Читать книгу Ties That Blind - Zachary Klein - Страница 7

Lou said the bar was close to Forest Hill Station, but it wasn’t close enough. When the city moved the overhead El ten blocks north into a neatly coifed, middle class trench, it promised the working people, working people who now had to trudge an extra ten blocks, they would dismantle the useless metal girders that kept Washington Street in perpetual dusk. The Pols also promised an end-to-end refurbishing of the dilapidated buildings that lined much of the boulevard. They did remove the hulking overhead, but only partially kept the rest of their rehabilitation promise; the half that gentrified in the frenzied speculation that follows any large urban development project.

I was cruising the city’s unkempt half looking for Jimmy’s among carwashes, warehouses, and the Transit Authority’s bus barn. It took two passes before I finally spotted the hole-in-the-wall tavern nestled on a small side street. Somehow, I didn’t think the bar attracted too many first-timers.

My hunch was confirmed when I opened the door, caught a couple of quick looks from the human barstools, then was immediately ignored as soon as it became apparent I wasn’t a member of the tribe. I had wondered how the kid had gotten to a telephone booth without attracting attention. Now I knew; if you weren’t a regular you weren’t there.

It took a couple of seconds to see through the smoke filled haze, a couple more to fight a sharp urge for a double Wild Turkey when the heartwarming smell of booze and tobacco hit my nose. Then I reminded myself there wasn’t a chance in hell the joint served my beast. No matter what the label promised. Whoever owned this dump was paying serious scratch to let the barstools light up wasn’t gonna serve the real deal.

I don’t know what I expected when I pulled on the flimsy, folding telephone door, but it wasn’t the well-built long-hair wearing a blood soaked karate outfit and open-toe sandals. His age also threw me. I’d imagined Lou’s “kid” as a sixteen year old. This robed Schwarzenegger was in his late twenties..

He looked at me with zonked-out eyes and tried to close the door with trembling fingers, but I kept my foot flush to the cheap slatted wood. The receiver dangled at the end of its coiled metal cord and I heard a woman’s firm, controlled, “Ian, Ian, are you still there? Stay with me, Ian!”

I reached past the swaying Ian and grabbed the phone. “This is Matt Jacob. Your son is conscious, but he’s in pretty bad shape. There’s a lot of blood on his... his...”

“Gi, the robe he wears,” the woman interrupted impatiently. “Could you see if the knife is in his stomach? He told me he threw it away, but I’m not sure he really knows what he’s saying.”

I carefully opened the “gi” and peered at his bloody body. Knife marks scored his muscular abdomen as if he had used his belly for a game of tic-tac-toe. Although the scratches oozed, most of the wounds appeared superficial. Two gashes didn’t. They looked ugly and deep. I pulled my first-aid kit—a dishtowel from Boots’s apartment—out of my back pocket and pressed it against his belly. Then I tried to get him to hold the towel in place. Ian’s grip was ineffectual so I wedged part of my body into the booth, held his hand on the towel with one of my own, and grasped the receiver with the other.

“The knife is out but a couple punctures look pretty serious. Shattuck Hospital is a lot closer than Beth Israel.”

“No, please! Ian wants to go to B.I. He trusts their emergency room.”

I looked at the bleeding Jesus and decided not to waste time arguing. “Beth Israel it is, lady.”

“Thank you, Matthew. Ian can be volatile, and I’m afraid if you take him where he doesn’t want to go...”

I looked at the swaying boy. It’s tough to raise a stink if you’re out on your feet, but I swallowed my caustic rejoinder. She was his mother. “Okay,” I replied defeated, “we’ll meet you at the hospital.”

“Thank you. You’re as kind as Lou said.”

I jammed the receiver back into its cradle. Right then I wasn’t feeling all that kind; I was worried the kid would die in my car.

I draped Ian’s arm around my shoulders, placed mine around his muscular waist, and half dragged him through the dingy joint while its customers kept their eyes fixed on their boilermakers. They had their own empty lives to wash away, let the barkeep scour a stranger’s blood.

I squeezed Ian’s big bleeding body into the small back seat and laid him down as gently as possible while his tears mixed with small moans. I felt relieved he was conscious and silently cursed his mother for not calling an ambulance.

I jumped behind the wheel and glanced into the rearview mirror. My stomach lurched when I saw the entire side of my face slathered with blood. I didn’t wipe it off, just hoped no cop noticed me on the way to the hospital.

I was familiar with city’s medical center emergency room so was surprised by the calm wooden paneling of Beth Israel’s. When the automatic doors swung open as I dragged him inside, a nurse with two orderlies pushing a gurney rushed forward as if they’d been waiting. I felt sticky, then anxious, when I noticed a security cop watching the scene from across the room. I walked to the desk and, before a beefy woman could grill me about insurance, asked where to wash.

I spent a very long time inside an oversized john equipped with a handicap stall. I stripped to the waist and scrubbed clean. Afterwards, I couldn’t deal with wearing my ruined sweatshirt and settled for my less bloodied tee. I almost felt worse about the shirt than the kid; I didn’t have too many comfortable, familiar companions and hated to throw one away.

Which probably accounted for the scowl on my face when I strode out of the bathroom and saw Lou and a woman talking to the thick receptionist and the security guards. I automatically slowed at the sight and stared. Lou’s “squeeze” looked young, supple, and her skin sparkled like a diamond. As I tentatively crept forward I realized how artfully she dressed. About five foot six, Lauren wore no makeup, loose fitting jeans, a thin black blouse, and a baggy, bleached denim jacket. Her hair was covered with a black satin scarf tied gypsy style. She probably drove a Volvo. The closer I edged, the older she looked, though appeared considerably younger than my father-in-law. Whatever her age, this was one very attractive woman.

“There you are, Matty.” Lou’s loud whisper echoed through the almost empty room. He sounded relieved as he lumbered toward me.

“There was no trouble at the desk, was there? Lauren called ahead to pave the way,” he said, a tense smile crossing his face. “You see why it made more sense for you to pick him up than an ambulance, boychick?”

I leaned down and kissed his cheek. “Not really.”

“You won’t walk next to a hospital security guards. Imagine the kid’s reaction to a carload of uniforms.”

It hadn’t been the guards who’d brought me up short. “This “kid” was no ”kid.”. Anyway, the deal only works if he doesn’t drop dead from blood loss.” Even as I spoke I caught myself staring over Lou’s shoulder watching Lauren finish her conversation at the desk.

“I don’t think he’ll die. God, I hope not,” Lou added anxiously, the relief of our meeting melting away. I knew both of us were thinking about Mrs. Sullivan.

Once Lauren moved in our direction I stopped paying attention to Lou’s anxiety and started noticing my own. Whatever her concerns, she carried herself with an easy grace and confidence, though neither calmed me down. Lauren stopped next to Lou and took his hand. “They’re working on him now,” she said. “They probably have to operate.”

“Gutenu!”

“It’s a good sign he remained conscious,” she added.

Lou dropped Lauren’s hand and put his arm around her shoulder. I stared at my sneakers, saw new red Rorschach’s, and felt a twinge of anger.

Lauren noticed. “You have Ian’s blood all over you. I’m terribly sorry.”

“Not to worry,” I said, suddenly embarrassed by my attitude.

She looked me over carefully. “Aren’t you cold?”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to tell her about the ruined sweatshirt. I didn’t want to speak to her at all.

Lauren emerged from Lou’s protective cover and I spotted thick strands of black hair peeking out from under her scarf. I couldn’t tell if they were dyed. Her coal black eyes punctuated a strong jaw and full lips. Still, there were a few tells: creases lining her neck, a small droop to the corners of her mouth, furrows across her brow. Of course, the worry lines were probably fears about her son. But if they were, the rest of her anxiety was well hidden.

Lauren rolled up the baggy sleeves of her jacket and stuck out her hand. “We haven’t formally met. I’m Lauren Rowe. The boy you retrieved is Ian Brown, my son. Thank you.”

I noted the name shift as well as her long tapered fingers. I also noticed her strong, sure grip. “I’m Matt Jacob,” I said, forcing myself to speak. “I hope everything works out okay.”

“It’s too late for that,” Lauren replied. Then, spotting Lou’s alarm added, “I don’t mean the operation, sweetheart. Ian will be okay.” She smiled sourly. “There are some things a mother knows. Even a lousy one.”

Lou grimaced, “You aren’t a lousy mother.”

“Look at where we are,” Lauren waved her hand around the emergency room. “And think about why we’re here.”

Lou shook his head stubbornly. “Don’t be foolish. I saw the way you reacted when the boy called. The way you spoke to him, settled him down. You never lost your composure.”

I stepped forward. “Maybe we can find a more comfortable place to wait. Did they give you a time frame?”

Lauren appeared grateful for the interruption and flashed a warm smile which, though weary, added to her appeal. “You don’t have to wait around, Matthew. You’ve already been more than helpful.”

“Don’t be silly,” Lou cut in. “Of course he’ll stay.”

I didn’t know whether to feel angry at Lou’s presumption or pleased by the undercurrent of pride in his voice. I shoved the former on hold and conceded to the latter. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving without knowing whether Ian, uh...”

“Survives,” she finished grimly.

I glanced away, “Yeah.”

Just then, the large glass doors to the emergency room swiveled open and a tall, athletic, silver-haired man wearing a black sport coat, checkered sport shirt, and jeans barreled through. The man paused, then walked rapidly to our small circle. Lauren raised her tweezed eyebrows, glanced at Lou’s wristwatch, then nodded her greeting.

“How is he?” the man asked Lauren but glaring at Lou.

“They won’t know anything for a while. I think he’ll be all right.”

“That’s reassuring,” he snapped, turning his attention back to her.

Lauren’s mouth tightened. “Don’t get nasty with me. I’m the one he called. Where the hell have you been?”

Before silver-hair answered, Lauren leaned toward Lou and me. “Paul, you already know Lou. This is his son-in-law, Matt Jacob. He picked Ian up and brought him to the hospital. Matthew, this is Paul, my former husband.”