Dr. Charles Wang was only thirty-one, but he had already seen more than a thousand gunshot wounds, from distant grazes to intimate sawed-off blasts. He was the head of trauma surgery at Los Angeles-USC Medical Center in Lincoln Heights, the busiest hospital for violent crimes in California.
So when Wang saw Lyons’s wounds and the striking amount of crimson staining the front of his muscular body, the doctor wasn’t particularly concerned. In fact, he took a ten-second look, wiggled some body parts, and surmised that Lyons would not only survive, he would not sustain permanent damage. Wang knew from the patient’s color and the extent of blood flow that no artery had been hit.
One of Lyons’s wounds was a through-and-through to his extreme right side just beneath his rib cage. If you had to get shot near the greater stomach area, this would be the ideal place. You couldn’t plan it any better. The more serious wound hit just inside his right armpit, three inches below his collarbone. Lyons would be in severe pain. He’d have some impressive scars. But, thought Wang, Lyons was one lucky reporter.
The doctor knew the reporter. Lyons had interviewed him for a long, mesmerizing profile of a fifteen-year-old gang member, a Fruit Town Brim who had been shot two different times in the head, once with a .45, and survived. Wang had saved the kid’s life both times. By the end of the story, the kid had gone back to gangbanging.
Michael Lyons was semiconscious as he was wheeled into surgery. “Mr. Lyons, Michael. It’s Dr. Wang, Dr. Charles Wang. Can you hear me? You’ve been shot, Michael, but you are going to make it. Can you understand me? You are going to be all right. Do you understand? Try to relax and we’ll get you through this in good shape.”
Michael looked up at the doctor as two orderlies pushed the blood-and-sweat slimed gurney. Dr. Wang walked alongside and kept talking gently. As he walked, he had his hand on Mike’s forehead, comforting him.
In all the confusion, in all the pain, in all the surrealism of this incident, Michael was still aware enough to know that the last thing he wanted to do was panic. He didn’t want to for two reasons. One was a lesson he had learned a long time ago in the South Bronx when that part of the borough had been the national poster slum for urban decay. It was something his best friend there, Jose “Baby” Rolon, the leader of the Reapers street gang on Daly Avenue, told him after Jose had been shot eight times. “Mikey, if you ever get shot, don’t panic. That’s the way to survive. You panic, you die. You panic, your heartbeat goes up and more blood pumps out. You got it? Low heart rate means less blood coming out of you. It’s that simple.”
The other reason for not panicking was that it simply wasn’t cool. Sky Masterson would not panic. Nor would Shane. Or Luke. Or Rick Blaine. Or Frank Bullitt. No way. The last thing he wanted was an article or the TV news to talk about how he was panicking. How pathetic would that be? Maybe he’d soiled himself. Pissed himself, too. But, that stuff was natural after getting shot. Nothing could be done about that. He must be doing all right if he thought that was his biggest concern.
The doctor spoke reassuringly. “You’ve been remarkably calm. Have you been shot before? This old hat to you? You look bored.” Michael looked at Dr. Wang. “That’s okay. Don’t talk. I’m going to take care of you. By the way, the television cameras are here. Lots of them. You’re a big star.”
Michael nodded ever so briefly and then he passed into a slumber, deep and peaceful.