“It must still be inside you.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
She shrugs, and adds a few more strips of duct tape to the paper towel bandage.
“Okay, this is the part that’s going to hurt.”
She uses an extra sheet of paper towel to carefully mop up the blood around the gunshot hole, and then slaps the bandage on.
I scream.
She’s so startled that she momentarily lets go.
I keep screaming.
She puts pressure on the bandage again and begins to tape it down.
I keep screaming.
She lets go.
I stop screaming. And then promptly shit myself.
“Oh gross!” She jumps back from me, covering her face with her hand to try and block the smell.
Somehow the change in bowel pressure shifts things around, and I have to start screaming again.
“Shut up!” She grabs the Ruger off the coffee table and waves it at me for emphasis. “Shut up or I’ll fucking shoot!”
I manage to stop screaming, but it’s not going to last.
“Look, you fucking cunt, either finish me off or get me something for the pain.”
She hesitates.
I start to scream again.
“Shut up!” She slaps a hand over my mouth.
I try to bite it.
“Look, just shut up for a minute and I’ll see what I can do, okay?”
I shut up.
She speed dials the number again, and there’s more rapid back-and-forth in Spanish. After a few seconds, she covers the mouthpiece with her hand.
“He says someone will be here soon.”
“How soon?”
She’s back on the phone for another few seconds, but then her expression changes and she covers the mouthpiece again.
“He wants to know who you work for.”
“Who I work for? No one. I’m a fucking junkie.”
She’s back on the phone, and this time actually winces at whatever Esteban is telling her.
“He says he needs to know right now.” She walks over and kneels next to me again, keeping her face turned away from the smell. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
She winces again at what she’s hearing over the phone, and then reaches out with her free hand and presses on my stomach.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!”
“Tell me.” She keeps her hand there.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!”
“Tell me and I’ll stop.”
“Okay! Stop! Stop!”
She lets her hand up.
“Voodoo Mike.” I gasp for air. “I work for fucking Voodoo Mike, all right?” The idea is completely absurd, but it’s the first name that pops into my head. Besides, I owe him money.
She relays this information to Esteban, then flips the phone shut again.
“You fucking blond bitch. You fucking cunt whore cooze. I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking cocksucking motherfuck-ing-” “I think someone’s here.” She runs over to look out the front window.
I hear what sounds like a truck pull into the driveway, and then a door slam. The blond bitch heads back to the coffee table for the Ruger, then sprints to the front door and opens it. A moment later, a uniformed EMT walks in.
“Esteban sent you, right?” she asks.
The EMT just nods. He couldn’t be more than twenty-five, but immediately takes charge of the situation.
“How is he?”
“I… I tried to bandage him, but-” the blond bitch stutters.
The EMT shoves past her and comes straight over to me, putting his box of supplies down on the carpet next to where he kneels. He snaps on the latex gloves, and I tense up figuring he’s going to lift my hoodie and inspect the wound, but instead he starts checking the veins on my arms and hands.
“These are fucked. Where are you shooting now?” he asks.
“My legs.”
“I think the best bet is the jugular.” He examines my neck for a moment, then pulls an IV bag out of the box of supplies. “This is saline. You’re losing blood and need fluids to keep you from going into shock.”
“You’re not going to bandage it?” the blond bitch asks.
“There’s no point. He needs surgery.”
The guy is good and hits the jugular no problem. I can feel the cold of the saline rushing down my neck. Somehow the fluid triggers another wave of pain, and I start screaming again.
“Oh for Christ sake, shut up!” the bitch yells at me.
“He needs morphine.” The EMT turns to look at her.
“Well, give him fucking morphine then!”
“I can’t. They keep track of our supply.”
“So what the hell do you want me to do?”
The EMT just looks at her.
I keep screaming.
“No way. Esteban would kill me.” She shakes her head.
“We don’t have a choice. He wants him alive, doesn’t he?”
“No.” She keeps shaking her head.
“Yes.” The EMT nods.
“AHHHHHHH!!!” I scream.
“All right, this is all on you.” The blond bitch throws up her hands and disappears down the hall.
“Where the fuck’s the trolley?” I manage to stop screaming long enough to ask the EMT.
“Sorry,” he says.
“What the fuck do you mean,
I’m about to start screaming again when the bitch comes back with what looks like a blob of beige packing tape.
“I’m telling you, this is all on you.” She hesitates in front of the EMT. “I want no part of it.”
“Fine.”
He holds out his hand until she finally gives him the blob, and then uses a pair of medical shears to cut the tape away from one corner. Despite ten years of being a junkie I’ve never actually seen a whole kilo outside of TV news reports, so it takes me a second to comprehend what it is.
“Is that… Is that a fucking kilo?” I ask.
“Do you have your works on you?”
“What the fuck are you doing with a kilo?” I ask the blond bitch, but she’s back to the deep breathing exercises.
“Do you have your works on you?” the EMT calmly repeats the question.
I point to my right sock.
“I’m not going to get stuck, am I?” He hesitates.
“No. It’s capped.”
