Dead and Gone

He slammed down the phone.

I did it a few more times: seven buttons, punched blind. Mostly, I got a recording saying the number was not in service; twice I got answering machines; the last time a black woman, middle-aged, her voice tired. Just coming home from work, or just getting ready to leave.

“There’s no Antonia here, mister. What number you trying to reach?”

“I … don’t know,” I told her, sadness in my voice. Then I hung up.

“Play with that, motherfuckers,” I remember saying to myself, just before I fell asleep.

A few more days passed. Then the cops tried something even A weaker. This time the phone didn’t just sit there—tempting me, they thought—it rang. I answered it on automatic, like a guy who had no specific memories of who he was, but knew he had to be someone:

“Hello?”

“Burke? It’s me, Condo.”

I knew him. A collector for Maurice, a bookie I used to place my action with. People thought he was called Condo because he was the size of a damn condominium. People who didn’t know him, that is. The rest of us knew where his handle came from: he was for sale or rent. That was one of the reasons the rollers picked him; the other was because I’d know his voice on the phone.

“Huh?” is all I said.

“I heard about what happened to you,” Condo said, his voice low and confidential, just between me and him. And the whirling reels of tape. “I got the lowdown on who tried to get you done. What’s it worth to you?”

“What? Who is this?”

“I told you, man: Condo. You know me. Now, you want this dope or not?”

“You know who … did this?”

“What?”

“You know who … hurt me?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, man. How much is it worth—?”

“The police …” I said, my voice getting weaker.

“They don’t know nothing, man. I got this from—”

“The police said it was on purpose. I … don’t remember. A car … something about a car. Tell the police. They’re trying to help me. Call the police. Tell them who did this. They need to know.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

“I know you?”

“Of course you know me, man. I told you …”

“Then you know me? You know who I am?”

“The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“I … don’t know. I don’t know … who I am. I can’t … Can you come here? You’re my friend, aren’t you? Maybe if I see your face I’ll—”

“You crazy cocksucker!” Condo said, and slammed down the phone.

The cops had to be getting desperate. Eventually, I’d get better. At least enough to be released. All they could do was wait for that, and watch. But Rich said they never discharged people who were amnesiac, just transferred them to “another facility.” He looked sad when he said that.

I couldn’t figure out why the cops were on this so hard. Had they found that kid’s body? So what? It wouldn’t link to me.

Unless they found Pansy and … I felt my heart stop for a few seconds. It just … stopped. Pansy. She’d be all they’d need to know I’d been there.

I made myself calm, worked with what I had. The “two men” who brought me to the hospital, they had to be family. And they must have unwrapped the Kevlar from my body first—that’s why the doctors thought the broken ribs and stuff were from blunt objects, not bullets. So my people must have Pansy’s … body.

The cops, they had nothing.

Endurance. Outlast them. Sooner or later, they all get tired. I had no strength anyplace but in my mind. So I worked there. Stayed there. I knew my job. And Morales had made it clear that I wasn’t ready to do it yet.

Even in prison, I’d never worked out, except when I was in the bing— solitary. But there was that one crazy time when the Prof was convinced I could make it as a boxer when I got back to the World. So he’d started training me. And, even then, we weren’t working on building muscle; it was flexibility the Prof said he wanted. But in solitary, working out was something you did. Had to do.

So I did it in the hospital. On the sly, careful. Testing each area, seeing where the give was, what held—getting ready for them to open that door.

Every day. Every night. There was a TV in the room, but I couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. No radio. I never asked for one. Just kept working.

But after a while, I realized this was a mistake. So I asked Rich, and he got the TV turned on. “From Central,” he told me.

“Huh?”

“Everything’s on computer,” he said. “In fact, every time you hit that morphine pump, the computer records it.”