Win

Chapter 20

All superheroes have an origin story. All people do, when you think about it. So here is the abridged version of mine.

I grew up in privilege. You know that already. What you may consider relevant is that every human being is snap-judged by their looks. That’s not exactly an earth-shattering observation and no, I’m not comparing or saying I had it worse than others. That would be what we call a “false equivalency.” But the fact is, many people detest me on sight. They see the towheaded blond locks, the ruddy complexion, the porcelain features, my haughty resting face — they smell the inescapable stink of old money that comes off me in relentless waves — and they think smug, snob, elitist, lazy, judgmental, undeservedly wealthy ne’er-do-good who was born not only with a silver spoon in his mouth but with a forty-eight-piece silver place setting with a side of titanium steak knives.

I understand this. I, too, sometimes feel that way about those who inhabit my socioeconomic sphere.

You see me, and you think I look down on you. You feel resentment and envy toward me. All your own failures, both real and perceived, rise up and want to target me.

Even worse, I appear to be a soft, easy, pampered target.

Today’s teenagers might dub my face “punch-worthy.”

Inevitably, all of the above led to ugly incidents in my childhood. For the sake of brevity, I will talk about one. During a visit to the Philadelphia Zoo when I was ten years old, decked out in a blue blazer with my school crest sewn onto the chest pocket, I wandered away from my well-heeled pack. A group of inner-city students — yes, you can read into that as you might — surrounded me, mocked me, and then beat me. I ended up hospitalized, in a coma for a short time, and in a suddenly interesting life cycle, I nearly lost the same kidney Bobby Lyons had so recently pummeled.

The physical pain of that beating was bad. The shame that ten-year-old boy felt from cowering, from feeling helpless and terrified, was far worse.

In short, I never wanted to experience that again.

I had a choice then. I could, as my father urged, “stay amongst my own” — hide behind those wrought-iron gates and well-manicured hedges — or I could do something about it.

You know the rest. Or at least you think you do. Human beings, as Sadie noted, are complex. I had the financial means, the motivation, the past trauma, the innate skills, the disposition, and perhaps, when I am most honest with myself, some sort of loose screw (or primitive survival mechanism?) that allows me to not only thrive but take some pleasure from acts of violence.

Take all those components, puree them in a blender, and voilà. Here I am.

In a hospital bed. Unconscious.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. I don’t know whether I dreamed this or not, but I may have opened my eyes and seen Myron sitting bedside. I did that for him when we scraped him off the pavement after our own government tortured him. Other times I hear voices — my father’s, my biological daughter’s, my deceased mother’s — but since I know for certain that at least one of those voices cannot be real, perhaps I am imagining the rest.

I am, however, alive.

Per my “plan” — I use that word in the loosest sense possible — I’d managed to fold enough of my body across the driver’s seat belt harness before the crash. It kept me strapped in during impact. I don’t know the fate of Teddy’s two brothers. I don’t know what the authorities believed happened. I don’t know how many hours or days it has been since the crash.

As I begin to swim up to the surface of awareness, I let my mind wander. I have begun piecing some of this case together, or at least it feels that way. Hard to know for certain. I am still mostly unconscious, if that’s what you call this cusp, and thus many of my purported solutions — about the LLC, about the bank robbery, about the murder of Ry Strauss — seem plausible now but may, like many a dream, turn into utter nonsense when I awake.

I reach a stage where I can sense consciousness, yet I hesitate. I’m not sure why. Part is exhaustion, a weariness so heavy that even the act of opening my eyes would seem a task far too rigorous in my current condition. I feel as though I’m strapped down in one of the dreams where you’re running through deep snow and thus moving too slowly. I’m also trying to listen and gather intel, but the voices are unintelligible, muffled, like Charlie Brown’s parents or the audial equivalent of a shower curtain.

When I finally do blink my eyes open, it is not a family member nor Myron sitting bedside. It’s Sadie Fisher. She bends toward me — close enough that I can smell her lilac shampoo — and whispers in my ear.

“Not a word to the police until we talk.”

Then Sadie calls out, “I think he’s awake,” and moves to the side. Medical professionals — doctors and nurses, I assume — descend. They take vitals and give me ice chips for the thirst. It takes a minute or two, but I’m able to answer their simple, medically related questions. They tell me that I suffered head trauma, that the bullet missed my vital organs, that I will be fine. After some time passes, they ask me if I have any questions. I catch Sadie’s eye. She gives the smallest shake of the head. I, in turn, shake mine.

Perhaps an hour later — time is hard to judge — I am upright in the bed. Sadie works hard to clear the room. The staff grudgingly obey. Once they are gone, Sadie takes a small speaker out of her purse, fiddles with her phone, and starts blasting music.

“In case someone is listening in,” Sadie tells me when she moves closer.

“How long have I been here?” I ask.

“Four days.” Sadie pulls a chair toward the bed. “Tell me what happened. All of it.”

I do, though the pain medication is making me loopy. She listens without interrupting. I ask for more ice chips while I tell the tale. She pours them into my mouth.

When I finish, Sadie says, “The driver, as you already know, is dead. So is one of the two assailants, Robert Lyons. He flew through the windshield on impact. The other brother — he goes by Trey — suffered broken bones, but since there wasn’t enough to hold him on, he’s gone home to ‘convalesce’ in western Pennsylvania.”

“What did Trey claim?”

“Mr. Lyons is choosing not to speak to the authorities at this time.”

“What do the police think happened?”

“They aren’t saying, except for the fact that they’ve pieced together that the driver had his throat slit by you. They have some forensics — the position of your body behind the corpse, the way the blade fit into your sleeve, the blood on your hands, stuff like that. It probably isn’t court conclusive, but it’s enough so that the cops know.”

“Did you tell them about the brothers threatening you?” I ask.

“Not yet. I can always do that later. If I tell them now, they will want to know why they threatened me. Do you understand?”

I do.

“The cops are already connecting the dots between what happened to Teddy Lyons in Indiana and what happened in that van. For your sake, as my client, I don’t want to help them.”

Logical. “Advice?” I ask.

“The police are here. They want you to make a statement. I say we don’t give them one.”

“I already forget what happened anyway,” I say. “Head trauma, you know.”

“And you’re still too weak to question,” Sadie adds.

“I am, yes, though I still want to be released as soon as possible. I can recuperate better at home.”

“I’ll see whether I can arrange it.”

Sadie rises.

“We kept this quiet, Win. Out of the papers.”

“Thank you.”

“There were other people who wanted to stay bedside. I advised against it because I wanted to make certain you spoke to me first. They all understood.”

I nod. I don’t ask who. It doesn’t matter.

“Thank you,” I say. “Now get me out of here.”

But it isn’t that easy.

Two days later I am moved out of the ICU into a private room. It is there, at three in the morning, while I am still blessedly riding the edge between the morphine highway and full slumber, that I sense more than hear my hospital room door open.

This is not uncommon, of course. Anyone who has endured a prolonged stay in a medical facility knows that you are prodded and probed at the strangest hours of the night, almost as though the intent is to keep you from any true REM sleep. Perhaps, to again use a superhero analogy, my Spidey senses were tingling, but I somehow know that whoever was broaching was not a nurse or physician or a member of the custodial crew.

I stay very still. I do not have a weapon on me, which is foolish. I also do not have my customary reflexes or strength or timing. I carefully open my eyes just a smidge, but between the drugs and the late hour, my vision is that of a man looking through gauze.

I do, however, see movement.

I could perhaps open my eyes a bit wider, but I don’t want whoever is entering to know that I’m awake.

Still, I make out a man. My first thought is one that makes my pulse spike.

It’s Trey Lyons.

But I can see now that this man is too large. He stays in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me. I consider my next move.

The call button.

Every hospital room has one, of course, but being that I am not good about asking for help, I had paid little heed when the nurse explained it all to me. Hadn’t she wrapped the cord about the bed railing? Yes. Had that been on my left or right?

Left.

With my body still under the covers, I try to snake my left hand toward the call button without being seen.

A male voice says, “Don’t do that, Win.”

So much for playing possum. I open my eyes all the way now. My vision is still murky, and the lights are low, but I can see the big man — and he’s very big, I see now — standing by the door. I make out a long beard and a cap of some kind atop his head. Another man — swept-back gray hair, expensive suit — steps fully into the room. He is the one who warned me off the call button. He nods at the big guy. The big guy steps out of the room and closes the door behind him. Swept Back grabs a chair and pulls it up to me.

“You know who I am?” he asks me.

“The Tooth Fairy?”

It’s not my best line, but Gray Hair still smiles. “My name is Leo Staunch.”

I had guessed that.

“My men were following you.”

“Yes, I know.”

“You picked up the tail fast.”

“Amateurish move,” I reply. “Almost insulting.”

“My apologies,” Staunch says. “What’s your involvement with Ry Strauss?”

“He had my painting.”

“Yeah, we heard. What else?”

“That’s it,” I say.

“So all your snooping. It’s just about an art heist?”

“It’s just about an art heist,” I repeat. “Also: Did you just use the word ‘snooping’?”

He smiles, leans closer to me. “We all know your rep,” he whispers.

“Do tell.”

“People describe you as crazy, dangerous, a psycho.”

“Nothing about my natural good looks or supernatural charisma?”

I realize my rather feeble attempts at humor may seem out of place. If you think these lines are cringeworthy, you really must meet Myron. But they do serve a purpose. You never show fear. Not ever. My reputation, which I’ve carefully cultivated, is to appear unhinged. That’s intentional. Cracking wise during moments like this lets your opposition know that you will not be easily intimidated.

Staunch pulls the chair a little closer. “You’re looking for Arlo Sugarman, aren’t you?”

I don’t answer. Instead I ask, “Did you kill Ry Strauss?”

And he predictably replies: “I’m the one asking questions.”

“Can’t we both?”

Staunch likes that one, though Lord knows why. “I had nothing to do with Ry Strauss’s murder, though I can’t say I’m sorry.”

I try to read his face. I can’t.

Staunch says, “You know they murdered my sister, right?”

“I do, yes.”

“So where is Arlo Sugarman?”

“Why?” I ask.

His eyes turn black. “You know why.”

“And yet,” I continue, “you want me to believe you had nothing to do with Ry Strauss?”

“Didn’t you just tell me this is only about an art heist to you?”

“I did, yes.”

Leo Staunch turns both palms to the sky and shrugs. “Then you don’t give a shit who killed Strauss, do you?”

Staunch has me there.

We sit in silence for a moment. In the distance, I can hear a beeping noise. I wonder how they got in, but I imagine hospital security is nothing for a man like Leo Staunch.

When he speaks again, I can hear the anguish in his voice. “She was my only sister. You get that?”

I wait.

“Sophia, she had her whole life in front of her. And then, poof, gone. Our poor mother, happiest woman you ever met before that day, she cried every day for the rest of her life. Every. Single. Day. For thirty years. When Mom finally died, all everybody kept saying at the funeral was, ‘At least, she’s with her Sophia again.’” Staunch looks down at me. “You believe in that stuff? That my mom and my sister are reunited somewhere?”

“No,” I say.

“Me neither. It’s just the here and now.” He straightens his back and puts his hand on my forearm. “So I’m going to ask you one more time. Do you know where Arlo Sugarman is?”

“No.”

The door opens, and the big guy leans his head in. Leo Staunch nods at him and rises. “When you find him, you’ll let me know first.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Why Sugarman?” I ask. “What about the others?”

Leo Staunch moves to the door. “Like I said before, I know your rep. If we go to war, you’ll probably take a few of my men down. But I don’t care about the casualties. You don’t want to cross me, Win. The price will be too high.”