Two: The Pieces

I didn’t sleep much last night. The look on Colón’s face when I shot him, a mix of disbelief and horror, stays with me. Like Macbeth, I can’t wash this blood off my hands. I decided to cover them instead.

I tried everything to get to sleep, not that it mattered much. I’m on leave from the fire department while Kelly is in the hospital. I tried some Tai Chi, but I have no center, no Qi, today. Lifting weights didn’t help much, either. Finally, I went out to the garage and got some honest dirt on my hands by working on my ’66 Chevelle, a car that my dad had passed on to me. He’d gotten everything right on the car, retro interior, straight body and perfect black paint, but he never did get it to run right. Far as I could tell, he’d spun a bearing and the only way to get to it was to crack her open. So, at two in the morning, I pulled the engine and spent the next four hours up to my elbows in grease. Then, I fell asleep.

Of course, I dreamed of killing Colón and Baldo. I slice his cheeks again with his own knife, fall to the ground in a heap when Baldo shoots me, take Baldo’s gun from him and kill them both. Only, maybe Baldo’s not dead. In my mind’s eye, I can still see him moving as I ran for the door, jumped in my pickup and…

The images drain from my eyes as a loud knocking at my front door startles me awake I don’t know where I am at first, but that doesn’t concern me as much as the thought that Baldo might still be alive and able to identify me. Further, what the hell did I do with that knife? Didn’t I leave it there? It has my prints and Colon’s blood all over it. No, no. I still clutched it when I hit the deck, and had it with me when I left. I remember wiping it down and bundling it in with my clothes and the gun, but I don’t remember seeing it hit the water…

The knocking at my door is not part of my dream, and it repeats. My body moves with the grace of a petrified mummy. Being shot and sleeping on an engine block will do that. I grab a shop towel and futilely wipe at the grease on my arms, eventually just giving up and opening the door.

The first thing I see, my eyes cast down with weariness, is a badge and a uniform stretched across a broad chest. Every ounce of weary drowns in a sudden rush of adrenaline. How did the cops find me already?

“Spears, old buddy, you look like shit.”

I look up and see that it’s not just any cop, but my friend Rocky, his thick brow knitted in concern. Cops and firefighters don’t always get along, but Rocky and I hit it off right away on a traffic accident three years ago. We both had the same gallows humor to deal with intertwined metal and bodies. We also both liked cars, and marital arts, though I hold a distinct advantage in that arena. I can kick his ass, to be blunt, to which he reminds me he can arrest me if I do. The balance swing back the other way, though, when we go shooting, a new hobby of mine, which, is the reason he’s here today.

“Rocky, I forgot.”

“Geez alou I thought I had a rough night, Spears. Whatcha do, sleep on your engine?” He’s razzing me, but I know he’s concerned. He knows about Kelly and that I haven’t been dealing with it well. I grin sheepishly and nod. Rocky tells me to hit the shower while he makes us coffee. I get most of the gunk off me, but my hands will never be clean again. After dressing quickly, I accept Rocky’s idea of coffee, which is basically hot, too-strong, and sludgy. I wonder if he’s left any grounds in the formerly half-filled can.

“Look, man, if you don’t want to go to the range today, it’s cool,” he says, eyeing me critically over his mug. “In fact, I could use the rest after the night I had. Luis Colon done got himself dead, and left a terrific bloody mess at the Smoking Gun Saloon.”

I nearly choke on my coffee. Of course I know that Rocky works the graveyard shift and should have figured that he’d be the one to respond to the scene in this one horse town of ours. I say nothing, and let him go on. Rocky is talkative for a cop, at least to me, and he usually tells me things that cops shouldn’t tell Joe Public about crime scenes and investigations. He doesn’t usually know much about the latter as a beat cop, but he likes to sniff around, hoping he’ll figure out how to make detective one day. Rocky tells me who Colon was and that his bodyguard is dead too. Inwardly, I am both relieved and saddened. Baldo can’t finger me now, but now I know I ended one other life. I also doubt that Rocky remembers telling me about Colón before, which is how I ran my own little investigation to track down who gave Kelly the heroin. Which reminds me, I’m supposed to be at the hospital in a few hours. From the depths of my own thoughts, I realize Rocky just asked me something. I ask him what.

“I said, ‘I guess I’ll be going since you’re a frickin’ space cadet today.’”

I almost let him go, but an idea seizes me.

“No, I really want to go.” I figure if I go shooting with a cop, I have a very good reason to have powder residue on my hands.

Rocky grunts and nods. “Just be careful, all right? I got my vest on, but with my dumb luck you’ll hit me in the head.”

“Can’t do much damage that way, either.”

He snorts at that. Rocky is good for all sorts of noises. Unfortunately for him, few of them ever say “I’m detective material.”

We walk outside and I can tell immediately that Rocky will insist on taking my truck. He’s got his wife’s POS 1994 Kia instead of the patrol car. While we try to keep ego out of our shooting sessions, you lose certain man points rolling up to the range in an econobox, no matter what hardware you’re packing. Rocky grabs his shooting gear out of the hatchback and I clamber up into my F-350. I almost miss the spot of blood on the seat. I know where it’s from, but I don’t freak out. Yes, I will have to clean it, but for the time being, it can pass as a ketchup stain from a spilled McDonald’s expedition. Rocky slings his gear on to the back bench seat, and I think nothing more of it. I’m surprised at how calm I am, how I’m getting used to this so quickly. That, in and of itself, troubles me.

I’m not a bad shot, but I’m not great either, which is why Rocky comes with me to these little sessions. He was the pistol trainer at the academy. That, and the fact you practically have to know a cop to get a gun in New York. We’re using his hardware today, as he wants me to get used to some of the larger calibers. You know, the kind I might take from a bodyguard to commit double homicide. I take to the .40 right away. I’m not a large guy, but I have big hands and I’ve got no problem gripping the gun and controlling it, now that Rocky tells me how to do it. Focused on his instructions, I don’t immediately see Colón’s face, but he haunts me soon after. I start double tapping to drive it away, and can feel Rocky looking at me like I’m going Rambo.

“Ease up there, Will Bill. That’s supposed to be a semi-automatic weapon.”

I put the gun down and manage not to shake until Rocky takes the firing line and starts dotting a target. Sitting, I let a little shiver run down my spine, sip my coffee, and breathe. I only fire a few more rounds before making the excuse that I have to get going in order to get to the hospital on time. Rocky complains that we didn’t even get to the really big stuff, but comes along anyway.

“Take my bag to the truck. I want to check out what they got for rent here, anyway,” he tells me, thrusting his bag into my hands. I open the back door to the crew cab. Colón’s knife falls off the seat and on to the ground.

As a rule, I try to limit how much I swear, but “oh fuck” seems appropriate here, so I say so. Quick as I can, I grab the knife and look for a place to stash it.

“Hey, Spears, they got a .500 here! We gotta light that puppy up next time,” Rocky says as he slaps me on the back. I hide the knife under his bag and go to place them both in the back seat.

“Hang on a second,” Rocky says. “What’s this?” He’s got one hand reaching for me, and the other around his back. I expect to feel the thud of cold steel around my wrists. If I still have any blood left in my face, it’s in my eyes, which are bugging out. Instead, he reaches for the bag and I hold it for him awkwardly, as if I’m his butler, pinning the knife to the underside.

“Forgot to put these ear plugs in the bag,” Rocky continues, rummaging through a pocket and stuffing the foam plugs inside. “Thanks, Jeeves.”

I wonder that Rocky doesn’t instantly tan, what with the heat from the blood rushing back to my face. I manage a quiet “Indeed, sir,” as I slide the bag on the seat, and the knife under it. It’s not secure, but it’s all I can manage with Rocky right there.

The road out from the range is bumpy, and my truck is setup with a stiff suspension, so I drive ramrod straight, listening for any sound of the knife coming loose. Rocky wants to stop by Dunkin’ Donuts for more coffee, as is our habit, and I can’t think of a good thing to say to not do it. When we hit the dip into the parking lot, I hear the telltale clatter.

“Get me the usual, would you? My feet are flat from last night,” Rocky says, massaging his instep.

“Uh, come in with me and pick out a doughnut. I’ll treat you to a box.”

Rocky flexes for me. “This physique look like it eats a lot of doughnuts? Come on, man, help a brother out.”

Out of ideas, I climb from the cab and cast a futile look into the back, trying to spy the knife. I can’t, so I try to set the new land speed record for buying coffee, which isn’t easy when they are “just brewin’ a new pot now!”

After a brief ice age that I’m sure has caused several white hairs to sprout on my head, I make it back to the truck.

Rocky holds Colon’s knife, heavy brow furrowed in scrutiny.

“You should get rid of this piece of shit, man,” he says. “This isn’t good steel, won’t hold an edge. The stupid little skull design on it does not make it cooler. Now this Ka-bar Dozier I’ve got is a great little tactical dealy. Sure, I know you martial arts guys don’t like folders, but…”

My scream cuts off whatever else he is going to say. I gripped the cup so tight, hot coffee bubbled over my hands. Rocky forgets about Colon’s knife and takes a look. My thumb blisters instantly, and it hurts like hell.

“At least it wasn’t your nuts, though I don’t think you’ll get a million for a thumb,,” Rocky laughs. He gets me a cup of ice from the store, and I stash the knife in the map pocket of the door. I can’t steer and shift with my thumb like this, so Rocky drives me to the hospital. He cracks wise at my expense a few more times while they are wrapping it, then hitches a ride back to my place with a patrolman just leaving the hospital. I breathe easily for the first time today, then gather my courage to go up an see Kelly.