“Your friend Mike is dead.”
Uncle Dave’s words multiplied inside my head, doubling, tripling and spinning around until they turned into a tornado. I just couldn’t believe what I’d been told.
“No,” I said, about a hundred times in a hundred seconds. “He can’t be gone. Just like that.”
“I’m sorry, kid,” Uncle Dave said. “He didn’t make it through. I know this can’t be easy.”
“They killed him.” I stumbled a bit. “He was going to be okay. He had a pulse. I checked it.”
He sat behind the big old gray metal desk that’d been there since World War II, I imagine. He looked at me all cold and stern with those soft brown eyes. That was Uncle Dave’s gift: he was born with a stone face, but his kind eyes drew you in—made you feel safe—same time he was sticking a knife in your gut. He’d done it to countless customers, and he was doing it to me.
“I don’t think the hospital…”
“No,” I said. “Not the hospital. Those thugs.” My head cleared a bit, but I still managed to sit in one of the ancient, World War II era, uncomfortable office chairs.
“Thugs?”
“Yeah. The guys that jumped us last night.” I wanted to swear, but Uncle Dave wouldn’t have it, even and especially when things were tough. It was one of his big beliefs—that a person should be able to keep a civilized tone of voice no matter what, lest the world get the better of them. That’s what he said all the time, at least.
“I didn’t know you had a fight last night.”
“Wasn’t much of one,” I said. “I think there were three of ’em, and me and Mike were just walking to our cars when they trapped us and just started hitting.”
“For no reason?”
“The one guy…Damian…said I’d disrespected him. I’ve never met him. I think he got me confused with someone else and didn’t want to back down in front of his cronies.”
“You don’t say,” Uncle Dave said. He leaned back, shook his head a few times.
“Yeah. Truth be told. I wasn’t going to say anything about the fight. Just let it go. But…God…is Mikey really gone?” I kept talking. I didn’t want to hear it again. “Damian was definitely on something—he looked kind of insane—and we were just at the wrong place at the wrong time when he went looking for trouble. Now I think we should definitely tell some people.”
Uncle Dave nodded. “Yes. You should. Right away. You know his name?”
“Damian,” I said.
“First thing I’d do is go down to the station and file a report.” I didn’t tell him I’d given a short statement at the scene. I knew I’d have to go down to the station now, that it’d result in something serious happening to me. Probably get arrested and held until they figured it all out.
“What about you?”
“What about me?”
“Say they come here?”
Uncle Dave smiled. “I’m not going to let any of those kids mess with me. Not even six of ’em.” He patted the top of his desk. He had a nice 9mm in the top drawer. “Let ’em try, which they won’t.”
I put up my hands. “All right,” I said. “No problem. Of course. I’m on my way.”
“Make it snappy while you’re at it,” he said. “We’ve got two cars coming in today. I’m going to need you on your A-game.”
“Got it,” I said. “Triple A.”
I was out the door.
* * * * *
I couldn’t believe Mikey was gone. What the hell? That made absolutely no sense to me. He shouldn’t have died just from being beaten up a little. Couldn’t they have saved him? Couldn’t he just be in a coma? Swollen brain. Knocked out. Concussion. A few broken ribs. But not dead. Please let Uncle Dave be wrong, I thought. Please let it just be some kind of big misunderstanding.
Whistleville’s police station was nestled right next to the old Elms mansion, which I always thought was weird. In back of all that, there was a kids’ science center, too. I pulled past the Elms and went toward the back parking lot. I knew the drill. Knew where to park and where to go once I got to the front desk. I sat and waited for a detective to summon me in to take my statement. I didn’t remember much: what the guy said, what I’d said or had done. What I did recall was the detective on duty looking less than enthusiastic, talking in a monotone, and him not making eye contact with me. There was one other detail I’d found curious: three puncture wounds to his left wrist. They weren’t covered, and they looked fresh. Clean, but fresh.
I wish I’d been in a better state of mind to have remembered his name or asked for a card. He had a simple name, and I told myself I’d write it down once I got back to my car. Of course, as soon as I was out the door, I forgot. Didn’t think much of it. Over the years, I’d given dozens of statements. Part of the job. Mostly, though, they weren’t about me; they were about things I’d seen or discovered in cars, or behavior I’d witnessed while at the shop.
When I asked the detective about Mikey, he said he had no idea, and that he hadn’t heard of the case until I walked through the door. He finally looked me in the eye when he said, “You’re going to have to leave here and go to the hospital to find out.”
The way he spoke was off. It was like he was trying to remember how to talk, like he was high on something. My first reaction was that maybe he had the flu, and that maybe I shouldn’t shake his hand. Could be he’d had a drink or two, or maybe he’d done an overnight and was in the middle of a double and was going a little nuts.
I shrugged it off, thanked him and took off.
I didn’t want to go to the hospital, but I had to.
My guts tightened.