Where It Hurts by Reed Farrel Coleman

watch.
    It was on nights like these that I wished I was out driving the van. But when I stopped to think about it, I realized I was in a pretty bad frame of mind to begin with. This afternoon, on my way back to the Paragon, I stopped at a walk-in clinic on Portion Road in Ronkonkoma. I’d had them check the dressing on my leg and write me a script for antibiotics. I’d made up a story for the doctor about how I’d taken out that chunk of my calf with a piece of hot metal in my garage. You mention a gunshot wound to a doctor and, by law, he or she must contact the cops. I wasn’t up for explaining myself, thank you very much.
    Between Tommy Delcamino’s murder and the break-in at 11 Pinetree, I’d spent way too much time over the last twenty-four hours with my old colleagues at the SCPD. The detectives from the Fourth Precinct who responded to the break-in didn’t connect that crime to Tommy D.’s murder. Why would they? Two different crimes. Two different precincts. Two different detective squads. But I knew better. Although I lived at the Paragon, my official address was 11 Pinetree Court, and anyone who didn’t know about the fallout from my son’s death would assume my family still lived there. I guess I was also more than a little annoyed at the fact that I’d moved myself into a different room at the hotel. It was a matter of precaution. I figured that it wouldn’t take too long for the guys who had killed Tommy and tossed my old house to track me down to my room at the Paragon. For now, only Felix and I knew I’d moved.
    Just before midnight, I walked out the entrance of the Full Flaps Lounge. I needed some fresh air, cold as it might be. As soon as I stepped into the brisk night air, I got a face full of cigarette smoke. Off to my right was a group of ten men and women huddled together, smoking, keeping warm, and chatting. The word was that many of the hookups happened out here and not inside the club. I didn’t doubt it. It was often so loud inside the club that it was impossible to hear your own internal voice, let alone ask for someone’s number. A few of the regularssaid hello to me, patting me on the shoulder as I passed. Thankfully, none of them whacked on the arm where I’d gotten the tetanus shot. Damned thing hurt almost as much as the leg wound. I nodded and kept moving.
    I stopped at the corner of the building, leaning back against the rough concrete wall. I hoped the quiet would ease the ringing in my ears and help stop “Rock Lobster” from going round and round in my brain. I let the cool night air wash over me. It was warm inside the Full Flaps when it was half-empty. On nights like this, it was downright tropical.
    A woman’s voice came out of the darkness. “Are you all right?”
    “I don’t even know what all right means anymore.” The words came out of me like yesterday’s weather, nasty and raw.
    “This was a mistake. I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll leave you alone.”
    The sound of her heels clicking against the pavement echoed in the quiet of midnight. I called after her. Limped after her. Clutched her gently by her right biceps when I finally caught up to her.
    “No, no, please. I didn’t mean to be so rude. There’s no excuse for that. I’m the one who’s sorry.”
    I took my hand away from her arm. Her face was familiar to me. She wasn’t a regular at the club, but she was there often enough so that we’d nod hello to each other when I’d stamped her hand for reentry. She was in her midthirties, on the short side, and maybe a little heavier than she wanted to be. Maybe not. I think I assumed as much because she always seemed self-conscious in the club. She wasn’t the type who initiated conversations, but would sit at the bar nursing her drinks or stand at the edges of the dance floor waiting. I’d seen her leave with men on occasion, but she’d be back alone the next time. I seemed to know a lot about her, a lot more than I would have believed. Not her