42

MIKE COULDN’T STAY in bed. After just two days his back ached and he was restless and bored. His face hurt like hell, but he could still walk. The nurses tried to put him back in bed, but he wasn’t having any of it. The doctor clucked at him from the foot of the bed, “Don’t be stupid. If you feel dizzy, sit down. We’ve got better things to do than pick you off the floor.” Mike nodded and that was that.

He was dizzy, of course, and his head still rang, although not as bad as in the beginning. As he walked to his window, Mike started to wonder if it would ever stop or if it would just keep going, a continuous, high-pitched tone that could never be escaped. He stood, holding onto the windowsill until the dizziness and nausea subsided. They told him he’d had a bad shock to the brain and was likely to experience these things, but he was far too concerned with getting on his feet to let that worry him. Ginny would be back this evening. He wanted to surprise her. Looking out on the city in the sooty afternoon light, chimneys belching, streetcars clanging, factories humming, telephones ringing; he knew that somewhere in all that noise and stink and frantic activity a heart beat for him.

Mike turned too quickly and had to steady himself, grabbing onto the bed until the room stopped moving. With a deep breath he tried walking a straight line to the door, which he managed with only minor deviations. Hitching up his baggy hospital pajamas, he opened it and stepped into the hallway. He could smell fresh plaster and paint and the faint, sweet-sour smell of cut wood overpowering the usual hospital smells. Down the hall, workmen were expunging the last traces of the bomber’s work, though for a moment, Mike thought he saw a shoe with a piece of leg they’d somehow overlooked. He held onto the doorjamb until the vision disappeared.

Primo didn’t recognize Mike at first. He was propped up in bed, a nearly empty food tray in front of him. His eyes were closed when Mike came in. They fluttered open and Mike was relieved to see that they were clear, though pain and weariness circled them. “You got wrong room, buddy,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. “But you wanna get blown up, come on in.”

Mike chuckled without moving his face. It hurt too much to smile. “Doctor told me you were here,” Mike said through a burst of pain. His swollen tongue and aching face making it come out like, “Ocho ’ol me oo wa ere.”

Primo looked at him with a concerned frown, but said, “You look like stupid Irish bastard I work with except you are more handsome than that asshole.”

“Ach,” Mike cried. “Urts oo laf.”

“But it is good to laugh, no? I have no laughing for days. The doctors, they are not so funny guys,” Primo said. “I see you have not been laughing, too. What the hell happened?” He took Mike’s outstretched hand and held it as he looked into his eyes.

Mike tried to fill him in on what had happened, but had to stop after a few garbled sentences, the pain too great to continue. He spat a bright gout of blood into Primo’s bedpan and sat on the edge of the bed, taking out the pad and pencil he’d remembered to bring.

“Great. Now the nurse will think I piss the blood. They will start looking up my ass or something.”

“Good,” Mike wrote. “Maybe they’ll find your head.”

They laughed then, each wincing with pain.

“You have not done so good without me” Primo said when he’d caught his breath. Mike scribbled, “Should see the other guys,” but neither of them laughed at that.

Mike told Primo about his visits from Ginny, written simply, with a thousand words in between.

“That is good,” Primo said, smiling. “I am happy for you, my friend.”

Mike saw the sadness in Primo’s face and knew that he missed his wife and kids more than he would ever say, even to him. “You gonna send for family?” he wrote.

Primo shook his head. “I will wait,” was all he said.

Mike figured it was for two reasons. Primo couldn’t be certain he had eliminated the threat from the Black Hand, so in his mind it was still unsafe to bring his family home. Mike was also sure that as much as Primo would like to see his wife, he didn’t want her to see him in this condition. He put a hand on Primo’s shoulder and said nothing.

After a long silence, Mike wrote, “How’s the wounds?”

“Better, a little,” Primo answered. “The one on my head hurts like a devil. Shotgun took my hair off. They sew the skin back together. It is tight like a drum.”

“When you get out?” Mike asked before spitting more blood into Primo’s pan.

“Who knows, week or two, I guess.”

Mike could see Primo was tiring and he could feel his own head becoming light. He pushed himself carefully off Primo’s bed and said, “Ee oo ’ater, okay?”

Primo raised a hand in good-bye. His eyes were closed when Mike looked back from the door.

Mike eased himself back into bed a few minutes later. A bowl of tepid broth waited for him but he managed only a few spoonfuls before his eyes closed. He didn’t wake until he heard Mary’s voice above him. Tom was with her, Ginny too, talking in hushed tones. Mike opened his eyes and said, “H’low,” which was far more painful than it should have been. His mouth and tongue were so sore from his few words with Primo that now he found he could hardly speak. After a hug from Ginny, Tom did most of the talking and Mike stuck to the pad and pencil.

Tom told him about his meeting with Saturn at the morgue and his recollection of the name Jack. “I know there were two guys you killed, but could there have been a third? A real coincidence you shooting one of the same guys who had attacked Saturn.”

Mike had been trying to remember every detail of the shooting. He recalled the Colt going off in his hand and the dark forms firing back, but that was all. He felt sure he’d hit them, but never saw a third man. He knew there could have been a third but he was not sure. He just shook his head. “No ’memba,” he said, pointing to his head and swirling his finger.

“That’s okay, Mike,” Ginny said. “How are you feeling? The nurses said you were up and walking this afternoon,” she added brightly.

Mike noticed that there was no longer any sunlight coming through his windows and realized he must have slept for hours. “Ugh,” he said.

“Hurts?” Mary asked with a frown. “I’ll fetch a nurse to get you something.” Mike tried to stop her, but she wouldn’t be deterred.

“You know your mom,” Tom said when she’d gone. “She’d move this whole damn hospital for you if she had to. Listen, I paid a visit to Paul Kelly today. Told him to give me McManus. He’s most likely the Jack that Saturn described, which makes him suspect number one in your shooting.” He stopped for a moment and ran a hand through his hair. “Damn! And I forgot the most important part, the Bottler’s dead! They say it was Cyclone Louie, came in and shot him in front of everybody, but so far we can’t find a soul who’ll talk about it.”

“Shit!” Mike wrote. “No war?”

“Not yet, but you know how Kelly is; waiting for the right time.”

They went over what Mike had found out about the Bottler’s activities, Mike writing furiously. Despite the Bottler’s death, it was still clear that McManus and maybe Kelly were involved to some degree. What wasn’t clear is how much they may have known about the Bottler’s activities. The one connection was Saturn and the steamship company. “McManus and his goons wouldn’t waste a beating on Saturn if there wasn’t a damn good reason. It wasn’t just a robbery. It was a message, a warning from Kelly or the Bottler or both.”

“You think Saturn had something to do with the smuggling?” Mike wrote.

“Who knows,” Tom said. “It’s clear that the Bottler was smuggling coca by boat from somewhere. Saturn is vice-president of a steamship line, and he’s been a target of intimidation. Seems like something’s up to me. Anyway, I figured I’d rattle Kelly’s chain a little and put the word out on McManus. Kelly didn’t like me doing it like that. Pissed him off, but it’ll make him think too.”

“Shake the tree and see what falls out,” he wrote.

Tom nodded. “Listen, we’ll find out who did this to you and we’ll go put some fucking holes in him, right?” He stuck his hand out and they shook as if it were a business deal.

Mike got something for his pain and some broth for dinner, which Ginny insisted on spooning into him. He tried to tell her he still had two good hands, but it wasn’t worth the effort, and he liked the attention anyway.

“You’re getting thinner already,” she said. “And you need to get every bit of this into you. I talked to the nurse and tomorrow they’re going to try giving you some mashed vegetables.” Although the prospect of baby food wasn’t too appealing, Mike’s stomach had spent most of the last couple days growling at him. He was sure that anything more substantial than broth would be welcome. “Inny,” he said between spoonfuls.

“What?”

Mike wiped a dribble of soup from his bandaged chin. “Thank you.” Mike put his legs over the side of the bed and stood. Ginny moved back, surprised. He wasn’t as dizzy as he’d been in the afternoon. Mary had a hand out, ready to catch him, but Tom said from the foot of the bed “He’s okay. You still got two good legs, right, Mikey?”

Mike put a thumb up and walked to Ginny, who stood amazed, the soup bowl forgotten in her hands. He took it from her and placed it on the nightstand, turned back, and without a word encircled her in his arms and pulled her close. Ginny held him and her tears started to soak the bandages on his face. Tom and Mary smiled and started for the door. “The best medicine he’s ever had,” Mike heard Tom say in the hallway.

Mike caught a glimpse of himself in a mirror over the washstand. He frowned at his reflection. “Omb?” He pantomimed combing his hair and Ginny produced one. His hair hadn’t been washed in days and still had some dried blood in it. Frustrated with raking his head with little result, he took the pitcher from the washstand, bent over the bowl, and poured some water over his head. Ginny dried Mike off and slicked his hair back, parting it carefully. A minute later they emerged from his room, walking slowly down the hall. Mike had his pad with him. On it he’d written, “Someone I want you to meet.”

“So, this is the famous Ginny,” Primo said, putting out his good hand. “Now I can see why you search for her.” Ginny blushed and Mike did too under his bandages.

After a few minutes spent getting acquainted, Ginny busied herself in rearranging the masses of flowers in Primo’s room, pulling the wilted ones and checking water. Mike and Primo began to speak of the possible third man and if it was Jack McManus or one of the many other Jacks they could think of. They talked about getting out of the hospital. Ginny told Mike that his room at his parents’ house was all ready. But he shook his head. “My home.” He held out a hand. “With you.”

Ginny’s breath was taken away. She had never imagined that possibility, not so soon. But there it was, the culmination of everything she’d wished for, sitting on the side of a hospital bed. She dropped the wilted flowers and came to him. They clung to each other for a long time. Primo swiped at his eyes and nodded his approval.

Dinner came and Mike and Ginny went back to his room with a promise to return. When Tom and Mary returned they found Mike and Primo arm in arm, walking in the hall with Ginny a step behind. “Well, look at you two,” Mary said, hugging them both. “This is a sight for sore eyes.”

“We have lots of sore between us,” Primo said, “but my eyes are fine.”