Dead and Gone (3 page)

I
t was a teaching hospital. That’s why they were always studying me, this one resident said. He was working on his skills just by talking to me, perfecting that superior-snotty-scary tone they all need to armor themselves against the world’s knowing that they don’t know much.

E
arly one morning, Morales showed up. I’d known him a long time. A cop. He’d never liked me, but I didn’t take it personally. Morales didn’t like anyone except his old partner MacGowan. And MacGowan was long gone—pulled the pin on himself rather than talk to IAD after Morales smoked a bad guy and then flaked him with the throwdown piece he always carried. Morales was an old-style street roller, not a trace of slickness in him. A pit bull—once he locked on, he’d die holding the bite. And if he owed you, he’d pay it off or die trying.

He owed me, heavy.

“What happened?” he asked, no preamble.

“Who’re you?”

“Gonna be like that, huh?”

“Like … what? Who
are
you?”

He pinned me with his black ball-bearing eyes, as communicative as mirrored sunglasses. I looked back at him, blankness burning through haze.

“You really don’t …?”

“You … you’re a cop, right?”

“How’d you guess, pal?”

“The only people who come to see me are cops. There’s two others. Blade and Weber, or something.”

“Baird and Wheelwright. They’re out of the Four-Four in the South Bronx.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. You don’t know me?”

“Was I … Am I a cop?”

His laugh was metallic. He reached down, took my hand. He turned it over, looked at the palm, as if he was going to tell my fortune. “You didn’t have a piece on you when they dumped you here,” he said. “That don’t mean nothing by itself. But the gauntlet came up clean. You passed the paraffin.”

I made a noise. Less than a grunt, just enough to let him know I was listening.

“Deal is, the hospital’s got to call us whenever there’s a gunshot wound. It’s the law, okay? There was no ID on you. Nothing. So they run your prints. That’s when they tested your hands for powder residue.”

I made another low noise.

Morales reached over and took my hand. “Give me your best,” he told me, squeezing slightly.

I squeezed back. With all I had.

“Not yet,” Morales said.

He dropped my hand, turned his back, and walked out of the room.

W
hen you’re in solitary, either you spend all your time getting ready, or you go somewhere else … inside your head. But the ticket to that other place costs too much. And there’s no guarantee it’ll be a round-trip.

So you do push-ups. Start wherever you can. Maybe just five, before you fall on your face. Doesn’t matter. Nobody’s watching. Do more the next time.
Every
time.

Isometrics are good, too. Walls are perfect for that.

Then you work on your mind. Remembering. Trying for every tiny detail. Every ridge, warp, taste, and texture. You do replays. In slow motion. Paying attention to the women you’ve been with the way you never did when you were right next to them. No fantasies allowed. They’re dangerous … part of that ticket to somewhere else. Got to be real. Memories. Truth. Whatever happened. Whatever
really
happened—nothing else allowed.

You can’t force memories. What color were those striped pants Belle used to wear? Vertical stripes. Michelle told the big girl they were slimming. Remember those stripes. They climbed up her long legs nice and parallel, but when they got to her butt, they ran in opposite directions like they were scared of each other. Remember her grunting and tugging at them, trying to get them on. What
color
were they?
Concentrate
.

But don’t press. It’s there. It’s in there. It’s all in there.

And I was going to need every bit of it soon.

In solitary, you don’t tell time by the sun, or by a clock. You tell it by meals. No matter what they are, no matter how bad they taste, they mark the time. Sometimes you can get a trusty to talk to you. Sometimes even a guard. If you’re connected good enough, your people can get stuff to you, too. But you can’t count on any of that. Just the meals. And the getting ready.

I worked and I rested and I ate. That’s all I did. But I did it all as hard as I could, gave it everything I had. So I’d have more to give it the next time.

“T
he optic nerve was impacted,” one of the endless doctors told me. “The bullet also tore some of the muscles that keep the eyes operating binocularly.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, speaking slowly. Carefully, like I wasn’t used to it yet.

“There won’t be any need for a … prosthesis. The right eye won’t process images, and there may be some slight pigmentation shift, but it’s organically sound. It doesn’t have to be removed. It may, however … wander a bit.”

“Wander?”

“The two eyes will no longer work as one. You’ll still be able to read, drive a car, do everything you did before. Your depth perception will be affected, but that’s just a matter of acclimation—you won’t even notice it after a while.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “But you’re one lucky man; I can tell you that. If the bullet had been a fraction of a millimeter off its path, you’d be dead. Or severely brain-damaged, without question.”

“I can’t remember …”

“That’s really not my department,” he brushed me off. “My specialty is ophthalmological surgery. This consultation is about your vision. We wanted you to have a sense of the various … sensations you’ll be experiencing when we remove the bandaging.”

“When will you—?”

“In a week or two, perhaps,” he said dismissively. The three young residents didn’t say anything, watching him deal with the stupid bum who’d gotten himself beat up and shot in the head.

When he was done, they followed him out of the room, a small flock of white-coated sheep.

“T
he reason it hurts so much to swallow is that your sternum is cracked,” Rich said.

“Sternum?”

“The central bone in your chest. In fact, it’s the central bone in your entire body. All the other bones grow from that point.”

“Oh.”

“And, of course, your throat is significantly abraded. From when you ripped the tubes out.”

“I don’t …”

“Of course not. You were unconscious then. Or, at least, in some subconscious state. Anyway, there’s no permanent damage. Everything will heal. You’ll be the same as you were before.”

“What was I … before?”

“That will come, too,” Rich promised.

I
would
not
think of Pansy. I would not do it. I knew what it would cost. I had to wait until I could make the payments.

“H
ow’s your memory coming?” one of the cops asked me.

“I remember
you,”
I told him, trying for a proud tone in my voice, like a good kid who’d done all his chores. “You’re Detective Bond, right?”

“Baird.”

“Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he said, shooting a look over at his partner. “Any of it coming back to you?”

“The accident …”

“Accident? No. You were shot. In the head. Didn’t they tell you?”

“Said … something. My eye. But I thought it was … in the car, maybe? Then it crashed? I don’t …”

“Come on,” Baird said to his partner. They both stood up and walked out.

C
ops play suspects like they’re fish.

“Fish”—that’s what the cons call new prisoners.

“Incoming.” In war, that word’s always bad news. Inside, it means fresh meat … but some of that news can be just as bad, if you read it wrong.

Inside, they test you right away. But even the wolves walk soft and patient. The ones that don’t, sooner or later they make a mistake. They think some skinny, baby-faced kid will give it up the first time he gets threatened with a beating. Or a shank. But some of those little kids, prison is the nicest place they’ve ever been. And they know just what to do to make it even nicer.

In prison, the wolf population is stable. They’re always around. But not always the same ones.

The first thing you do when you hit the yard is—
Stop!
I shouted inside myself, nothing showing on my face. My mind was … drifting. I needed to focus. I had started with something. Where had I …?

Yeah, okay, the cops. Playing me. Like they had all the time in the world. I knew what a crock that was. Sure, they knew who I was. Knew somebody had tried to take me out, too. But I wasn’t dead. This was no homicide investigation, just another “assault, perp(s) unknown.” And they had enough of those on the books to build another World Trade Center just from the paperwork.

Their ace was the hospital, keeping me locked down the way no judge would. It’s not a crime to be a victim in New York. Even if you’re a career criminal on the Permanent Suspect List for a dozen different Unsolveds.

If they knew who I was, they knew I had people. “KAs”—Known Associates—is what they’d call my family in their records. For cops, family is something you’re born into. Pure biology.

Didn’t use to be that way with them, but now they don’t even trust their own kind. The Blue Wall had cracked too many times; too many cops had rolled on their “brother” officers. They didn’t think of themselves the way they used to when a cop had to be Irish to get above a certain ceiling in the Department. Didn’t matter what you called it—integration, immigration, affirmative action—it all played the same in the end. Once NYPD stopped being all-white, it stopped being all right with a lot of them.

And the rest of them all knew it.

Screenwriters who spend a few nights in the back of a squad car for “background” always make hatred of Internal Affairs part of the “character” of any cop they want you to like. Of course, screenwriters are the same twits who believe
omertà
is rat-proof.

So the rules may have changed, but cops still play the same old games. There was a phone right next to my bed. I never got any calls—that wasn’t why it was there. I wondered what part of the City’s budget was paying for my private line. And what tame judge had signed the wiretap order.

One night, real late, I reached for the phone. Punched seven different buttons at random, making sure I didn’t hit the 1 or the 0 to start. A man answered, his voice blurry with sleep.

“Hello?”

“Is Antonia there?”

“Antonia?
What’re you, fucking insane, Mack? There ain’t no Antonia here!”

He slammed down the phone.

I did it a few more times: seven buttons, punched blind. Mostly, I got a recording saying the number was not in service; twice I got answering machines; the last time a black woman, middle-aged, her voice tired. Just coming home from work, or just getting ready to leave.

“There’s no Antonia here, mister. What number you trying to reach?”

“I … don’t know,” I told her, sadness in my voice. Then I hung up.

“Play with
that
, motherfuckers,” I remember saying to myself, just before I fell asleep.

A
few more days passed. Then the cops tried something even A weaker. This time the phone didn’t just sit there—tempting me, they thought—it rang. I answered it on automatic, like a guy who had no specific memories of who he was, but knew he had to be
someone
:

“Hello?”

“Burke? It’s me, Condo.”

I knew him. A collector for Maurice, a bookie I used to place my action with. People thought he was called Condo because he was the size of a damn condominium. People who didn’t know him, that is. The rest of us knew where his handle came from: he was for sale or rent. That was one of the reasons the rollers picked him; the other was because I’d know his voice on the phone.

“Huh?” is all I said.

“I heard about what happened to you,” Condo said, his voice low and confidential, just between me and him. And the whirling reels of tape. “I got the lowdown on who tried to get you done. What’s it worth to you?”

“What? Who
is
this?”

“I
told
you, man: Condo. You know me. Now, you want this dope or not?”

“You know who … did this?”

“What?”

“You know who … hurt me?”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you, man. How much is it worth—?”

“The police …” I said, my voice getting weaker.

“They don’t know nothing, man. I got this from—”

“The police said it was on purpose. I … don’t remember. A car … something about a car. Tell the police. They’re trying to help me. Call the police. Tell them who did this. They need to know.”

“Are you fucking insane?”

“I know you?”

“Of
course
you know me, man. I
told
you …”

“Then you know me? You know who I am?”

“The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“I … don’t know. I don’t know … who I am. I can’t … Can you come here? You’re my friend, aren’t you? Maybe if I see your face I’ll—”

“You crazy cocksucker!” Condo said, and slammed down the phone.

T
he cops had to be getting desperate. Eventually, I’d get better. At least enough to be released. All they could do was wait for that, and watch. But Rich said they never discharged people who were amnesiac, just transferred them to “another facility.” He looked sad when he said that.

I couldn’t figure out why the cops were on this so hard. Had they found that kid’s body? So what? It wouldn’t link to me.

Unless they found Pansy and … I felt my heart stop for a few seconds. It just … stopped. Pansy. She’d be all they’d need to know I’d been there.

I made myself calm, worked with what I had. The “two men” who brought me to the hospital, they had to be family. And they must have unwrapped the Kevlar from my body first—that’s why the doctors thought the broken ribs and stuff were from blunt objects, not bullets. So my people must have Pansy’s … body.

The cops, they had nothing.

Endurance. Outlast them. Sooner or later, they all get tired. I had no strength anyplace but in my mind. So I worked there. Stayed there. I knew my job. And Morales had made it clear that I wasn’t ready to do it yet.