“Good doctors here, too. Even if they’re all from India. The U.S. likes to hire Indians. And
“Except beat the Red Sox.”
I sat watching his breath slow almost to a stop. I couldn’t move him, even though I knew he was going into shock. The way his arms lay limp against his body said he might be paralyzed. Maybe temporarily, and one false move would make it permanent. On the other hand, he did try to kill me, somewhat attenuating my sympathy.
“Were you supposed to scare me or kill me?” I asked when his eyes opened again and he looked over at me. “And if so, why?”
“Make it look like an accident. It was Marcello who lost his cool and start off with the gun. Dumb
“Hey, no disrespecting the dead.”
“Marcello dead?” he asked, genuinely surprised, even though the evidence was only a few feet away.
“Yeah. Sorry, man. Went out the window.”
He rocked his head back and forth where it lay against the headrest.
“That’s, like, not what I want to hear.”
“You might be dead yourself. Why don’t you help out your soul and tell me what this was all about?”
“What’re you, a priest?” he asked.
“No, an engineer. We only take confessions based on solid data.”
“Whatever. You one crazy fucking engineer,” he said, which turned out to be his last words. I felt a little bad about that, since he probably would have preferred to thank his mother, bless his children and plea for mercy from the Holy Mother, but that’s timing for you.
Ten minutes later the ambulance roared on to the scene, but all they got to do was certify that the two guys in the Mustang were dead, then wait around for the cops, detectives and forensics people to show up.
Joe Sullivan got there first.
“I’m sure there’s an explanation,” he said, dropping out of his Ford Bronco and adjusting his sport jacket over the unofficial cannon he kept in a shoulder harness underneath.
“Is this an accident or an act of self-defense?” I asked him.
“Oh, Christ.”
“I’ve got the gun, holes in the glass and, with luck, a slug in the dashboard. I’d really rather stick to the truth this time, as strange as that sounds.”
“What’s the motive?”
“If we knew that we’d be done here.”
“What do they say?” he asked, looking over at the Mustang.
“I don’t know. They’re dead.”
“Terrific. Ross’ll be up your ass a mile.”
“Good. A little more interest by local law enforcement would be a nice change. Present company excluded.”
Sullivan shot his flashlight in my face.
“Are you hurt or anything?”
“I’m fine, but I need to get Eddie checked out.”
As if to punctuate the thought, a bark came from inside the crumpled Grand Prix.
“Ross’ll want me to bring you in.”
“Me and Jackie’ll be there tomorrow. Have him warm up the ashtray.”
I flipped open my cell phone and called Amanda. I didn’t give her a lot of details, though the word “accident” was enough to get her out of the bathtub. While I waited for her to come get me, I called a vet I knew in the Village. He said he’d meet me at his clinic.
“Oh my God, are you hurt?” Amanda demanded as she burst out of her station wagon, her eyes fixed in horror at the unnatural mating of a souped-up Mustang and the ass-end of the Grand Prix.
“I’m fine. A lot better than my car.”
“Where’s Eddie?” she said, near hysteria.
“He’s fine, too. But I want to take him over to Eng’s for a look over. He said he’d meet us there,” I said.
“What about you? Don’t you need a look over?”
“You can do that. Later.”
I got her out of there before she could see all the human carnage, though I gave her the straight story on the way to Dr. Eng’s. Amanda was an adult. No point in hiding anything.
“Don’t think I’m foolish for being concerned,” she said.
I squeezed her thigh, then left it at that.
As promised, James Eng was at his clinic when we arrived. He opened the door to let Eddie run in, as he always did. The only dog in the known universe who liked going to the vet.
“This is why I agreed to do this,” said Eng, as Eddie jumped up and got his ears scratched. “Just to soak in the adulation.”
I described the night’s activities as well as I could as we wound though the hall to one of the examination rooms. Eng felt around Eddie’s body, checked his eyes, ears, nose and throat and let him lick his face.
“I don’t even let my own dog do that.”
After about ten minutes of this, Eng shrugged.
“I could do some x-rays, or hold him here for observation, but I don’t think it’s necessary,” he said. “The only condition he’s presenting is one of an exceptionally healthy animal.”
“It’s all the rotten crap he eats off the beach,” I said. “Builds up the immunities.”
“You’re not far wrong,” said Eng. “Eddie lived on his own for the first years of his life. You joke, but when I see a healthy stray, I see highly successful genes. What doesn’t kill you, makes you strong. Literally.”
“If that’s true, I’m going to live forever,” I said, and then tried to pay him, or at least thank him for the extra trouble, which he’d have none of.
“Go on, get out of here. And take your mutt. I’m always open for the good ones. Just don’t tell anybody, it’ll ruin my practice.”
After Eng lifted him off the table, Eddie did a little spin and wagged his tail, like this was the most wonderful moment of his life. I couldn’t stand much more of that, so I took Eng at his word and got the hell out of there.
“Eddie Van Halen, superstar,” said Amanda.
“He’s going to be insufferable.”
She thought it was my turn to get examined, but I felt fine except for a little soreness in my neck and the upper part of my back, which only bothered me when I took a breath. She pressed the issue until I was forced to propose a compromise.
“If we stop at the bar on Main Street and have a few drinks, will that satisfy you?”
I was still a little nervous about leaving Eddie alone in the car, but he seemed happy enough curled up in the back. It was almost closing time, though I knew bars well enough to know you could always linger through the cleanup. They usually like having a few people sitting there, talking quietly, while winding down the night. It makes me feel like a kind of mascot.
“You’re an impossible man,” said Amanda to kick off the conversation.
“Thank you, dear.”
“If you die of internal bleeding, it’s not on my conscience.”
“Just don’t get distracted by it. I need your concentration.”
“You think there’s a connection between the dead Japanese girl and what just happened?” Amanda asked.
“What do you think?”
“I think there is.”
“So do I.”
In an effort to ward off Amanda’s near-frantic look of concern over my physical state, I got us talking about the good old days at Con Globe.
As I remembered, Iku’s task was basic strategic planning, helping the corporation balance its portfolio of
