Pandemonium

“Hit me!” I commanded in my best James Brown.

“Okay, that’s it,” a male voice said. In English again, unless my hyperstimulated lobes, drawing on race memory encoded in my DNA, were automatically translating. “Take him down to the drunk tank.”

That’s right, I’d been drinking. Coors Light, mostly. Coors Fucking Light! Was it even possible to get drunk on Coors Light?

Evidently.

Walls zipped past. Elevators dropped and rose. The ambulance rumbled. Time progressed in a series of jump-cuts: Now, Now, Now. Something bad had happened. Several bad things. I was almost sure of it.

I needed to remember something important. Or unforget it. What was that word again?

I looked into the upside-down face of the man pushing my gurney into the building.

“Anamnesis,” I said proudly.

“Uh-huh,” he said.

Amra and My Very Bigger Brother were waiting for me in the busy front room of the First District Police Station.

“Good morning, starshine,” Lew said.

I smiled weakly. I felt nauseous, still slightly drunk. My body felt like it had been yanked apart and snapped back together by clumsy children. My hands ached fiercely. I suspected the pain would only get worse as the alcohol wore off.

“Thanks for this,” I said. This: driving downtown on a Monday morning; putting up money for bail; existing. “Did you tell Mom?”

“What, and kill her?” he said.

“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t have the energy for banter. Amra lightly touched one bandaged hand. “Does it hurt?”

“Little bit.” I’d woken up with my right hand wrapped from wrist to fingers, turning it into a club. My left hand was only partially wrapped, but blood had seeped through the bandages on my palm like a stigmata. The tips of my fingers were stained black from the fingerprinting. Or so I assumed. I couldn’t remember that.

The bandages had made it difficult to sign the I-Bond, the piece of paper releasing me on my own recognizance until my court date on April 20. My thought was that if I was still cognizant of anything by then, I’d be more than happy to show up.

We walked slowly toward the front door. I shuffled like an old man. I’d pulled a muscle in my lower back, and my shoulders felt shredded, as if I’d tried to bench press a piano. I hadn’t felt this bad since the car accident.

“I think something bad happened last night,” I said. Lew laughed. “You think? They told us you tore up a hotel room and half a hallway. Mirrors, TV, broken furniture. Total rock star. And I guess you also banged up three security guards before they tied you down.”

“Oh.”

“Oh yeah.”

Amra opened the door for me. Sunlight smacked me in the face.

“The cop we talked to said they haven’t filed assault charges yet, though that could be coming,” she said. “As for the damages, he said we should talk to the hotel, sometimes they’ll drop the criminal mischief charge if—”

I stopped them. “Where’s my bag?”

“What, your duffel bag?” Lew said.

“I need my bag.”

“Jesus Christ, Del, you’re worried about your fucking luggage?” he said. “Forget that shit. You can buy some more clothes. Your bigger problem is that you’re about to do time. We’ve got to get you a lawyer, maybe find a—”

“Do the cops have it? I need my bag, Lew. Find out what happened to my bag.”

He blinked, lowered his voice. “What’s the matter with you? You got drugs in there or something?”

“No,” I said scornfully. But then realized that wasn’t true. The Nembutal. But that was legal, and it wasn’t what I was worried about.

“Please,” I said. “Just find out what they did with it. See if the cops have it.”