“Sit still. Have you experienced any blurred or abnormal vision?”
“Yeah,” he winced.
“Pussy,” Buck said. “A real man would put a horsehair in the wound, cherish the sweet pain of infection, and wear the scar with pride.”
Marty opened his eyes and saw Buck standing beside him, munching a handful of Oreos.
“I’m glad I’m not a real man,” Marty replied. “I’ll live longer.”
Angie dabbed at his wound some more. “Is that what you were trying to prove back there? That you’re a real man?”
“I just wanted to buy a new pair of shoes,” Marty glanced back at Drillface, who sneered at him.
“And what about the guns?” she asked.
Marty glanced at Buck. “That wasn’t my idea.”
She leaned back, looking at him with concern. “Have you experienced dizziness, poor balance, or nausea?”
“Not in the last few minutes, but yeah, I have.”
“I don’t like the look of that laceration, or the bruising and swelling. I wish I’d examined it closer before, I wouldn’t have taken your blood.”
“It looks worse than it is,” Marty said. “It didn’t bleed that much.”
Marty didn’t mention the gunshot wound. His jacket was so torn and dirty, she must not have noticed the bloody rip in his shoulder. If he pointed it out, she’d probably tell the nearest police officer, and then he’d be stuck here for hours.
Besides, it’s just a flesh wound, right?
“I’m going to clean that cut, stitch it up, then give you a tetanus shot. After that, you should stay put for a while.”
“Eat my cookies and juice, I know.”
“I meant until a doctor can take a look at you.”
“I thought a doctor was.”
“I’m a nurse practitioner.”
Buck snorted. “A real man would crawl into an earthen shelter and apply a poultice of cow dung, bacon fat, and crushed leaves. Fuck this cotton ball shit.”
“Ignore him,” Marty told Angie.
“I think you may have a concussion,” she gave him a grave look. As grave looks go, it was pretty good, but Marty still wasn’t worried. He didn’t know anything about medicine, but he was an experienced TV viewer.
“Mannix had thousands of them. All he did was rub the back of his neck and jump into his convertible. How serious could it be?”
“Nothing five Advil and a beer can’t cure,” Buck opined.
She sighed. Not just any sigh, but one that expressed her deep disapproval, frustration, and scorn. Women were particularly good at the sigh. Marty figured it must be genetic, that Neanderthal women sighed in exactly the same way as their mates returned to the cave.
“You really should wait and see a doctor,” Angie said.
“I can’t. I’ve got to get home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Calabasas.”
“That’s too far. You shouldn’t be walking, not until you’ve had a neurological exam.”
“And how many days until that happens?”
Angie didn’t say anything, which told him all he needed to know. She sighed, a completely different sigh than the one before. This one signaled her reluctant acceptance. Marty motioned to the helicopter idling on the field.
“If you’re so concerned about my health, how about having one of those choppers drop me off at home next time they pass over the valley?”
“Unfortunately, it’s not a taxi service. I wish it was.”
“Where would you go?”
“My mother lives in Marina del Rey. A condo two blocks from the beach. They say the ground under everything turned into quicksand.”
“I’m sorry.”
Angie shrugged. “I’m sure she’s alive. I would feel it if she wasn’t, know what I mean?”
Marty nodded, wanting to believe that was true, not only for her, but for himself.
Angie removed the needle in his arm, taped a cotton ball against the pin-prick, and told him she’d come back to take care of his forehead in a few minutes. She left Marty with a pack of Oreos and a small carton of orange juice.
Buck watched her go. “Did you see how she was trying not to look at me?”
“She was ignoring you. There’s a difference.” Marty wasn’t in the mood for Buck right now.
“She wants a slice of the big pie.”
“The what?”
“She needs the incredible Buck Fuck.”
Marty couldn’t believe Buck’s insensitivity, not that he was Michael Bolton himself. “She hates you, that’s why she was ignoring you.”
“You don’t know shit about romance,” Buck hiked up his pants, ran a finger over his teeth, and wiped it on his shirt. “Stay here, I don’t want you cramping my style.”
As Buck marched off to offend Angie, Marty lay back on his cot and sipped some orange juice.
The cut on his forehead stung. He’d need stitches. The scar would give him character. And as he thought about it, Marty realized maybe Buck was right. He didn’t know much about romance, not that the “incredible Buck Fuck” qualified.
Five years ago, Marty was still single and living as a freelance reader, taking a stack of scripts home each week to synopsize and critique for various studios. He was sitting in his apartment one day, reading a buddy-cop screenplay he was going to trash in his report-a script that would, two years later, become one of the highest grossing movies of all time-when his phone rang.
It was the UCLA Medical Center Emergency Room. Beth had been hit by a car in Westwood and gave his name as an emergency contact. They needed him to come down right away.
All at once, he experienced a string of cliches: his heart skipped a beat, his knees wobbled, and he had trouble breathing. Those feelings he expected. What surprised him was the terror. The idea that he nearly lost her, that she might be suffering right now, made him want to scream.
Marty demanded to know details, what kind of injuries she had, how badly she was hurt. But the nurse wouldn’t answer his question; she just told him to come down as soon as possible.
He made the drive from their apartment in West LA up to Westwood in about fifteen minutes, running two red lights and nearly hitting a bike rider himself. Marty could barely see through his tears or think past his terror.
He was her emergency contact? He didn’t know that. When did that happen? When did she decide to give him that responsibility for her? When did he become more important to her than her family?
Marty parked, wiped his eyes on his sleeve, and told himself to be strong. For her. He was her Emergency Contact.
Family Feud was on the TV in the ER waiting room as Marty rushed in. None of the worried people sitting in the stiff, plastic chairs were watching it. He knew his face looked just like theirs.
Marty went up to the desk, told them he was Beth’s emergency contact, and they led him to one of the large rooms. Three gurneys were separated from one another by curtains. A little boy was sobbing, clutching his parents, as a doctor removed a nail from his foot. A woman in her twenties lay in a bed, covered with hives, reading People Magazine. And on the next gurney was Beth, her eyes closed, a big, open gash across her chin.
Her blouse was splashed with blood. Her legs, arms, and cheeks were covered with scratches. He swallowed a scream and rushed to her side, afraid to touch her.
“Beth?”
