Hawk called the IHOB asking for Marcus as soon as Armand and Mr. Skinhead left and luckily the good doctor was playing in the Bulgarian backgammon chouette.
Hawk hopped and hollered and pressed a clump of Goofy and Pluto towels where his toe had been and the skin was scalloped. He took a slug of Jack Daniels and splashed some onto his foot, like in Westerns. Then he cut a piece of towel and duct-taped it tight to his foot, warm blood seeping out as he wound the tape around.
In the cab to the IHOB, between thinking how you’d explain an absent toe, Hawk can’t stop feeling that cold thrill up his spine before he did it. The breath stuck in his throat and his stomach dropped when he gripped the shears and flexed their jaws.
Pain radiates up his leg and he remembers nights from a week ago: Zoey sound asleep on a cot, wheezing a little, her face tucked into her pillow making her small features smaller, Curious George Visits the Zoo open by her head after him reading to her. Carla the other night on top of him, her womanness having its way, sweaty skin slurping his skin, her hand covering his mouth as she presses him into the futon. And then, well, he must have lost it, because the cabbie’s pounding his shoulder and yelling about Hawk getting blood all over the seat and his cab not being an Econo Lodge.
“You see that lame-ass, cock-sucking four horse lay down in the stretch,” No-Way’s yelling when Hawk limps into the IHOB.
No-Way has a cot in the back, sweeps the place, reheats old pots of Maxwell and yells “fresh coffee,” runs bets to Philly from the big game in back. If you leave your coat in the place he’ll sell it back to you in the morning at a reasonable price.
“The horse was twenty-to-one,” Toothless Jersey Joe reminds No-Way.
“The horse don’t know it’s twenty-to-one.”
“Some horses know,” Hawk says.
“Cheesus,” No-Way says. “You shoot yourself in the foot or something?”
“Is there a doctor in the house?”
“Lie down on my cot and I’ll see if the Doctor’s available,” No-Way says.
Marcus keeps a first-aid kit at the club for special cases. II Doctore: officially retired, ambulance corps in World War II, surgeon at Lenox Hill, professor at Columbia Medical School. He prescribes for the regulars, mostly Slavic and eastern European backgammon degenerates who can’t read the label off a pill jar. Not a clock person among them. They don’t have to be anywhere. They sit up all night gumming Garcia Vegas and slapping checkers against cork backgammon boards and getting ashes all over the place.
“In America you put your ashes in these,” José says, slamming down fresh ashtrays.
From No-Way’s cot Hawk can hear them arguing and insulting each other. Below the weather maps in an old Daily News there’s a piece about the Iranian plane the U.S. Navy accidentally shot down, July 3 in the Persian Gulf, having mistaken it for a fighter jet. It made your own toes look like a minor thing. President Reagan declines comment. Vice President Bush says the United States won’t apologize. Two hundred and ninety roasted. An ad says Yoga for Models and Strippers. The forecast says hot and sunny.
Doc leads Hawk from No-Way’s cot to a poker table in a sideroom and gives an avuncular glance over his bifocals and shakes his head and frowns when he sees that Hawk’s toe just isn’t. He’s unshaven, in a blue turtleneck, and he looks like a shaggier, older Robert Young. Hawk sits with his foot propped on a Glad bag and newspapers on the table, while Doc pulls latex gloves from a box and tightens his disposable apron.
Blood still dribbles out of Hawk’s foot.
“To quiet it,” Doc says to himself, and hums, “flood in lido-caine to numb the nerve. Then get in there and debread it. Pick out remnant bone and stuff, nibble it clean, and make sure there’s skin to close the thing. Then we drape her.”
And he hums and fusses, di-di-dee-dum-dum, and Hawk grips the arms of his chair while Doc preps and then stitches the wound closed.
“Doc, you’re the best,” Hawk manages.
“You’ll have to keep her dressed. I remember there was this guy in the Army got his toes clomped by a horse and got gangrene and I had to take off his toes. Later on I heard that he got around fine, wore cotton balls in his shoes. He developed corns, tailor’s bunions, and kept needing to have them trimmed.”
Hawk nods and grimaces as Marcus finishes the wrap.
“You got something that’ll let me work?” Hawk asks. His shirt is sweat-soaked and he’s dizzy. “I’ve gotta be able to work on my feet in a couple of days.”
“It’ll hurt, kid, but I’ve got something that will help. You get a loose pair of high-tops. You get some slipper socks.”
Fat Frankie sticks his head into the poker room, face puffed and shiny and his shirt unbuttoned to his tattooed gut, and catches sight of Doc’s bloody latex gloves: “Yo Marcus Welby, I told you I didn’t want you performing any more rectal examinations in here.”
“He uses his tongue for those,” calls Larry Lawyer.
“You of all people shouldn’t talk,” Marcus tells him.
Hawk hops to the phone, foot throbbing, to call Carla. He hates that he’ll have to cancel their plan to meet at her workplace over on Tenth Avenue. Luckily, her boss, Carlos, got in a rush order and it looks like she’ll be working all night.
“Hey, you gotta take the work when it’s there,” Hawk says.
He’ll tell her about his little accident another time.
“You should take her someplace romantic,” Fat Frankie says when Hawk hangs up.
“Like right here,” Larry Lawyer says.
“Can I get you something for the pain, Señor Hawk?” No-Way says.
“Just a lemon with some tea in it.”
“Mida, you know who’s going to win the Yankee game tonight?”
“I do know, bro, but I can’t tell you,” Hawk says. “I’m sorry, but I was sworn to secrecy. I’ll tell you tomorrow.”