Flood

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WE WERE IN Flood’s studio, she was packing. There had been nothing in the morning papers or on the radio about yesterday’s action, but the afternoon edition of the Post had the coverage. Flood perched on the arm of the chair as I read aloud:

PIMP SAYS HE SAW GOD IN PLASTIC GARBAGE BAG

A man with a history of convictions for pimping was discovered early this morning unconscious, injured, and wrapped in a green plastic garbage bag, police said.

The man, whom police identified as James Tyrone Simmons, 41, was taken to Bellevue Hospital, where he reportedly told doctors a bizarre story of how God and several fiery devils appeared to him inside the bag. He could not explain, however, what he was doing there.

Simmons was listed in good condition, suffering from a broken ankle and wrist and multiple contusions. He was being held for observation, according to a hospital spokesman.

“Except for some broken bones, he’s fine physically,” said Dr. Ito Kumatso, the hospital’s chief psychiatric resident. “But the story he told us is something else.

“He talked about having a vision from God. He said God told him to change his ways, and then sent down monsters and wolves with fiery fangs. There was also something about green smoke.

“It sounds like a TV horror movie, but his terror seems genuine enough,” Dr. Kumatso said, adding that Simmons will remain in the hospital under observation for at least several days.

Simmons’s only request, Dr. Kumatso said, has been for a Bible.

Sergeant William Moody of the 10th precinct said that it was unclear whether Simmons had been assaulted. If there was an assault, Moody said, robbery was not the motive.

“There was money in his wallet and he was wearing jewelry when we got to him,” Moody said.

Simmons was discovered by neighbors in an alley behind his apartment at 704 West 26th Street.

“I hope they find him a psychiatrist who talks English,” I said to Flood.

“What are you talking about, Burke? If the doctor doesn’t speak English how could he work with patients-?”

“Flood, this is New York City, not Disneyland. Half of the shrinks they use in the city hospitals are from out of country. They can’t get a license to practice over here so they either work in some Medicaid mill or work for the city. I was investigating a case once for this Puerto Rican family. Their kid was bopping down the street listening to his new portable radio. You know, the giant-sized jobs the kids carry today? Anyway, a couple of punks tried to rough off the kid’s radio and one of them got himself stabbed. So they had this kid in detention and we’re working on a self-defense case. Meanwhile, they send the kid to see this Pakistani psychiatrist-to interview him and make his report to the court. When I come into the court there’s this doctor up on the stand telling the judge that the kid is sexually disturbed. He says that the kid has a fantasy that he has a woman’s vagina on his shoulder-and that his reality-testing is so bad that he keeps insisting on it. So the judge asks the psychiatrist how he came to that conclusion, and the Pakistani tells the judge that the kid keeps saying, “I was bopping down the block with the box on my shoulder…” and he goes on in that upperclass Paki accent of his:

“I am most familiar with your American idiom, sir. And it is common knowledge that the word box is a synonym for the vagina.’

“Well, the judge about had a kitten. He was no legal scholar but even he knew the kids call a ghetto blaster a box.”

“What did he do?” Flood wanted to know.

About what you’d expect-he thanked the doctor for his time and remanded the kid for another psychiatric exam.”

“You think that pimp will get a shrink like that?”

“It doesn’t make much difference-he’s sure as hell crazy by now. Anyway, Margot’s well away, and that was the deal. I pay my debts.”

“I know you do,” said Flood, bending to kiss me.

“We have to leave for the airport,” I told her.

“There’s enough time,” she said. And that was true.