Obsession

seconds, sirens bansheed from the south. Four sets of headlights.

When the quartet of Westside units roared up the duplex, I was out of the Seville, standing on the street side of the car, hands up, feeling cowardly, useless.

Listening to a new, sick silence.

Eight officers advanced, guns drawn. I spoke my piece and they left one officer behind to watch me.

I said, “My friend’s back there. Lieutenant Sturgis.”

She said, “We’ll just wait sir.”

It took way too long for a sergeant to return. “You can go back, Doctor.”

“Is he okay?”

Two more cops emerged, looking grave. I repeated the question.

The sergeant said, “He’s alive-Officer Bernelli, double-check what’s taking the EMTs so long. And ask for two ambulances.”

Milo sat on the bottom step of the rear landing, knees drawn almost to his chin, head down. Pressing something to his arm-his jacket, wadded up. His white sleeve had turned red and his color was bad.

He looked up. “Forget the lunch pail, this doesn’t count.”

“Are you-”

“Just a flesh wound, Kimo Sabe.” Big grin. “Always wanted to say that.”

“Let me do that.” I sat down next to him and pressed evenly on the jacket.

“We’ll do it together.” Another grin. “Like that Sesame Street song-‘Co-Operation.’ Most of those rag dolls are simps, but Oscar’s got it going on.”

“He does have his moments.” The things you talk about when your friend’s breathing turns raspy and his blood keeps seeping.

I pushed harder. He winced.

“Sorry.”

“Hey,” he said. “Nothing that can’t be replaced.” His eyes fluttered. I felt him shiver through his sleeve.

I put my arm around his shoulder, pressed tighter.

He said, “How cozy.”

We sat there. All the cops were out front except for one officer standing near the top of Tanya’s back steps.

Milo shivered again. What the hell was taking the ambulances so long?

The rear door to Tanya’s unit was shredded but the window remained in place.

Milo said, “How it happened was the bastard was crouched up there, I walked into it like a total rookie jackass, my goddamn gun’s still in the holster. Why the hell do I bother looking for trouble if I’m not ready for trouble? He opened up but I was out of range so I just caught a sprinkle. I jumped back in time to avoid the second blast and the third. Finally got hold of my trusty peashooter.”

“A sprinkle,” I said.

“It’s no big deal, pal. When I was a kid I caught some quail-shot in the butt when my brother Patrick got stupid. This feels a little heavier-duty but nothing humongous-maybe deer.”

“Okay, quiet-”

“Only a few pellets made their way to my manly biceps-”

“Great. No more talking.”

The patrolman at the top of the landing said, “Deershot? Gotta hurt like a bitch.”

Milo said, “No worse than root canal.”

The cop said, “I had that last year. Hurt like a bitch.”

“Thanks for the empathy.” To me: “Press as hard as you want. And don’t worry, okay? Everything’s copacetic. Not for him.” Laughter.

“He’s-”

“Go take a look. Do some advanced psycho-therapy.”

“I’ll stay here.”

“No, no, check it out, Alex. Maybe you can get one of those deathbed confessions.” Cracking up and leaking blood. “Tomorrow we get drunk and laugh about it.”

I sat there.

He said, “Go. Could be our last chance.”

Making sure his hand was secure on the jacket, I stood and approached the stairs.

The cop said, “Where you going, sir?”

Milo said, “I told him to.”

“Not a good idea, Lieutenant. This guy’s in no-”

“Don’t be a by-the-book lamebrain, Officer, and give the doctor a looky-loo. He’s family, won’t piss on the evidence.”

“Whose family?”

“Mine.”

The cop hesitated.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“Is that a direct order?”

“As direct as it gets. Give me any more lip and I’m coming up and bleeding all over you.”

The cop laughed uneasily and moved aside. I climbed the stairs.

Peterson Whitbread/Blaise De Paine was stretched on his back, head to one side, whitewashed in profile by the overhead bulb.

He’d shaved his head shiny, wore a two-carat diamond in his ear, a pair of chunky diamond rings on his left hand, three on his right. The gem-clogged bracelet of his Rolex Perpetual had been styled for a football tackle’s wrist and hung halfway down a narrow, pale hand.

Polished nails, blue-silver.

Slender young man, puny shoulders, bland baby-face, boy-sized wrists. Small frame diminished further by an oversized sweat suit, black and yellow and white velour, Sean John logo. Black patent-leather running shoes with curled-up toes sported a yellow cushion doodad on the side that resembled a carpenter’s bubble. Crisp soles.

New shoes for a big night out.

Lettering on the back of the sweat jacket read La Familia. Havana.

Below that: The Good Life.

Black, yellow, white. A little crushed bumblebee.

A clean black-cherry hole freckled one of his hands. Fabric puffed where bullets had entered his belly.

Eyes closed, mouth agape, no movement. Too late for any sort of confession.

Then I saw it: shallow up-and-down heaving of the bloodied torso.

The cop said, “He breathes once in a while but forget it. They shoulda called for a meat wagon.”

I stood there and watched Blaise De Paine fade away. A walnut-grip shotgun lay a foot from his right ankle. Three ejected pellet casings formed a rough triangle behind his body, inches from the shattered door.

Light behind the door, splinters on kitchen tile.

I said, “Anyone inside?”

The cop said, “The residents.”

“Girl and a boy?”

“Yup.”

“They okay?”

“She’s the one blew this loser away-you’d best be going back down now, coroner will need to certify the-”

Milo called, “You been watching too much TV, Officer.”

The cop gnawed his lower lip. “I were you, Lieutenant, I’d avoid too much exertion. Keep the metabolism as low as possible so you don’t bleed unnecessarily.”

“As opposed to all those necessary bleeds?”

“Sir-”