know. Largo. He knew or could sense that I knew something was wrong. It was the way we looked at each other before we went to the hotel in Hollywood. Something wasn't right. I could tell he was involved somewhere. Someone from Chicago, inside our own team had to be part of this. He never said a word, but he knew I knew. Well, you can get me to the ER.
I move a little toward Dallas. Stop. Say.
Pilgrim, it's off. He's good.
I don't see or hear anything. It's as if Pilgrim was never there. I'm in pain. Incredible pain. I'm sure Pilgrim is here but soon he will be gone. Dallas acts as my crutch. Hauls me to the elevator. My head throbs. My eyelashes throb. My body feels like an explosion of a million stars. It aches in every cell. They flash and explode behind my closed eyelids. Fists clench. Teeth grind.
Elevator descends. Mercedes appear. Surround me. Hold me. Fade to black.
NO ONE HERE GETS OUT ALIVE
The morphine haze is beginning to wear off. I see a nurse. Masculine. Too much facial hair. She could be...
The male nurse removes the drip from the vein beneath my biceps muscle. Checks the bag of fluids. Rolls the plastic slider. Replaces the catheter. I feel none of this. Between sleeping and having various medications imbibed my mind discusses Largo, the Cops, Santana, Yama, Dallas, the Colombians, the Californian girls and Carly. My mom was in this mix somewhere but I can only imagine her now as a dream. As a construct of my imagination. The room where I am is clean and functional. It is empty my clothes must be in the closet. A cage covers my left foot. Every so often a nurse enters checks beneath the sheet cloaking the cage. Makes notes in a steel clipboard unsmiling. Looks at me. I make no move to be friendly mostly pacified by the large ingestion of pain meds. Hangs the clipboard back on the bed. Leaves. Time drags in these places. I have lost track of days and weeks or dates or time or am or pm. Like the inside of a Vegas Casino. I even wish I could see the bone white moon or blue blue sky. Some nights they share the same sky.
As I drift back into my torpid sleep the door to my room opens. I don't move. I don't care. I listen and wait for the sheet to be lifted and the clipboard to be checked. A voice.
You still alive?
I creak my left eye open slightly.
Just
Dallas drags a chair and sits beside the bed.
Nursing staff say you can start physiotherapy real soon. Tomorrow maybe.
Don't feel like I can.
You can.
He smiles. I say.
You killed Santana
Dallas doesn't comment just scans the room. He seems to admire the quality of the care. I repeat.
Why? That's what I don't get. Yama claims he was a big earner. I can't see him giving that order.
Who said there was an order?
You acting alone? Very un-military
I'm an on-staff private security consultant. I have to act in the best interests of my client. Sometimes the client doesn't know what's best for them.
I lie heavy into my pillow. Dallas stands and walks to the closet. He opens the door and removes some of my clothes. The print shirt and the jeans. He holds up a white plastic carrier pulls out a jacket, a windbreaker, and clean jeans. Nike sneakers. A T-shirt. It has a logo on the front: Laguna Beach Life Guard. It makes me smile. He folds them and places them on the chair. Says.
It's time to leave.
I thought physiotherapy was next?
My client needs to ensure you get on a plane before you are mobile. And before any other shit happens.
I nod. I understand.
Dallas peels back the sheets. I rip out the drip and rub a cotton ball over the bloody puncture. Dallas helps me. Slowly. He has honor. He has code.
We laugh trying to get the blue jeans to slide over the inflated pigs bladder that used to act as my foot. I grab a pair of scissors that had been left by the nurse and snip off the left leg of the jeans. It created a strange cutoff Levi combo. I say.
Get me a wheelchair.
Dallas goes into the corridor looking for a chair. He wheels it back into the
I move a little toward Dallas. Stop. Say.
Pilgrim, it's off. He's good.
I don't see or hear anything. It's as if Pilgrim was never there. I'm in pain. Incredible pain. I'm sure Pilgrim is here but soon he will be gone. Dallas acts as my crutch. Hauls me to the elevator. My head throbs. My eyelashes throb. My body feels like an explosion of a million stars. It aches in every cell. They flash and explode behind my closed eyelids. Fists clench. Teeth grind.
Elevator descends. Mercedes appear. Surround me. Hold me. Fade to black.
NO ONE HERE GETS OUT ALIVE
The morphine haze is beginning to wear off. I see a nurse. Masculine. Too much facial hair. She could be...
The male nurse removes the drip from the vein beneath my biceps muscle. Checks the bag of fluids. Rolls the plastic slider. Replaces the catheter. I feel none of this. Between sleeping and having various medications imbibed my mind discusses Largo, the Cops, Santana, Yama, Dallas, the Colombians, the Californian girls and Carly. My mom was in this mix somewhere but I can only imagine her now as a dream. As a construct of my imagination. The room where I am is clean and functional. It is empty my clothes must be in the closet. A cage covers my left foot. Every so often a nurse enters checks beneath the sheet cloaking the cage. Makes notes in a steel clipboard unsmiling. Looks at me. I make no move to be friendly mostly pacified by the large ingestion of pain meds. Hangs the clipboard back on the bed. Leaves. Time drags in these places. I have lost track of days and weeks or dates or time or am or pm. Like the inside of a Vegas Casino. I even wish I could see the bone white moon or blue blue sky. Some nights they share the same sky.
As I drift back into my torpid sleep the door to my room opens. I don't move. I don't care. I listen and wait for the sheet to be lifted and the clipboard to be checked. A voice.
You still alive?
I creak my left eye open slightly.
Just
Dallas drags a chair and sits beside the bed.
Nursing staff say you can start physiotherapy real soon. Tomorrow maybe.
Don't feel like I can.
You can.
He smiles. I say.
You killed Santana
Dallas doesn't comment just scans the room. He seems to admire the quality of the care. I repeat.
Why? That's what I don't get. Yama claims he was a big earner. I can't see him giving that order.
Who said there was an order?
You acting alone? Very un-military
I'm an on-staff private security consultant. I have to act in the best interests of my client. Sometimes the client doesn't know what's best for them.
I lie heavy into my pillow. Dallas stands and walks to the closet. He opens the door and removes some of my clothes. The print shirt and the jeans. He holds up a white plastic carrier pulls out a jacket, a windbreaker, and clean jeans. Nike sneakers. A T-shirt. It has a logo on the front: Laguna Beach Life Guard. It makes me smile. He folds them and places them on the chair. Says.
It's time to leave.
I thought physiotherapy was next?
My client needs to ensure you get on a plane before you are mobile. And before any other shit happens.
I nod. I understand.
Dallas peels back the sheets. I rip out the drip and rub a cotton ball over the bloody puncture. Dallas helps me. Slowly. He has honor. He has code.
We laugh trying to get the blue jeans to slide over the inflated pigs bladder that used to act as my foot. I grab a pair of scissors that had been left by the nurse and snip off the left leg of the jeans. It created a strange cutoff Levi combo. I say.
Get me a wheelchair.
Dallas goes into the corridor looking for a chair. He wheels it back into the
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