I stood there for a moment looking at the shell that had once been a great Crime Boss in the city. Now he was knocked down to his lowest form, food for his brethren the worms. I wasn’t sure what to do now. I was so tired. I needed a hospital. Cabrese was dead but his empire needed a final dismantling.
I limped over to the chair I had occupied earlier and fell into it. The reality of tonight was just setting in. In some weird way, there was disinterest in all of it, mixed with disbelief in somewhat equal parts.
I could feel my tense muscles relaxing as I sat there. My gun fell to the floor. Finally, I fell to the floor, collapsed in exhaustion. Just before I passed out, I heard a woman scream from the direction of the front door. The staff had begun arriving. Then the blackness claimed me.
It seemed only a few minutes had passed when I began to wake up. My eyes were blurry. Something was not right. The light was too bright. I couldn’t focus. The air smelled of plastic and nothingness. I finally realized that I was in a bed. In a hospital room.
Someone moved to the left of me. I tried to turn that way and the pain hit me. I groaned and flopped back to my original position. “Hey Steve, glad you could find it in your heart to join us before it got dark!” The voice laughed. I almost recognized it but my brain was addled. “Who the hell are you?” I managed in a gravelly voice that made me cough. It was then that Mark Whitcom, the Chief of Police himself held the small paper cup with the plastic bendy straw out to me so that I could drink.
“Thanks” I managed after a deep drink. I lay back not quite knowing what the Chief himself being here meant. Was he here to tear me down for my lack of self control? Berate me for the death of Jack Reagan? To try and assuage my guilt and torment for all of the unwritten death warrants I had fulfilled?
The remnants of my sanity were quickly being drained by my own guilt and self doubt. “What do you want Chief?” I asked him while trying to asses my own injuries. I was tied to the bed by both of my wrists and both of my ankles. I was sore all over. My chest felt as if a large gorilla was using it as a bongo drum. My leg throbbed where the bullet had parted my quadriceps.
“How long have I been here?” I continued my questions. Chief Whitcom just looked at me for a long time. Finally he said, “Three days Steve. This is the third day since we found you in that butcher shop of a rest home. You are at Holy Cross hospital. They spent 6 hours in surgery to take the bullet out of the bone on your leg. You are lucky.” “Yea,” I said. “Why am I restrained?” He looked grimly at me. “Because you are under arrest until we get things sorted out. You have the right to remain silent.”
The words of the Miranda warnings that I had recited so many times sounded too much like a TV show when they were directed at me. I breathed in slowly and deeply with my eyes closed. He finally finished. I opened my eyes. “When do I get out of here?” I asked “Tomorrow, the next day, depending how you are doing. Then we have to talk.” He replied.
“Fine.” I said. “I’ve got nothing anymore. I do have just one request. I need to talk to my sister and the boys before anything happens. After that I am all yours.” “Sounds reasonable. I’ll set it up.” He said. “Not here.” I told him. “Their house. You can guard it all you want, I won’t be running.” “Wellll…” He began to hedge. “You see there is” “Make it Happen Mark!” I interrupted him with a shout. “Or else you can get me a lawyer right now and I say nothing!”
He sat and stared at me for a long moment before nodding and picking up his coat to leave. He paused by the door. “This should make an interesting story Detective. I will be here when you get out of the hospital.” He told me this, nodded curtly and left my room. He left and I remained alone with the torment that I would carry forever, or until they strapped me into the electric chair.
I drifted off to sleep with the voice of the Chief of Police echoing “Detective” in my head. Maybe I still had the job. Tomorrow would see.
