olivia came bustling in. “Senor Hansen! Do you wish this visit to end?”
“I do, senora. Thank you for coming.”
She looked at Warren. Who had not made a single note in his steno pad. The man stood up, glanced at me with a questioning expression, then turned away and walked past her. Oliva faced me.
“Well, that man did not even say Thank You!”
I smiled. “It is normal with him. Too caught up in crime solving. And Olivia, please bring me my clothes. I wish to dress. And leave. I feel much better now.”
She frowned. “But Doctor Wilder wishes you to—”
“I know. Stay overnight. I’d rather be at my home, resting in my own bed. Although I will surely miss your fine company. Can you bring me a sign out sheet?”
Olivia gave me a quick smile. “I will miss your presence also, senor Hansen. You are a gentleman. Too many younger men these days do not know how to show respect to a woman.” She turned away, a soft sigh escaping. “I will be back soon with your clothes and the sign out board.”
And she was gone. Leaving me to make plans. I could use my Kyocera to call an Uber driver. Who would then take me to our Radio Shack, then to the Smith’s grocery store for the beer and wine, before delivering me to my apartment. It was close to 4 p.m. Which left me barely enough time to do those chores, make my bed, change clothes to something not bloody, and prepare my living room for company. With that thought came the realization I should buy a bouquet of flowers. Flowers sitting on the coffee table between the couch and my recliner would be just right for lightening the mood as my buddies came to my place. And now, thanks to Olivia and the hospital, I knew what I needed to share with them.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The living room smelled lemony thanks to the air freshener plug-in cartridge I’d bought. It complimented the bouquet of flowers that sat in the middle of the coffee table. On either side of the bouquet were bowls of chips, dip, fresh cookies, and a bowl filled with ice that now cooled six bottles of beer. I’d put in some Corona Light, Blue Moon ale, Heineken, Tuborg, Dos Equis and Sapporo. I had a six pack of Bud cooling in my fridge along with a Chardonnay white wine from France and a California Cabernet red wine. The final item on the table was a glass pitcher of ice tea and plastic cups. I only had three glasses in my kitchen since I lived alone and almost never brought company to my place. Tonight was the first time in ten years. Surely my buds would be wondering about the invite. Along with my sudden dive into more formal clothing and tossing around large bills. The door bell rang.
I turned, my safety barrier field automatically going up strong enough to deflect a bullet or low power laser. Then I relaxed. The barrier softened. It was a familiar persona I felt. I turned the knob and pulled the door toward me.
“Hey, Jack! Long time no see!” chortled Christine, her face a near clone for the star of the I Love Lucy comedy TV show of the 50s and 60s. Her red eyebrows rose. “Well! That’s some outfit you’re wearing. You going to a board meeting after we hang tonight?”
I smiled. It was obvious she liked the $1,100 linen suit I’d bought at the local Men’s Wearhouse store. It did not match Ansgar’s silk suit, which I’d found while online trolling in Denver was a Brioni Men’s Windowpane that cost $6,900. And was sold by Neiman Marcus. Mine was white herringbone pattern and would be comfy even in the summer in Santa Fe. “Nope. No board meeting. Just getting used to quality clothing. Come on in!”
Christine came in, then stopped in the middle of the living room, her perfect face uplifted. “Ahhh. Nice scent. Love the flowers. You said there would be wine?”
I nodded. “There is. White and
red, cooling in the fridge.”
She looked at me with pursed pink lips, her expression playful. “Jack! Buy a wine cooler. They keep all wines at a perfect 50 degrees! Wearing that suit tells me you can now afford that touch of luxury.”
I gestured her to the couch, but stayed standing. “Can I get you a glass of wine?”
“What vintages?”
“A French Chardonnay of 2015 and a California Cabernet Sauvignon of 2016, from the Napa Valley.”
She smiled. “I love white wines, especially if they are French.”
I turned and headed for the kitchen. “One goblet of Chardonnay coming up!”
It took only a few minutes. Long enough for me to see the kitchen wall clock and note she had arrived here at 6:50. Clearly my buddy liked to be early. Perhaps to hear more of the scandal talk she clearly expected. Inviting any of my five buddies to my home was something I had never done in the 10 years of knowing them. As they all well knew. So she expected a big event. I told myself she would not be disappointed. Then handed her the goblet of wine.
“There you go,” I said, sitting on my recliner. To my right Christine sat on the couch end closest to me. Ahead of me were four folding chairs since the couch only seated three adults. I reached out, grabbed a Sapporo, popped its cap off using my Swiss Army combo knife, sat back and took a sip. Resting my eyes on Christine was natural. Her flowery pant-suit emphasized her perfect shape while the tightness of her jacket outlined her full breasts so much my body responded. Cursing my super health I told my erection to quiet down. I did not want my horniness to be on display when I again answered the doorbell. And telling myself she was a lifelong lesbian had zero effect.
Christine sipped her wine, gave a quick nod, then fixed on me. “Jack, you’ve never invited anyone from the café to your home. Why now? Why tonight?”
Part of the why was to show off my Healed rib. But that must wait for them all to be here. I lifted both shoulders in a So What? gesture. “Well, I’ve recently come into a nice chunk of money, thanks to a New York City millionaire who gave me some investment advice. He sought me out Thursday afternoon at the Railyard. It was a fun chat.”
Killer Geezer Page 15
