Читать книгу Cold Type - Harvey Araton - Страница 8

Chapter Two

“There’s some blood,” Carla Delgado said. She cradled Jamie’s head on her thigh. Someone from the small circle of onlookers produced an ice pack.

When Carla applied the compress, the cold jolted Jamie back to consciousness.

“Small cut,” she said, pulling back to inspect the damage. “Just a little blood.”

Eyes still closed, Jamie recognized the husky, accented mix of San Juan and New York. It was the sultry yet robust voice of the Trib’s office manager.

“He got lucky,” Carla said. “Looks like when he fell, his head landed on his bag and not the sidewalk. I don’t think it’s going to need stitches, just some ice and a Band-Aid. But the eye, it’s starting to swell up a bit.”

Caressing his cheek, she shouted: “Jamie, can you hear me?”

He opened his eyes. He wasn’t quite sure where he was but he liked the feeling of her hand on his face, the light but scratchy touch of her long fingernails. What felt even better was his head resting on the stocking covering her thigh. Her breath smelled of spearmint gum.

“One of the drivers ran you over.”

“I got hit by a car?”

“No,” Carla said, shaking her head, giggling a bit. She couldn’t help but be amused by his incoherence.

“Not by a car. One of the drivers, our truck drivers, happened to be running by just as you walked outside and knocked you over. This guy here saw what happened.”

The haze lifting, Jamie was able to place himself outside the building. He remembered more now—the forearms extended, the clenched fists, even the breathy aroma of potato chips.

“This guy…came at me…don’t know why…”

He lifted his head off her thigh. Carla continued to apply the ice pack and pushed him back down.

“It was an accident, he didn’t mean to take you out,” said a man in a navy blue hooded sweatshirt and a Mets cap pulled so low that his eyes were hidden.

“Jamie, listen,” Carla said. “The drivers just walked off the job a little while ago. Management is trying to move the trucks with scab drivers they must have had hidden nearby. All hell just broke loose. Someone was running by here just as you stepped outside. You understand?”

In the distance, there was more obscene shouting. When Jamie turned to look into the street, blurry as his naked night vision was, he could make out a Trib delivery truck, immobilized in the intersection. Its windshield was smashed. The dumped contents were burning, dozens of bundles of Monday editions—hundreds of copies of Jamie’s story suffering the worst of all possible trims.

Carla and the handful of bystanders anxiously watched a cavalry of ranting Trib drivers moving in the direction of the trucks that were lined up behind the one that was attacked. A phalanx of city cops was trying to push them out of the street. Police cars were haphazardly parked with their driver-side doors flung open.

“I must have just followed you down in the elevator,” Carla said. “When I opened the door, you were laying here.”

“For how long?” he asked.

Men rushed past them, wielding baseball bats. One yelled, “Scab bastards.”

“Jamie, are you listening to me? Should I send someone up to get your father?”

The acrid air from the drifting smoke seemed to act as a stimulant—unless it was Carla’s request to call his old man.

“Why would you do that?”

“So he can drive you home,” she said. “You don’t look so good.”

He sat up and took the ice pack from Carla.

“I’m fine,” he said. “I can drive.”

He noticed his broken glasses on the ground next to him. He unzipped his shoulder bag to find the extra pair of tortoise shell glasses he always carried there. Back on his feet, his head throbbed, as if someone had cranked up the bass too high.

He straightened up, replacing the bag on his shoulder.

“Take the ice pack with you,” Carla said.

“What exactly did you say is going on?” Jamie said.

Her first-aid mission complete, Carla was already moving off in the direction of the mob.

“Go home,” she called back, glancing sympathetically over her shoulder, pressing a palm to her eye. “Keep using that ice.”

Jamie decided to take her advice. He’d had enough excitement for one night—and enough damage done. His jeans were torn at the left knee and his right ankle felt like he’d twisted it during his fall. It took him several seconds to remember where his Corolla was parked. He walked away with a slight limp and made the short drive over the bridge into downtown Brooklyn for what he hoped would be a decent night’s sleep.

With any luck, the drivers would be delivering newspapers again by the time he woke up—not burning them.