From the far end of a very dark tunnel, I heard Fantasy call for a bus and our bus-shaped boss, No Hair.
When I came to, Fantasy greeted me with, “Lie back down before you faint again, Davis.”
I was in no position to argue. “Is she alive?” I asked from the floor of the garbage department.
“Barely,” Fantasy said. “Looks like a head wound, but it could be cocktail sauce.”
Fisher Iboch resurfaced as well, mumbling, “Shit, shit, shit, oh, help us, Jesus.”
Fantasy’s head snapped up. “Give me your shirt.”
I began fumbling with buttons.
“Not you , Davis.” She pointed at Fisher Iboch. “You.” He stripped off his shirt and tossed it through the air. Get this: he was covered, covered , in tattoos. A dragon’s head filled his chest, it’s disproportionately smaller body slid down his abdomen, with a dragon tail snaking up one arm, trailing across his shoulders, and wrapping around the length of his other arm.
I edged as far away from Fisher Iboch as I could manage. One hand clapped over my mouth, I said through my fingers, “Give him his shirt back, Fantasy.”
Just then we heard pounding footsteps from a distance. “Over here!” Fantasy waved her arms. “Over here!”
The EMTs took in the scene, especially tattoo boy, but mostly, they hopped to. A man and a woman climbed into the dumpster, trading places with Fantasy. The other two responders lifted a stretcher above their heads, and within a minute, they’d boarded the girl. They lowered her to the floor, then swarmed. Tool boxes snapped open, a mobile IV appeared, and radios began squawking. I heard the usual medical words through the din—pulse, BP, heart-rate—and the words “penetrating head wound” and “ketchup” were tossed around. They discussed her age (early thirties), general appearance (filthy), and apparent state of severe dehydration (I guess so).
“Is she going to make it?” Fantasy asked.
One guy said over his shoulder, “Ma’am, we have no way of knowing that.”
And they were off.
“Wait!” I scrambled up. They slowed, and I got my first good look at her. She was out cold, wearing a torn and stained jersey-knit camisole and matching bikini panties holding on by a single thread. Her right thigh had an ugly two-inch gash that looked days old, and she was covered in purple-black bruises and black specks of something. Probably coffee grounds. (Gross.) Her hair was mid-length, mid-brown, and in bad need of shampoo. I snapped a photograph of her face, then slid my phone under her right hand, letting her index finger rest on the screen, and took another picture. Without a word, the EMTs sped off. I poked my phone, and within a minute, got a hit on her prints. (How cool is that?) “It’s Peyton,” I told Fantasy. “Her prints come up Peyton Beecher.”
“What about the jewelry? The diamond?”
We turned to Fisher Iboch, still sprawled on the floor, still tattooed, who we’d forgotten was there.
We ran.
* * *
It was early in the evening of the longest day of my life. Fantasy, on her end of the sofa, had just tossed back a double shot of tequila. I was on the other end, working my way through a party-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. No Hair was at the hospital with PEYTON BEECHER.
“It can wait,” Fantasy said.
“Let’s just get it over with.”
We went into the closet and changed into Bellissimo Property Management jackets and uniform black pants. She made the call.
“Inventory? This is Cheryl in Property Management, and I just got my butt chewed out because twenty-three doesn’t have a new sofa.”
I yawned and stretched.
“What? I sent the requisition this morning, and I copied your boss. Maybe he got it.”
I should change shoes.
“She, then. Maybe she got it, and maybe you’re not hearing me. I have a suite with no sofa. A guest set the sofa on fire and somehow maintenance has managed to get the carpet replaced and the wall painted, but you guys haven’t delivered
When I came to, Fantasy greeted me with, “Lie back down before you faint again, Davis.”
I was in no position to argue. “Is she alive?” I asked from the floor of the garbage department.
“Barely,” Fantasy said. “Looks like a head wound, but it could be cocktail sauce.”
Fisher Iboch resurfaced as well, mumbling, “Shit, shit, shit, oh, help us, Jesus.”
Fantasy’s head snapped up. “Give me your shirt.”
I began fumbling with buttons.
“Not you , Davis.” She pointed at Fisher Iboch. “You.” He stripped off his shirt and tossed it through the air. Get this: he was covered, covered , in tattoos. A dragon’s head filled his chest, it’s disproportionately smaller body slid down his abdomen, with a dragon tail snaking up one arm, trailing across his shoulders, and wrapping around the length of his other arm.
I edged as far away from Fisher Iboch as I could manage. One hand clapped over my mouth, I said through my fingers, “Give him his shirt back, Fantasy.”
Just then we heard pounding footsteps from a distance. “Over here!” Fantasy waved her arms. “Over here!”
The EMTs took in the scene, especially tattoo boy, but mostly, they hopped to. A man and a woman climbed into the dumpster, trading places with Fantasy. The other two responders lifted a stretcher above their heads, and within a minute, they’d boarded the girl. They lowered her to the floor, then swarmed. Tool boxes snapped open, a mobile IV appeared, and radios began squawking. I heard the usual medical words through the din—pulse, BP, heart-rate—and the words “penetrating head wound” and “ketchup” were tossed around. They discussed her age (early thirties), general appearance (filthy), and apparent state of severe dehydration (I guess so).
“Is she going to make it?” Fantasy asked.
One guy said over his shoulder, “Ma’am, we have no way of knowing that.”
And they were off.
“Wait!” I scrambled up. They slowed, and I got my first good look at her. She was out cold, wearing a torn and stained jersey-knit camisole and matching bikini panties holding on by a single thread. Her right thigh had an ugly two-inch gash that looked days old, and she was covered in purple-black bruises and black specks of something. Probably coffee grounds. (Gross.) Her hair was mid-length, mid-brown, and in bad need of shampoo. I snapped a photograph of her face, then slid my phone under her right hand, letting her index finger rest on the screen, and took another picture. Without a word, the EMTs sped off. I poked my phone, and within a minute, got a hit on her prints. (How cool is that?) “It’s Peyton,” I told Fantasy. “Her prints come up Peyton Beecher.”
“What about the jewelry? The diamond?”
We turned to Fisher Iboch, still sprawled on the floor, still tattooed, who we’d forgotten was there.
We ran.
* * *
It was early in the evening of the longest day of my life. Fantasy, on her end of the sofa, had just tossed back a double shot of tequila. I was on the other end, working my way through a party-sized bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. No Hair was at the hospital with PEYTON BEECHER.
“It can wait,” Fantasy said.
“Let’s just get it over with.”
We went into the closet and changed into Bellissimo Property Management jackets and uniform black pants. She made the call.
“Inventory? This is Cheryl in Property Management, and I just got my butt chewed out because twenty-three doesn’t have a new sofa.”
I yawned and stretched.
“What? I sent the requisition this morning, and I copied your boss. Maybe he got it.”
I should change shoes.
“She, then. Maybe she got it, and maybe you’re not hearing me. I have a suite with no sofa. A guest set the sofa on fire and somehow maintenance has managed to get the carpet replaced and the wall painted, but you guys haven’t delivered
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