Dead and Gone

“When will you—?”

“In a week or two, perhaps,” he said dismissively. The three young residents didn’t say anything, watching him deal with the stupid bum who’d gotten himself beat up and shot in the head.

When he was done, they followed him out of the room, a small flock of white-coated sheep.

“The reason it hurts so much to swallow is that your sternum is cracked,” Rich said.

“Sternum?”

“The central bone in your chest. In fact, it’s the central bone in your entire body. All the other bones grow from that point.”

“Oh.”

“And, of course, your throat is significantly abraded. From when you ripped the tubes out.”

“I don’t …”

“Of course not. You were unconscious then. Or, at least, in some subconscious state. Anyway, there’s no permanent damage. Everything will heal. You’ll be the same as you were before.”

“What was I … before?”

“That will come, too,” Rich promised.

I would not think of Pansy. I would not do it. I knew what it would cost. I had to wait until I could make the payments.

“How’s your memory coming?” one of the cops asked me.

“I remember you,” I told him, trying for a proud tone in my voice, like a good kid who’d done all his chores. “You’re Detective Bond, right?”

“Baird.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he said, shooting a look over at his partner. “Any of it coming back to you?”

“The accident …”

“Accident? No. You were shot. In the head. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Said … something. My eye. But I thought it was … in the car, maybe? Then it crashed? I don’t …”

“Come on,” Baird said to his partner. They both stood up and walked out.

Cops play suspects like they’re fish.

“Fish”—that’s what the cons call new prisoners.

“Incoming.” In war, that word’s always bad news. Inside, it means fresh meat … but some of that news can be just as bad, if you read it wrong.

Inside, they test you right away. But even the wolves walk soft and patient. The ones that don’t, sooner or later they make a mistake. They think some skinny, baby-faced kid will give it up the first time he gets threatened with a beating. Or a shank. But some of those little kids, prison is the nicest place they’ve ever been. And they know just what to do to make it even nicer.

In prison, the wolf population is stable. They’re always around. But not always the same ones.

The first thing you do when you hit the yard is—Stop! I shouted inside myself, nothing showing on my face. My mind was … drifting. I needed to focus. I had started with something. Where had I …?

Yeah, okay, the cops. Playing me. Like they had all the time in the world. I knew what a crock that was. Sure, they knew who I was. Knew somebody had tried to take me out, too. But I wasn’t dead. This was no homicide investigation, just another “assault, perp(s) unknown.” And they had enough of those on the books to build another World Trade Center just from the paperwork.

Their ace was the hospital, keeping me locked down the way no judge would. It’s not a crime to be a victim in New York. Even if you’re a career criminal on the Permanent Suspect List for a dozen different Unsolveds.

If they knew who I was, they knew I had people. “KAs”—Known Associates—is what they’d call my family in their records. For cops, family is something you’re born into. Pure biology.

Didn’t use to be that way with them, but now they don’t even trust their own kind. The Blue Wall had cracked too many times; too many cops had rolled on their “brother” officers. They didn’t think of themselves the way they used to when a cop had to be Irish to get above a certain ceiling in the Department. Didn’t matter what you called it—integration, immigration, affirmative action—it all played the same in the end. Once NYPD stopped being all- white, it stopped being all right with a lot of them.

And the rest of them all knew it.

Screenwriters who spend a few nights in the back of a squad car for “background” always make hatred of Internal Affairs part of the “character” of any cop they want you to like. Of course, screenwriters are the same twits who believe omerta is rat-proof.

So the rules may have changed, but cops still play the same old games. There was a phone right next to my bed. I never got any calls—that wasn’t why it was there. I wondered what part of the City’s budget was paying for my private line. And what tame judge had signed the wiretap order.

One night, real late, I reached for the phone. Punched seven different buttons at random, making sure I didn’t hit the 1 or the 0 to start. A man answered, his voice blurry with sleep.

“Hello?”

“Is Antonia there?”

“Antonia? What’re you, fucking insane, Mack? There ain’t no Antonia here!”