“I’ll see to Dalesia.”
This time the bat smashed his jaw and flung him again into the side wall. “Naa!” he screamed. “Naa!”
But the jaw wouldn’t work. He’d always used words; he was a talker; words got him into places and out of trouble, got him answers, got him everything he wanted; words had always saved him and protected him, but now all the words were gone, the jaw couldn’t work, and all he could bleat was, “Naa! Naa!” Even he didn’t understand himself.
“Say hello to Mike Harbin,” McWhitney said, so at least he got the answer to that question, and the bat was the fastest thing in the world.
6
I know, I know,” Wendy Beckham said into the phone, “I was supposed to be here yesterday. Things came up.”
“That’s okay,” her brother Jake said, from some hospital bed. “I ain’t going anywheres.”
Wendy pursued her own thought. A comfortably hefty woman in her mid-fifties, sensible from her neat gray hairdo to her flat shoes, Wendy Beckham Rodgers Beckham-again was used to pursuing her own thoughts, taking her own advice, making her own decisions, and helping out with the lives of those around her who needed help, whether they knew it or not. Like brother Jake, for instance.
“Family things,” she told him, “got in the way. Family things always come up, irritating but they’re your family, so you gotta do it. You wouldn’t know about things like that.”
“Come on, Wendy, not while I’m down.”
“You don’t sound down.”
“Then bring my tap shoes, we’ll go dancin.”
She took a deep breath. As usual, she had to fight aggravation just thinking about her baby brother, who would never stop being her brother, but would also never stop being a baby. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m busting your chops, and I shouldn’t do that.”
“Not till I’m on my feet.”
“I’ll just write everything down,” she said, “so I can wham you with it all at once, when you’re feeling better.”
“Then I’ll feel even better. When you coming over?”
“When are your visiting hours?”
“Eight a.m. to six p.m.”
“All day?”
“Well, I’m in a private room here. Wait’ll you see it. Better’n my house.”
“Jake, if you can afford that,” she said, judgmental and suspicious and not caring if she was, “I don’t wanna know
“Hey, listen, I got shot,” he told her. “
“There’s a new role to play. Listen, I gotta unpack, buy a couple groceries—you don’t stock up much around here—”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Okay, I’m not busting your chops. I’ll get there around two, okay?”
“Unless family things come up.”
“Now who’s busting whose chops?” she said, and hung up, and turned to the job of unpacking.
She’d never been in Jake’s mobile home before, but wasn’t surprised by what it looked like: a neat, compact, old-fashioned design with an overlay of Jake-the-slob. There were more dishes in the sink than on the shelf, and it had been a
Fortunately, he didn’t have that much clothing, so she could shove it all out of the way and put her own garments on hangers and shelves. His bathroom gear was at the hospital, leaving plenty of room—filthy sink—for hers.
She was just finishing up when a knock sounded, weirdly, on the metal door. Mistrustful, expecting no one, Wendy inched to the door, leaned against it, and called, “Who’s there?”
“Police.” But it was a woman’s voice.
Police? Something to do with the crime victim, no doubt. Wendy opened the door, and this didn’t look like any cop to
“That’s me.”
The cop smiled as though she knew a good joke about something, and said, “I’m Detective Second Grade Gwen Reversa, I’m assigned to your brother’s shooting. May I come in?”
“Sure. I just got here,” Wendy explained as the detective entered and Wendy shut the door. “Sit down anywhere. I’m still unpacking.”
“I asked the beat cop to keep an eye on the place,” Detective Reversa said, “let me know when you showed up.”
They both sat in Jake’s sloppy yet comfortable living room, and Wendy said, “I was supposed to get here yesterday, but there’s always last-minute fires to put out on the home front. I just called Jake at the hospital, he certainly sounds okay.”
