sounds of life. The forced air is blowing as background noise and the fridge is humming in the kitchen, but other than that the place is dead silent. I wait a few more beats just to be sure, then head up the short staircase out of the mud room and into the kitchen.
Immediately I sense something is off.
All of the major appliances are brand new and top-of-the-line, yet sitting on the granite kitchen counter is one of those cheap-ass single-serving coffee makers with a metal carafe. The thing stands out like a pile of dog shit on a putting green. It even has a fucking Motel 6 sticker on the side.
I don’t usually bother with kitchens, but I’m so thrown by the coffee maker that I find myself opening the cabinets anyway. They’re all filled with roughly the right kind of stuff, but the shit’s just jammed in there at random-Froot Loops next to the Liquid-Plumr, Hamburger Helper on the same shelf as a Costco-sized box of panty shields, and Bob’s Red Mill Quinoa under the sink with a whole case of laundry borax. It’s like the place was stocked by a fucking schizophrenic.
My brain still trying to puzzle out what’s going on with the kitchen, I head down a narrow hall to the front living room, and I’m finally stopped cold. The whole fucking thing is decorated with the kind of crappy stuff they rip out of remodeled office buildings and hotel rooms and then sell discount-butt-ugly baby-blue love seat, hideous plaid couch, and a mammoth black enamel entertainment center dating from at least the late-’80s.
As if in answer, I hear a woman’s voice behind me.
“Freeze.”
I’m so surprised that I spin around to face her before the meaning of the word sinks in. I actually see the flash of the pistol.
When I come to, I find myself sitting on the rug, with my legs splayed and my back partially propped up by the love seat. I have no clue how long I’ve been out.
“I have a gun! I have a gun!” the woman starts shouting as soon as she realizes that I’m awake.
“No shit,” I manage to whisper.
She stops shouting and takes a step toward me. I force my eyes to focus. Generic thirty-something blonde dressed like she’s about to drive her hybrid SUV to the yoga studio. Christ, if it weren’t for the Ruger 9mm in her left hand, she could be in a Whole Foods commercial.
“Don’t move or I swear, I’ll… I’ll kill you.”
“I can’t move. My legs don’t work.”
I look down at my lower abdomen and see the little hole in the front pocket of my hoodie. There’s no blood, but somehow just looking at it cuts through all the endorphins and sends the first wave of pain rolling across my torso.
“Did I hit you?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
She takes a step back again and tries to calm herself down by doing some sort of ridiculous deep breathing/grunting exercise.
“
I put my right hand on my thigh. There’s no feeling in the limb at all-it’s like I’m touching someone else’s leg.
“Why the hell did you break in here?” The blonde stops hyperventilating for a moment. “I mean, are you psycho or something?”
“Lady, I need an ambulance. Did you call 911?”
“The cops? Are you crazy? You know I can’t call the cops.”
“It’s okay.” The second wave of pain hits and lingers awhile. I grit my teeth and try to reassure her. “I’m just a junkie who broke into your house. Legally, you’re in the clear.”
“Legally?” She lets out a semihysterical laugh and starts with the ridiculous breathing exercises again. “
I’m about to speak again, when the third wave of pain hits, and just stays. It feels like somebody left a hot soldering iron in my stomach. I decide to change tactics.
“Look, you
She finally stops with the deep breathing, hesitates a moment, and then pulls out her phone. She hits the speed dial, and to my surprise, starts talking to somebody in rapid-fire Spanish. Not the lispy shit you might learn from a college year abroad in Spain, but Mexican street slang. The conversation moves so fast that about all I can pick up is the name Esteban. This bitch isn’t just fluent, she’s a goddamn native speaker.
“He wants to know who you work for.” She flips the phone shut and switches back to an equally native- sounding English.
“Work for? What do you mean?”
“He’s sending someone. He says to keep you alive.”
“Who’s sending someone?”
“Esteban.”
“Esteban?”
She nods.
“Who the fuck is Esteban?”
“I’m going to see if there’re any bandages in the bathroom.” She ignores my question. “I swear to God, if you move while I’m gone, I’ll kill you.”
“I told you, I can’t move. I think you hit my spine.”
“Good.”
She leaves the room and I’m left to ponder why she speaks native Mex slang, who the hell Esteban is, and why the bitch doesn’t even know what’s in her own medicine cabinet. I look down again at the bullet hole in my hoodie. There’s still no blood.
A minute later, she comes back with a roll of duct tape, paper towels, and a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol.
“Lady, I’m a fucking junkie. Tylenol is not going to cut it.”
“That’s all there was.”
“Well, maybe if you called a fucking ambulance they might have something a little stronger?”
“I told you. Esteban is sending someone. Do you want the Tylenol or not?”
“No.”
“All right, I’m going to see if I can make a bandage.” She puts the Ruger and Tylenol over on the coffee table out of my reach, and then kneels down next to me with the duct tape and paper towel.
“Christ… is that blood?” She notices my soaked jeans.
“It’s piss.”
“Eww!” She recoils.
“I’m fucking dying here and you’re scared of a little piss?”
She does her best to regroup and folds up a piece of paper towel into a half-assed square, adding strips of duct tape to the four sides to form a makeshift bandage.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s the best I can do, is what it is.” She does a few more deep breathing exercises, and then slowly lifts my hoodie and T-shirt.
The hole seems almost ludicrously small-about an inch below, and an inch to the left of my navel. My whole stomach is smeared with blood, but not a Hollywood amount. For some reason, exposing the wound to the air makes it hurt even more, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming.
“You don’t have HIV or anything…?” She hesitates at the sight of the blood.
“No,” I lie.
She looks at the hole for a few more seconds, building courage. “Did the bullet go through?” she asks.
“How the fuck should I know?”
She reaches gently around to the small of my back to feel for a hole.
