Strip

11

JORGE GUZMAN WAS in pain. He had endured nearly two hours of being wheeled from one place to another in the hospital—x-rays, a surgical area that seemed to be on the same floor as the emergency room where they doped him and cut and stitched, and then a regular patient room.

Corona had been with him for part of the time because the first doctor had the idea that Guzman couldn’t speak English, but one of the nurses was Mexican and could tell Corona wasn’t translating, just talking. She made Corona leave.

The cops had arrived while he was still lying in the little examining room bleeding. They asked him the same questions Corona told him he’d already answered. Then one of the cops took a picture of his face and another one of the tattoo on his neck, and left.

The final move was to bring him up here to the third floor. Now he had a real bed, not as hard or narrow as the thing he’d been on. But he felt his left shin all the time, throbbing with each heartbeat. He couldn’t look at it because it was in a hard bandage like a cast, but it felt as though the bone was exposed. A nurse walked past his door and he shouted, “Hey!”

She took one step into the doorway. “Use the button. You’ll wake everybody up.”

“Hey, you know, I’m not some kind of gangster. I’m a victim.”

She shrugged. “When one of you shoots, the other one is a victim. Next time you’ll get to shoot, and he’ll be a victim.”

“I’m hurting bad.”

“Sure. You got shot.”

“Can’t you get me something?”

She stepped in, looked at his chart, and allowed a bit of compassion to show in her eyes. “I’ll get you something.” She hurried out.

He wasn’t sure if he had dozed off for a few seconds waiting for her or if she had shot him up, but he woke, and it wasn’t as bad. But then the door filled with the shape of a man. Guzman said in Spanish, “Hey, my friend. Thanks for coming back.”

An unfamiliar voice said in flat, toneless English, “I’m not your friend.” He stepped close to Guzman’s bed. “I’m Lieutenant Slosser, LAPD.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Not yet, but we’re looking. You and I need to talk a little.”

“I talked to the cops a while ago, and so did my friend. I told them everything, just the way it happened.”

“Yeah. You did fine. Nobody is saying you lied about it. But they didn’t ask you about what happened to your guns, and where the keys are for the car you took to the bank.”

“I don’t own any guns.”

“I see. And the car?”

“They must have took my keys after I went down. They were thieves.”

“So there wasn’t a third guy with you who took the guns and split so the police wouldn’t find them?”

“No.”

Slosser was tall, with square shoulders and thick arms, so his body looked younger than his face. One of his big hands touched Guzman’s temple and Guzman reflexively pulled away and turned his head, so his tattoo was visible. Slosser nodded to himself. “You and Corona are the last of the Mohicans, huh?”

“Mohicans?”

“The last two from your gang. The Sombres.”

“We are.”

“I remember that. It must be what? Eighteen years? I was working up in Devonshire then, but that night they called every division for extra men. So I’ve seen a lot of tattoos like that one, but until tonight, not on anybody alive.”

“I got shot, and I don’t feel so good. Is there some reason why you want to talk about eighteen years ago?”

“Maybe. It explains what your doctor gave us for a preliminary report—that you have three other bullet scars.”

“He didn’t look hard enough. I got four.”

“I’ll correct the record in case we have to identify your body sometime.” He stared into Guzman’s eyes. “How long have you worked for Manco Kapak?”

“About five years.”

“What’s your job?”

“Security. We check IDs, protect the talent, bounce the guys that get crazy, take money to the bank, that kind of stuff”

“And you drove the car to the bank. That means Corona carried the money, right?”

“I’m finding it hard to remember. I think he had it this time and I drove, but that could have been last time. You should ask him. He didn’t get shot or anything. He’ll remember.”

Slosser didn’t move his eyes from Guzman. “When I found out who you are, it occurred to me that maybe I could talk to you. Of all the people involved in this, you and Corona have the best reason to know that getting into a war is a bad idea. If you know who did this to you tonight, I’d like you to tell me. I’ll do my best to protect you and your friends from whatever is happening. It won’t be you and a dozen friends against a hundred this time. It will be nine thousand cops against them.”

“Why would you give a shit about Manco Kapak?”

“I don’t care about him in particular. But I’m a cop, and I can’t have people getting shot down on my streets. I don’t want him dead or you dead, and I don’t want either of you shooting anybody else. So if you know anything else about the robbery, I’d like to hear it.”

“I told you everything I know. The thing happened so fast I was down before I saw anything much. It was a guy with a mask over his head and a gun. Then behind us there’s this girl, and she opened up and hit me with her first round, and I was out of it—didn’t see, didn’t care. The pain just took me.”

“Okay,” Slosser said. “I’m leaving my card on the table. If something comes back, call me.”

“Joe Carver.”

“What?”

“Joe Carver,” said Guzman.

“Who is he?”

“Just a name. There’s a rumor that he was the one who robbed Manco. People say he’s the one. I don’t know if you can find him. But what happened tonight was almost the same, except for the girl. She’s new.”

Slosser patted Guzman’s shoulder. “You did the right thing to tell me. I’ll see what we’ve got on him, and what we can find out. You talked to me, so I’ll talk to you. I’ll let you know what I get. Don’t be in a hurry to get out of the hospital for now. There’s nothing out there that you’d like, and nothing you can do.”

Slosser walked out of the room. After a few minutes, Guzman began to wonder whether he had imagined him. Guzman was so tired, so completely used up by this long, hard day, that he knew he was slipping in and out of consciousness. He remembered now that the nurse had returned and added something to his IV. Or maybe that was a dream too.

He floated in the bright morning sunlight to the chicken yard outside his little house in the village in Guatemala. He could feel the sun’s warmth on his back and his neck as he squatted in the dust tossing feed to the chickens. Their copper bodies and emerald green tail feathers and bright scarlet combs glowed in the morning light. The world seemed so beautiful, and so safe.