Back Blast

31

It was just past four a.m. when Gentry pulled his gray Ford Escort into the parking lot of the Easy Market on Rhode Island. He was careful to park in the same spot as he did the last time he visited this store, and just as careful to pull his red ball cap down low and to walk where the cameras could not get a look at his face.

The same heavyset young woman with the lazy eye greeted him as soon as he came in the door. “Hey, baby. How’s your night goin’?”

“It’s goin’,” he said. He held his right arm down tight against his parka, as much to hide the tear and the little stain of blood that he’d been unable to clean off as to put a small amount of direct pressure on his painful wound.

“You must work nights, too,” she said, but she’d already turned her head back to the little TV behind the counter.

“Yeah,” he muttered.

He headed to a back aisle and found a small section with simple first aid items. He picked up an ACE bandage and two rolls of gauze, some tape, and a single off-brand bottle of antiseptic. He then stepped back to the cooler, where he hefted a six-pack of beer off a shelf.

LaShondra called out to him. “Oh, I see. You need you some beer for a big party over at your place. Suppose my invite got lost in the mail, is that it?”

Court smiled, then he scooped up a can of ravioli, a loaf of white bread, and a candy bar, and he brought his food and beer up to the register along with the first aid. He fished some bills out of his jacket with his left hand. “Nah. No party.”

“Mm-hm.” She said it in a playfully suspicious tone.

Court hoped she would be too occupied with her TV show to pay any attention to the other items he’d brought to the counter.

“Oh, baby, you done hurt yourself?”

So much for that.

“No.”

“Then what’s all this for?”

“Just stocking up on my first aid kit. Going camping this weekend.”

“Campin’?” she said, as if it were a preposterous concept. “I ain’t never been campin’.”

Court did not respond.

She began ringing up the items, scanning the gauze, the ACE bandage, the tape, and the antiseptic. Once she got to the canned ravioli she looked up at him again. Court kept his head turned from the camera on his right, pretending to be reading a newspaper on a rack to his left. The injury to his rib cage burned like hell.

“Hey, this ain’t yo dinner, is it?”

Court shrugged. “Yeah.”

She paused, stopped scanning the food, and Court glanced further to the left. He got the sense she was looking at his face.

She said, “You don’t look good.”

“I’m fine.”

“Nah, you sweating. Your skin is white. I mean like really white.”

“Allergies. Every spring.”

“You need you some greens.”

“Okay,” he said, thinking her comment to be rhetorical in nature.

When she kept staring at him, he glanced up quickly into her good eye.

She said, “I’m for real. Go get you a can of turnip greens or spinach or something. Don’t cost but two dollars, and you look like you need it.”

Court did as instructed, following LaShondra’s pointed finger to a shelf. He grabbed a can of turnip greens and brought it back to the counter, set it down, and went back to looking at the magazine rack.

“You know that’s real good with some vinegar. You got vinegar at home?”

Court did not. “Sure do. I’ll try it.”

A minute later he was on the way out the door, a little stressed about the level of questioning from the woman but ultimately satisfied he’d not compromised himself in any way.

Court realized that people here in the U.S. were nicer to strangers than in the other places he’d traveled in the past five years — when they weren’t shooting you in the ribs, that was. And while Court had no problem with politeness, for a man who lived his life moving through society without leaving a trace, this was problematic.

As he struggled into the driver’s seat, the pain in his torso limiting his movement, he thought he might have to change his late-night shopping habits so he didn’t get any more probing questions from the ultra inquisitive cashier. He suspected LaShondra was a level of chatty not common among most late-night store clerks, so he could just find another place to make his purchases.

Court found this unfortunate, because he liked the slightly annoying woman. When she called him “baby doll” the first time he had realized it had been a very long time since anyone had called him by an affectionate name.

Court pulled out of the parking lot, a sense of sadness creeping into his normally mission-focused mind.

LaShondra would have no way of knowing it, of course, but she had become his best friend.

Too bad he would never see her again.

A half hour later Court knelt in the alley that ran catty-corner to the Mayberry home on NW Quincy Street, and he eyed the area around his rented room. He’d been here for nearly ten minutes, watching the scene, his bags from the market by his side. It would be dawn in a little while, but he was using the security afforded by darkness to survey the neighborhood, making sure he had not been followed or his hide had not been otherwise compromised.

It had been a shitty night — his covert B&E had turned into a mad run for his life, a leap from a rooftop, explosions and wild-assed, trigger-happy police officers, helicopters, and even a gunshot wound thrown in for good measure.

Jesus Christ.

Court had planned it very differently, to say the least.

He checked his watch, looked to the sky, and told himself he needed to be in the room well before first light, so he stood and crossed the street. All the while half expecting the pops of guns or the wail of sirens.

The neighborhood remained quiet.

He entered his room at six, peeled off his clothes, inspected bruises and scrapes that would get no more attention, and cradled his forearm in his hand. He’d not rebroken it — he was sure of this because he knew exactly what it felt like when it was broken — but the tissue around the injury had not appreciated the way Court had decided to spend his doctor-ordered convalescence.

He wanted to jump into the little shower, but he fought the urge for a few minutes so he could restage his booby trap by the front door. Once he had his device assembled and set, he headed for the tiny bathroom at the back of the apartment.

Court took a hot shower. The water stung like hell in his gunshot wound but he powered through it, careful to make sure he washed out any foreign debris lodged deep in the sticky mess. He then toweled off as well as he could with the wounded ribs and poured antiseptic onto a thick wad of gauze. Carefully he placed it over his injury, and he used the ACE bandage to secure it by wrapping it all the way around his torso several times.

That done, Court re-dressed in a fresh set of dark clothing and put on a pair of black running shoes. He pulled the one tray of ice out of his little refrigerator/freezer, and he moved into the closet. Here he lay on his back, the Smith and Wesson on his chest, and his right arm resting on the ice tray at the point of most discomfort.

He fell asleep like this at six forty-five and he dreamed of killer cops.