couldn’t make out the word from twenty-two steps up.
“It’s not Saturday,” I called.
“I know that,” said Viviase on the phone. “You losing it, Fonesca?”
“Darrell just showed up,” I said.
“It’s not Saturday,” said Viviase, who knew of my weekly commitment to Darrell.
“I know,” I said.
Darrell had grown in the time he had been trailing me once a week. He looked forward to being with me because, as he said, “Man, something’s always happening with you. Guns, dead people, and shit. You are an education, Fonesca.”
I did not want to be an education, but I had grown used to seeing Darrell.
Darrell started up the steps. Victor started to move over so Darrell could sit.
“One more question,” I said into the phone.
“Yeah.”
“Why are you helping me?”
The pause was long. He was considering telling me something.
“He may not be guilty, and it’s not really my case, but if you’re looking into it…”
Darrell was almost in front of me now. He had bounded up the steps. He wasn’t panting. I remember once, when I was fourteen, lying in my bed and praying to God to let me live through Saturday because I had a soccer game on Saturday. We lost the game to Lane Tech, and I missed an easy goal. God did let me live, but it didn’t look as if he were about to do the same for Darrell.
I could now clearly see what was printed on the front of Darrell’s T-shirt. It read, in black block letters, “Pope John Paul II Girl’s Volleyball Team Kicks Ass.”
There was a crack in the air, a sudden sharp pinging sound from somewhere on the side of the house with the pool. Darrell lifted his head toward the sky as if he were startled by the sudden appearance of a UFO. Then he arched his back, groped over his left shoulder blade as if he had a sudden itch.
He was about to tumble backward down the stairs.
I dropped the phone and reached for him. His right hand almost touched mine and he bent over backward. Victor Woo was up, behind Darrell now, stopping his fall, setting him gently on the small landing in front of my door. Victor was holding the rickety handrail and taking the steps two at a time.
I knelt next to Darrell and groped for the phone.
“Fonesca, what the hell is going on?” asked Viviase.
“Someone shot Darrell. Send an ambulance.”
Victor hit the ground running like a sprinter. If he was lucky, he would catch up with the shooter. If he wasn’t lucky, he would catch up with the shooter. Victor was armed with nothing.
“I’m on the way,” Viviase said and ended the connection.
Darrell was groaning. A good sign.
“What the fuck, Fonesca? Oh. I like the action, but I don’t want to be the victim. You know what I’m saying?”
I rolled him gently onto his side.
“This isn’t for real,” he whimpered. “Why’d anyone want to shoot me?”
“I think they were trying to shoot me,” I said. “You got in the way.”
“I took a bullet for you?”
“Yes, but I’m guessing it was a pellet, not a bullet.”
“Hurts like a bullet.”
“You’ve been shot before?”
“Hell no,” he said and then gasped. “Life’s funnier than shit. You know what I’m saying? My mother’s going to be all over your ass, Fonesca. Jesus, it hurts. Am I going to die?”
“Yes, but so am I. You’re not going to die for a while.”
“You know how to make Christmas come early, don’t you Fonesca?”
“Ambulance is on the way,” I said.
“You ever been shot at, Fonesca?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A few times.”
“Last time?”
“This morning.” An actor took that pellet in the eye.
There was no doubt where the pellet had entered Darrell, just below the left shoulder blade. The hole was small, the T-shirt was definitely ruined. There was blood dripping from the wound, but it didn’t look as if anything vital had been hit.
Police headquarters was, at maximum, a five-minute drive from where Darrell lay bleeding. Viviase made it in three, and somewhere in the distance an ambulance siren cut through the twilight.
4
The emergency room triage nurse, a wiry thin woman with wiry thin straw-colored hair, looked up at me and said, “You’re back, Mr. …”
“Fonesca.”
“Are you…?”
“I’m fine. I’m here about Darrell Caton. He was brought in here by ambulance a few minutes ago.”
“What’s your relationship to him?”
“I’m his big brother,” I said. “It’s complicated.”
She looked from me to Ames to Victor and said, “He’s being ta k en care of by a doctor. His mother is on the way. Just have a seat.”
We had a seat.
That was when Victor told his story.
“I took your bicycle from under the stairs,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I went after the shooter, who I saw running from behind the house across the street. He was carrying a rifle.”
“What were you planning to do?” asked Ames.
“I don’t know.”
In a seat across from us, a drunk cradled a limp arm with his good arm like a baby. He snorted in half sleep.
“You chased him,” I said, getting Victor back on track.
“He ran down Laurel. When I turned the corner onto the street
…”
“Laurel,” I said.
Victor knew almost nothing about Sarasota geography. He had spent most of his time in town squatting in my two former rooms.
“What’d he look like?” Ames asked.
“I don’t know, it was starting to get dark. He was a block away. He opened a car door, threw the rifle inside, climbed in, and started to drive away when I was about forty yards from him.”
“He got away,” said Ames with a touch of disapproval.
“He drove west. I followed him. I don’t know where we went. North, I think, then west again. He ran a light on Oxbay…”
“Osprey,” said Ames.
Victor nodded.
