… no way to stop floating …
11
T HE DOCTOR’S FACE LOOMED OVER HIM. “Just a tiny pinch, that’s all you’ll feel.” He tipped Leo’s head back on the table with a finger and aimed the needle at his chin. Three injections later, chin numb, he lay staring at a lit lamp in the cold room.
The doctor, an East Indian, his breath steely with garlic, leaned over with what looked like a sewing needle now, using a pair of scissors to string the sutures. His name was Dr. Bhatt. Leo didn’t know exactly how he knew that. His head was foggy.
Dr. Bhatt positioned the light close. “Okay, here we go. You shouldn’t feel a thing.”
“How many?” Leo asked.
“About four, maybe five, we’ll see.”
Dr. Bhatt began stitching him up. Pieces of stray memory floated by and Leo reached for them through a haze.
HE SAW himself in a chair in the psych ward dining room. Bloodstains on his pants, his shoes. His chin throbbing.
People milling about in front of him. Techs, nurses. Jesus, his head ached.
A doctor arrived and huddled to one side with the nurses. Leo’s left ear was ringing, he couldn’t hear a thing. He openedand closed his jaw a few times. The techs started leaving, no more work for them here, Reynaldo in seclusion already.
Someone put a hand on his shoulder. Martin. “How you feeling?”
“Not too smart.”
“Transportation will arrive in a sec. Hang in there.”
“Transportation?” Leo had to lean back to look at him.
Martin seemed amused. “To get you stitched up, Leo, have the doctor look at you. You were out about three minutes, man. Completely out. You had us worried.”
They wheeled him out on a gurney and he remembered going down in the elevator, looking up at the face of the young black orderly with a pencil-line mustache.
When he opened his eyes again he was talking to the doctor he knew as Bhatt, who was telling him he’d split his chin when he fell on the floor and in the future he really should be more careful whom he picked fights with.
Tittering at this attempt at humor.
LEO LEFT Dr. Bhatt’s office with four stitches under his chin and a small bottle of ibuprofen. It was 11:10; he should have been home hours ago. Tessa would be worried. When he got home he’d say … what? He’d say, Hey, listen …
No matter what he said, the result would be the same: stress for her and the baby. She was already fretting about their finances, their future, and he couldn’t disagree, he needed to begin hunting for other opportunities instead of merely talking about it, especially since this job exposed him to kung fu motherfuckers posing as mental patients who found pleasure in kicking him silly.
All of this, plus a certainty now: Reynaldo Rivera had been put on the ward for one thing only, and that was to make sure Herman Massani left the hospital as a dead man. Leo thought, Would you listen to yourself? Your imagination’s running away with you, son.
But he knew it wasn’t. This was serious and it was freaking him out, and what was worse, he suspected Patrick was involved, telling him to stall, keep Massani on the floor. Why? Because Patrick knew what was going to happen. But the piece that didn’t fit: Reynaldo was admitted to the hospital before Leo ever went to Patrick with this Massani problem, so how could Patrick have arranged to fix a problem he wasn’t aware of yet? The clearest part of this fuckery was people wanted to kill this old man Massani, and he, Leo Varela, a laid-back dude who just wanted to smoke a little weed now and then and write some poetry, was smack in the middle of the shit. Man, this was so twisted.
All this was running through his head as he cut through the parking lot heading for his car, so he saw them too late. Freddy and Bernard, arms folded, leaning against the black Benz, watching him come. Leo said under his breath, “Like I need any more drama this morning,” but he kept moving.
Freddy called, “Good morning, or maybe I should say afternoon.
11
T HE DOCTOR’S FACE LOOMED OVER HIM. “Just a tiny pinch, that’s all you’ll feel.” He tipped Leo’s head back on the table with a finger and aimed the needle at his chin. Three injections later, chin numb, he lay staring at a lit lamp in the cold room.
The doctor, an East Indian, his breath steely with garlic, leaned over with what looked like a sewing needle now, using a pair of scissors to string the sutures. His name was Dr. Bhatt. Leo didn’t know exactly how he knew that. His head was foggy.
Dr. Bhatt positioned the light close. “Okay, here we go. You shouldn’t feel a thing.”
“How many?” Leo asked.
“About four, maybe five, we’ll see.”
Dr. Bhatt began stitching him up. Pieces of stray memory floated by and Leo reached for them through a haze.
HE SAW himself in a chair in the psych ward dining room. Bloodstains on his pants, his shoes. His chin throbbing.
People milling about in front of him. Techs, nurses. Jesus, his head ached.
A doctor arrived and huddled to one side with the nurses. Leo’s left ear was ringing, he couldn’t hear a thing. He openedand closed his jaw a few times. The techs started leaving, no more work for them here, Reynaldo in seclusion already.
Someone put a hand on his shoulder. Martin. “How you feeling?”
“Not too smart.”
“Transportation will arrive in a sec. Hang in there.”
“Transportation?” Leo had to lean back to look at him.
Martin seemed amused. “To get you stitched up, Leo, have the doctor look at you. You were out about three minutes, man. Completely out. You had us worried.”
They wheeled him out on a gurney and he remembered going down in the elevator, looking up at the face of the young black orderly with a pencil-line mustache.
When he opened his eyes again he was talking to the doctor he knew as Bhatt, who was telling him he’d split his chin when he fell on the floor and in the future he really should be more careful whom he picked fights with.
Tittering at this attempt at humor.
LEO LEFT Dr. Bhatt’s office with four stitches under his chin and a small bottle of ibuprofen. It was 11:10; he should have been home hours ago. Tessa would be worried. When he got home he’d say … what? He’d say, Hey, listen …
No matter what he said, the result would be the same: stress for her and the baby. She was already fretting about their finances, their future, and he couldn’t disagree, he needed to begin hunting for other opportunities instead of merely talking about it, especially since this job exposed him to kung fu motherfuckers posing as mental patients who found pleasure in kicking him silly.
All of this, plus a certainty now: Reynaldo Rivera had been put on the ward for one thing only, and that was to make sure Herman Massani left the hospital as a dead man. Leo thought, Would you listen to yourself? Your imagination’s running away with you, son.
But he knew it wasn’t. This was serious and it was freaking him out, and what was worse, he suspected Patrick was involved, telling him to stall, keep Massani on the floor. Why? Because Patrick knew what was going to happen. But the piece that didn’t fit: Reynaldo was admitted to the hospital before Leo ever went to Patrick with this Massani problem, so how could Patrick have arranged to fix a problem he wasn’t aware of yet? The clearest part of this fuckery was people wanted to kill this old man Massani, and he, Leo Varela, a laid-back dude who just wanted to smoke a little weed now and then and write some poetry, was smack in the middle of the shit. Man, this was so twisted.
All this was running through his head as he cut through the parking lot heading for his car, so he saw them too late. Freddy and Bernard, arms folded, leaning against the black Benz, watching him come. Leo said under his breath, “Like I need any more drama this morning,” but he kept moving.
Freddy called, “Good morning, or maybe I should say afternoon.
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