4th of July

Chapter 11

A NURSE NAMED HEATHER Grace, a saint if ever there was one, had secured a wheelchair for me. I sat in the wheelchair beside Jacobi’s bed as the late-afternoon light poured through the window in the ICU and pooled on the blue linoleum floor. Two bullets had tunneled through his torso. One had collapsed a lung, the other had punctured a kidney, and the kick he’d taken to the head had broken his nose and turned his face a brilliant shade of eggplant.

This was my third visit in as many days, and though I’d done my best to cheer him, Jacobi’s mood remained unrelentingly dark. I was watching him sleep when his swollen eyes flickered open to slits.

“Hey, Warren.”

“Hey, Slick.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Like the world’s biggest horse’s ass.” He coughed painfully, and I winced in sympathy.

“Take it easy, bud.”

“It sucks, Boxer.”

“I know.”

“I can’t stop thinking about it. Dreaming about it.” He paused, touched the bandages over his nose. “That kid popping me while I stood there holding my dick.”

“Um. I think it was your cell phone, Jacobi.”

He didn’t laugh. That was bad.

“No excuse for it.”

“Our hearts were in the right place.”

“Hearts? Shit. Next time, less heart, more brains.”

He was right, of course. I was taking it all in, nodding, adding a few strokes in my own mind. Like, would I ever feel right with a gun in my hand again? Would I hesitate when I shouldn’t? Shoot before thinking? I poured Jacobi a glass of water. Stuck in a striped straw.

“I blew it. I should’ve cuffed that kid —”

“Don’t even start, Boxer. It’s we shoulda—and you probably saved my life.”

There was a flash of movement in the doorway. Chief Anthony Tracchio’s hair was slicked across his head, his off-duty clothes were plain and neat, and he was gripping a box of candy. He looked like a teenager coming to pick up his first date. Well, not really.

“Jacobi. Boxer. Glad I caught you two together. How ya doing, okay?” Tracchio wasn’t a bad guy, and he’d been good to me; still, ours was no love affair. He bounced a bit on his toes, then approached Jacobi’s bed.

“I’ve got news.”

He had our full attention.

“The Cabot kids left prints at the Lorenzo.” A light danced around in his eyes. “And Sam Cabot confessed.”

“Holy shit. Is this true?” Jacobi wheezed.

“On my mother’s head. The kid told a nurse that he and his sis were playing a game with those runaways. They called it ‘a bullet or a bath.’”

“The nurse will testify?” I asked.

“Yes, indeed. Swore to me herself.”

“‘A bullet or a bath.’ Those little fuckers.” Jacobi snorted. “A game.”

“Yeah, well, that game’s over. We even found notebooks and collections of crime stories in the girl’s bedroom at home. She was obsessed with homicides. Listen, you two get well, okay? Don’t worry about nothin’.

“Oh. This is from the squad,” he said, handing me the Ghirardelli chocolates and a “get well” card with a lot of signatures. “We’re proud a ya both.”

We talked for another minute or so, passing along thanks to our friends at the Hall of Justice. When he was gone, I reached out and took Jacobi’s hand. Having almost died together had forged an intimacy between us that was deeper than friendship.

“Well, the kids were dirty,” I said.

“Yeah. Break out the champagne.”

I couldn’t argue with him. That the Cabot kids were murderers didn’t change the horror of the shooting. And it didn’t change the notion I’d been harboring for days.

“I’ll tell you something, Jacobi. I’m thinking of giving it up. Quitting the job.”

“C’mon. You’re talking to me.”

“I’m serious.”

“You’re not going to quit, Boxer.”

I straightened a fold in his blanket, then pushed the call button so a nurse would come and roll me back to my room.

“Sleep tight, partner.”

“I know, ‘Don’t worry about nothin’.’”

I leaned over and kissed his stubbly cheek for the first time ever. I know it hurt to do it, but Jacobi actually smiled.