2:43 a.m.
Their voices floated at him in fragments, sailing by him, disconnected, pieces from a dream.
“We should call a doctor,” Hootie said, adjusting his sling, lightly massaging his arm. “A real doctor. Not that senile eighty-year-old horse doctor quack you got me.”
“Don’t need a doctor,” Karter said. “He had a panic attack. Nothing to worry about.”
“How do you know?”
“My uncle Leon got them all the time. May he rest in peace.”
“Sit him up,” Hootie said.
Karter reached his arms behind Babe, cradled him like a baby, and lifted his head off the long satin pillow and up to a sitting position. Babe moaned. Hootie leaned over and pressed Babe’s flask to his lips.
“You giving him whiskey?” Karter said.
“No. Medicine. Macallan.”
Babe took a swallow, coughed, gagged, and flicked at his nose with his thumb. He surveyed the room, then blinked at the blurry faces of Karter and Hootie bending over him, their features gradually coming into focus. He gestured to Hootie for another sip. Babe took a second pull from the flask and exhaled powerfully enough to ruffle the drapes.
“What happened?”
“You passed out,” Hootie said.
“Panic attack,” Karter said.
“Where am I?”
“Honeymoon suite,” Hootie said.
“Where’s the bride and groom?” Babe said.
“Spontaneous two a.m. road trip,” Hootie said. “We’ll make it up to them.”
Babe looked from Hootie to Karter. Hootie again offered him the flask. Babe reached for it, then withdrew his hand. “I got to stay sharp.”
Hootie shrugged, took a sip himself, and placed the flask on the nightstand. “Eventful couple of nights.”
“We’re still alive,” Babe said.
“That’s a start,” Hootie said.
“I’m going to take you home,” Karter said.
Babe wagged his head slowly, concentrating his gaze on the floor. “Can’t go home. Not until I fix this.”
Karter folded his arms across his chest and heaved a massive sigh. Hootie glanced at the chandelier above the bed as he traced the stubble along his cheek. Neither wanted to speak.
Babe swiveled his head from one to the other. “That’s what I do. I fix things. Now I have to fix my life. And Rosie’s.”
“We still got time before the meet,” Karter said. “Twenty-four hours.”
“I think it’s less, but I’m not good with math,” Hootie said, catching Karter glaring at him. “But yeah, sure, plenty of time.”
“I got to get that deed back,” Babe said.
“First you got to deal with Wojak and the whiskey and how you’re going to pay him.”
“I know,” Babe said. “What day is this?”
“Sunday,” Hootie said.
“July Fourth,” Karter said.
“Shit,” Babe said. He shuddered and his body writhed as if someone had attached jumper cables to his chest, sending electric shocks through him from head to toe. He kicked off the bedsheets.
“Run the shower,” he said.
“Good idea,” Hootie said as Karter charged into the bathroom, crossing the room in what seemed like one step. “Best to sober up.”
“No, I got to think,” Babe said, wriggling out of his shirt. “I do my best thinking in the shower.”
Ten minutes later, Babe appeared at the bathroom door wrapped in a towel. Karter and Hootie, sitting in two armchairs separated by an ornate floor lamp, stood up in unison. Babe ran a second towel over his head. He appeared strangely calm.
“If I don’t have the money, they won’t give me the whiskey,” he said.
“They’ll kill you, too,” Hootie said.
Karter cleared his throat, loudly.
“What?” Hootie said. “Trying to keep it real. Can’t sugarcoat it now.”
“But no money, no whiskey, right?” Babe said.
“Right,” Karter and Hootie said together.
“What if you flip that around? No whiskey, no money. Right?”
Hootie paused. “Where you going with this?”
“They’re coming out of Canada,” Babe said.
“Toronto,” Karter said.
“That’s it,” Babe said.
“That’s what?” Hootie said.
“How I fix this,” Babe said. “Now I can go home.”