Good Morning, Killer

“Things are still touch-and-go.”

“Can I see him?”

“He’s in intensive care,” said Barry. “They’re only allowing family.”

That would be his sister down from Oakland. Did Andrew say he had a brother, too? Somewhere in Florida? The euphoria that had lifted me plain off the floor at Jason’s news that Andrew was not only alive, but claiming he had been the victim of a robbery, and we were going to get through this thing, crashed. Now there were frightened family members waiting in a hospital corridor.

“You said he drove himself to the hospital.”

“He did, but he collapsed. They rushed him into surgery. One of the bullets pierced his lung.”

“Oh my God.”

“That was okay,” Barry went on, “but then he had a cardiac arrest in the ER.”

“No!” I shouted.

Barry was saying things like, “Take it easy. He’ll make it. He’s as tough as they come—”

“I’m sorry, it’s just so—”

“It’s a shock.”

“Why didn’t anybody call me?”

“At a time like this,” he said stiffly, “you tend to close ranks.”

“But he’ll pull through?”

“He’s in a coma, Ana.”

The pain in my kidneys. Everything. I was just undone.

“They don’t know,” he went on. “They’re watching him. Real close. He might have to have heart surgery later on. They found some underlying situation, I’m not exactly clear on that.”

I couldn’t speak. He let me be with it.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay,” I managed. “Thanks, Barry. So, look. Any suspects?”

“Not yet. He hasn’t been able to say a hell of a lot.”

“Did you recover the gun?”

There was a pause. “No such luck.”

“Stay in touch, okay?”

“You got it, hon.”

What’s the matter?” Barbara asked as soon as I walked into her office.

“Andrew was shot. As if you didn’t know.”

“I don’t know. How could I know?”

“Jason knows. The girls in the radio room know.”

I sank to the couch. Barbara went down on one knee, putting herself below me, as you would not to agitate a child, and asked very gently what happened. I told her about the armed robbery and intensive care but then came a round of tears no amount of head slamming was going to stop.

Soon Mike Donnato was in the room and the door was closed and the two of them were beside me on the couch; their hands were quiet on my hands, their voices low and steady.

These were professionals.

“Are you serious about this guy?” asked Mike.

“I care about him.”

“Doesn’t sound like a match made in heaven,” Barbara said.

“Well, it blows hot and cold.”

Mike: “As it were.”

Barbara smacked him. “All I can say is, Ana dear, you better know where you were that night.”

I winced. “Not funny.”

“Irish humor.”

“He’ll be all right.” Mike shifted his head so I could see the constancy in his eyes. “The bullet wounds sound like no big deal.”

“What about the heart attack?”

“Same thing happened to my uncle,” he said stalwartly. “Eighty-three years old, goes in for a hernia operation and his heart stops. Major alcoholic, so you’d think, End of story. Well, he’s in Vegas, as we speak.” “In a pickle jar, in Ripley’s Believe It or Not,” said Barbara.

“He was a good uncle to me.”

“Why? Because he took you out and got you laid when you were twelve?”

“Actually,” said Mike, “we didn’t have sex in our family.”

“You still don’t,” observed Barbara.

“That’s not entirely true.”

“They have a chameleon,” was my contribution through a swollen nose. “And the chameleon just had babies.”

“See?” said Mike.

“I think there’s a cable channel devoted to exactly that sort of thing,” Barbara replied. “Why don’t you go home, girl?”

“That would be worse.”

I never wanted to go back to that apartment again.

“Sit here,” said Mike. “I’m going to get you an iced vanilla blended.”

“Can I have one, too?” called Barbara as he left. Her phone was ringing. “Nicest man in the world.”

I knew that.

“Yes, she’s in here.” Pause. “Ana, it’s for you.” Her eyes were sober. Her whole body was sober as she moved to give me the phone. “It’s the lieutenant from the Santa Monica police.”

“I just spoke to him, two minutes ago.” Panicked. “Is it about Andrew?”

She sat down close and put her arm around me.

“Barry?” I whispered.

“Since you asked about the weapon, I thought you’d want to know. Just got word. We think we found it.”

“You found it? Where?”

“In Andy’s car.”

“In Andy’s car? How could that be?”

“I don’t know, he sure as hell didn’t shoot himself, but it’s a thirty-two, same size as the slugs.”

“Well, that’s good news.” I turned to Barbara with a madcap grin. “They recovered the gun!”

Sixteen

The automatic doors swung open, I walked into the deserted lobby, and my knees went out like rubber bands. Eight-fifteen at night is not the time to be visiting a hospital. Not when the rest of the world is washing its dishes and doing homework, families coming together after the day. Night shift in a hospital is the time for separation and good-byes, for facing the hours of darkness, in whatever bed, alone.

Bad things happen in a hospital at night. Knife wounds, sick patients taking turns for the worse, walleyed weirdos on the graveyard shift of the nursing staff. What you did not care to know during the day, you definitely do not want to know now, lost in a maze of empty corridors smelling of institutional mashed potatoes and gravy, buildings and parking structures cloaked in shadow; no escape. To run out of here screaming would put you right into the arms of the dark.