by David Pierce
It was Benny, of course, who had delivered me the gun, for all the use it was. You can fly with a gun but there are formalities to go through and the gun and the ammunition for same have to travel in different sections of the plane, which makes for a hassle at the other end, all of which makes it highly obvious to any interested party that you are loaded for bear.
Lunch. Yummy yummy. I was so hungry I ate it, Salisbury steak and all, including the green Jell-o with the fake whipped cream on it. I asked the porter who came to take away the empty tray if he could rustle me up something, anything, to read. He obligingly came back a few minutes later with a copy of that day's local paper, the Sacramento Bee, and a well-thumbed Louis L'Amour western. Guess which one I appeared in.
"Blood-Bath in Chinatown!" proclaimed the headline. Then some small-town Hemingway had penned:
Gunfire echoed through the peaceful, historic town of Locke early this morning, and when the smoke had cleared, two men lay dead in the parking lot behind the Star Hotel, two others, gravely injured.
According to Lt. Keith Kalagan, Homicide, who is in charge of the case, one of the dead men was immediately identified as Charles Rivers, 76, owner of Dago Don's, a popular local bar and restaurant. The identification of the second victim remains a mystery. Also wounded in the fierce gun battle was Henry C. Clay, of Chippewa Falls, Missouri, as well as please turn to page four.
I turned to the comics. Then I turned to the sports pages. Then I turned to page four. I was relieved to read that my part in the night's events remained unclear. I was also relieved to read that my condition was described as satisfactory. That wasn't the way I'd describe it, but it was still a lot better than "No flowers. Instead, please send your donations to the Sacramento Tall Club for a plaque to be erected in his loving memory."
A telephone, that's what I needed. I summoned up my nerve and pressed the bell-push thing. After a respectable interval, Old Ironsides poked her head in the door and snapped, "Yes?"
I explained humbly that my poor old mother was unwell and that I greatly desired to call her, if that was all right with all concerned—the hospital, the cops, and her. She disappeared. After another decent interval the same orderly as before brought me in a canary yellow phone, which he kindly plugged into a jack by the head of my cot.
"Automatic," he said. "Call Japan if you want, it'll all go on your bill."
"Sayonara," I said, with just the hint of a bow. How did people with bad backs survive in Japan? They'd never be able to leave the house. I called the car rental, which wasn't the one that tries harder, mine hardly tried at all. I told them I'd need the heap for a few more days, so they needn't bother putting out an all-points alert. I called that polite chap who ran the Star Hotel, who not only asked about my health but brought up the subject of insurance even before I did. He was pleased to inform me that the hotel was fully covered for mishaps such as the one I had suffered, and I was pleased to hear it. He said he would be delighted to keep an eye on my car until I or someone else came to pick it up. Then I took a deep breath and called up Precious.
Precious was out, I was relieved to discover, which meant I could legitimately put off telling her where her ardent swain had put his big feet this time. I thought about calling either the Israeli Trade Center or the backup number Miss Ruth Fibber-of-the-World Braukis had given me, but remembering those words of warning I had given myself not so long ago—be careful, dope—I was careful, and did not. Then I tried my mom again, this time successfully. She didn't remember my last attempt because she wanted to know how come I hadn't called her when I got back from Canada and did I have a good time up there?
"Swell, eh, Mom," I said. "Saw a hockey game and thought about you and Feeb, when you used to go. How are you, anyway?"
She said she was fine, she was taking a little rest after lunch was all. I said so was I. I didn't bother telling her where I was taking it. Or why. If she didn't have enough problems already, tell me who did. We made the same small talk we always did when she was lucid, what a word, then rang off.
Then I had a visitor. A reporter visitor, a pert young thing in a pink jogging outfit and with a pink headband around her curls.
"Knock-knock," she said, breezing right in. "Anyone alive in here? Betty Morrison, Bee." She waved the hand that didn't have her camera in it at me.
"Daniel," I said. "V. Other than that, no comment. No photos, either."
"So what were you doing creeping around the Star Hotel at dead of night, Daniel? The lieutenant said he was satisfied your being there was incidental to what happened, and I quote. You expect me to believe that?"
"At my age, one expects from life roughly what one expects from hospital cooking—very little, my dear, also lukewarm."
She grinned and hopped up on one of the beds.
"And you may quote me, just this once," I added magnanimously. I wondered if the lieutenant had divulged to her what my line of work was; that I could do without, I'd never get rid of her.
"Well, what were you doing at the Star Hotel aside from being incidental?"
"It was to have been a sentimental pilgrimage," I said. "My wife and I spent the first night of our honeymoon at the Star Hotel. I hoped like a fool, that if we revisited it together after all these years, we might regain some of the happiness we frittered away."
"So what happened?"
"She wouldn't come with me," I said. "She went to visit her mother in Sarasota instead."
Miss Morrison looked at me suspiciously, then sighed.
"OK, OK," she said. "I get it. No comment. How do you like living in L.A.?"
"Been at the hospital records again, have we," I said. "Naughty, naughty. Los Angeles has many attractive qualities. The Dodgers are one, the Lakers are one, and I forget the third one."
"What kind of work did you say you did?"
"I don't believe I did mention it," I said, "but actually I travel in ladies' undergarments."
"Yeah, yeah, tell me another," she said, hopping down off the bed.
"With pleasure," I said. "This here was my father's favorite. It's the tsar of all the Russias' birthday."
"See ya," she said. Swish went the door.
"The tsar," I continued unabated, "was greatly impressed by a trained-bear act. So much so that he asked the trainer and his bear back for his next birthday party, when he wanted the bear to have learned one more trick—to be able to talk in Russian.
"A pleasure!" cried the trainer. "See you next year, oh mighty tsar."
On the way out of the castle, the trainer's apprentice says to him, "Master, not even you can teach a bear to talk in a year, so how come you agreed?"
"Listen, schmuck," the trainer says. "A year's a long time. In a year I could be dead. In a year, God forbid, the tsar could be dead. And believe me, next year at this time if I'm not dead and tsar's not dead, you can bet your last kopek that fucking flea bag's a goner."
And, talking about betting, comrades, I'll bet you 10 zillion kopeks to one you can't guess who my next visitor was, and I'll give you an enormous hint—she was someone's imaginary wife. Not Benny's—mine.
It was couple of hours later. I'd napped awhile, on my back like I was supposed to, and once I even moved, all the way to the bathroom. I pushed myself erect on the edge of the bed as instructed. Ouch. I stood up, expecting the worst. Mild ouch only. I shuffled. Mild ouches, strong swear words. Some genius had fastened metal hand grips on both sides of the toilet, which helped greatly. It didn't hurt that much, actually, a dull ache was all it was, the problem was trying to forget how much it had hurt the night before and overcoming the fear that the slightest movement would make it hurt that much again. Constipation—like living in the land of the rising sun, that's another complication a guy with a bad back does not need, I realized as I sat there trying to make a little hat out of a piece of toilet paper. Pop used to make us kids hats out of a sheet of newspaper. He taught Tony how to do it but I don't remember him teaching me. Who cares, anyway?
I was atte
mpting to do the crossword in the Bee in my head because I didn't have a pen when my new buddy the orderly popped his head in the door.
"Make yourself pretty," he said. "Your wife's on the way up." He whistled appreciatively, then withdrew.
Well, at least my wife wasn't the twerp. She turned out to be Precious. Precious entered, lips pursed. She glared at me, then nodded her head several times, then managed to get out, through clenched teeth, "Uh-huh. Just about what I expected, you flat on your back again in another bloody hospital. I don't see any holes, where are they, hidden by that stupid thing you're wearing?"
"That's not a stupid thing," I said, hastily pulling up the sheet to my neck. "That's my corselet, it's the latest thing. Anyway, that's no way to talk to your new bridegroom, snookums."
"Well, I didn't know, did I," she said angrily. "I didn't know what kind of mess you were in, so I thought if I said I was your wife, at least they'd let me see you."
"I'm fine, I'm fine, I got a sore back is all and I'm not in any mess, so calm down and straighten my sheets or something. Better still, give us a kiss."
"I'll think about it," she said.
"What are you doing her, anyway? How did you get here?"
"It was called an airplane, I think," she said. "I got on it in Burbank and got off right here in dear old Sac."
"Sara," I said. "She must've called the hotel like I asked her. Then of course she had to call you up."
"What else?" declared my beloved. "She was scared out of her wits by some idiot clerk who was rambling on about bodies and guns and ambulances and cops and God knows what else."
'He's not an idiot," I said. "I happen to know he's a devoted student of advanced paleontology."
"Who gives a flying fuck what he's studying," Evonne said. She crossed over to my bedside, then stooped and gave me a peck on one cheek. "There," she said. "You're lucky to get that much. You sure you're all right?" she asked in softer tones.
I assured her I was right as rain, almost, and in no time at all we'd be highland-flinging together again just like in the good old days.
"And Benny?"
"Shhh," I said, one finger to my lips. I beckoned her closer; she sat on the bed and lowered her pretty head to mine. "How do you know Benny's here?"
"Sara told me," she whispered back.
"Who else?" I said. "How did she know?"
Evonne shrugged.
"He's here, but he's not Benny," I whispered. "He's Henry C. Clam, and he's a total stranger, got it?"
She nodded. "I got it. I don't understand it, but I got it."
"The bad thing is," I said, "he got shot. I don't know the details, because the cops have cleverly kept us apart till now so we couldn't collude on a story, but I'm afraid he's only using one lung right now."
"Oh, Jesus, no," she said, laying her cheek against mine. "Poor Benny."
"Don't worry," I said hastily. "They're blowing the other one up again, the doc said. But yeah," I said into her blond hair. "Poor Benny. And don't bother piling the blame on me, it's already piled."
I convinced Evonne Louise Shirley that there was no point in her hanging around Sacramento; I'd be up and about in a couple of days and she couldn't even legitimately visit Benny's bedside as long as he was being someone else. I told her a version of the events of the night before that was skillfully edited to prevent her getting any madder at me. The name of a certain Miss Ruth Rotten-Liar Braukis did not, repeat, not, come up even once.
Before she flew home that evening, my angel of mercy did the following—bussed out to Locke. Packed up my things from my room. Paid the bill. Tried unsuccessfully to retrieve my gun and holster, but there were too many sightseers around. No great problem—its serial number did not correspond to the one on my license and so could never be traced back to me. Then she returned to Sacramento with car and luggage. Then she went shopping for books, magazines, including that month's Pro Basketball, fruit, candy, and assorted nuts.
And, last but by no means least, she brought me a large brown paper bag, in which was my supper—one pastrami on rye, one salami on white, heavy on the mustard, a tub of pickles and one of cole slaw, two wedges of plain cheesecake, and a quart bottle of cream soda. Plus a paper napkin. Oh—plus a styrofoam cup of chicken soup. After she hugged me gingerly one last time and left, I devoured everything but the napkin and the plastic fork. The car she dropped off at Sacramento's airport, paying the tab for it as well. Whoever it was who said that love is, after all, the gift of oneself, might have added that a good pickle on the side doesn't hurt, either.
18
The following early afternoon, just after a lunch of macaroni and Velveeta, they moved me to another ward, in a wheelchair, my overnight bag on my lap and my pal the orderly pushing. This was both good news and bad news.
The good news was that the law must have passed the word that it was no longer necessary to keep me in solitary, otherwise they couldn't have shifted me even though I was taking up four beds. Maybe I'd get a different nurse, too, I thought on the journey, one that looked Annette Funicello instead of Sir Charles Barkley. Down the hall we trundled, past a dead person being pushed in the other direction. Into the elevator. The orderly said his name was Fred. I said mine was Vic. Up one floor. Down the hall. Into a ward containing the bad news—Henry C. Clam. Now, Henry C. Clam was a sick man—he was in an intensive care ward. V. (for Victor Daniel was not a sick-enough man to need to be in an intensive care ward. Therefore if he was in one, especially one containing Henry C. Clam by chance, there had to be a good reason. And what better reason than Lt. Keith Kalagan, Homicide. I had no doubt at all that the whole room was not only littered with bugs but infested with them.
My pal Benny was hooked up, tubed up, roped up, bandaged up, and propped up in the second bed down. The third bed down was invisible behind drawn white curtains. Fred helped me up onto the first bed down, then put my overnight bag under the metal-topped table beside it. Out he went. Swish. I winked at Benny. He winked back. I held one cupped hand to my ear to indicate I thought we were being eavesdropped on. He pretended to yawn, meaning, What else is new? and pointed one thumb at the invisible bed. I nodded, and pointed one thumb at various light fixtures and the telephones. He nodded.
I eased myself into the bed. I stretched out my left hand as far as it would go. Benny did likewise with his right one. They met, just, and we gave each other's fingers a sort of squeeze. In case someone was watching through a gap in the drawn curtains around bed number three, I said, "Hi, pal. Victor Daniel, we met briefly in the hotel lobby, remember?"
He nodded. "Henry Clam," he said indistinctly around the tube coming out of his mouth. I couldn't see where the other end went; he was lying on his side, facing me, and it disappeared over his shoulder. He was strapped up from his waist almost to his shoulders, with more tubes—perhaps parts of the drainage—snaking out front and back. He was hooked up to an IV as well and the connection for the heart monitor was still there just in case. He had to be hooked up to a bedpan, too, although his bottom half was covered by a sheet. I noticed one of the tubes went through a bottle of water that was gurgling slightly.
"How're you doing, then?" I said.
"I've been better, I must admit," he said in his throaty whisper. "What about you?"
"Aw, nothing," I said. "A sore back, fell through the fire escape. Too bad I didn't land on my head instead. Don't talk if it tires you out, pal, but they told me you were shot, right?"
"Twice," he whispered. "From behind. I never heard anything. I went out to get some flies from my car. I woke up here."
"Yeah," I said. "I heard. Jeez, I'm sorry, Henry."
"I'm lucky to be alive," he said. "That's the way I think of it, Mr. Daniel. Also, thank goodness for Blue Cross. And you, they tell me."
Which made me feel a little better, but not much. Benny fell asleep about five seconds later; he had to be fairly heavily sedated, the shape he was in and all the damage his system had taken. Sleep on, amigo. And sweet dreams. "I
went out to get some flies from my car"—dry flies, to fish with, obviously, not tse-tses—right in character, only he wasn't out getting flies, he was covering the foot of the fire escape. Cookie must have been pretty good to surprise him so completely. "Blue Cross"—that was good news; not only because of the astronomical hospital expenses he was running up, but if he had a legitimate Henry C. Clam Blue Cross card, it was odds on he had several other legitimate Henry C. Clam IDs, driving licenses, plastics, and so on. Thus he was well covered from the prying eyes of suspicious lieutenants who wanted to know why. And wherefore.
About an hour later a different orderly this time, accompanied by a marginally less Gorgon of a nurse, came into our ward and vanished behind the curtains around bed number three. Various noises ensued. The curtains opened. Orderly and nurse wheeled out the bed and whoever was in it most smartly. Swish and he was gone. Nice try, Lieutenant, I thought. Now we're supposed to think it's all clear, now we'll spill all the beans about what really happened. Childish, really.
Actually, when Benny woke up later, we hardly talked at all. He opened his mouth once to let the nurse take his temperature, once to take the pills she gave him, and once to ask me to please avoid mentioning any gory medical details when his wife came back as she was not very strong and he didn't want her any more upset than she already was. I told him, naturally, of course, not to worry, go back to sleep.
And when his wife did show up, it would have been about five-thirty, I had to agree with him, she didn't look strong, poor wee mite. She was thin, and only about five feet tall. Her cheeks were reddened, as if she'd been crying. She had a floppy sun hat on her head, a baggy print dress, and on her lower limbs white socks that sagged and tennis shoes that bulged. Mrs. Chippewa Falls to the teeth, also known as Sara Silvetti, champion nerd.
