When the Pirate Prays. James B. Johnson
in my hands. Soon, I had it wrapped in a towel and dumped into a plastic garbage bag. Talk about your maggot gaggers.
Wishing for real lights, I made do with the flashlights. This was critical. While I had several needles ready and threaded, I knew zilch about sewing up vaginal bleeding. I cleaned as well as I could—
“Sandy?” my voice demanded her attention.
“Billy?”
“Relax, hon. Breathe evenly. Think about your daughter, not your pain. Relax.”
Mary Lynn and Angie had caught my urgency.
“Another clean cloth,” I said quickly and Angie supplied one.
I mopped around, Angie moving the lights over my shoulders as I shifted position to keep the light on.
Mary Lynn hiccupped and wiped Sandy’s brow with a cool wet cloth and spoke softly to her.
I wasn’t sure what the hell was going on. Something I’d read—and I read a great deal. The uterus has to contract properly or blood—
I held the cloth on the source tightly for two long minutes.
Sandy perceptively relaxed and the trickle of blood which had me in a panic stopped. Carefully, I removed the cloth and the bleeding did not recommence.
Then I cleaned Sandy and Mary Lynn cleaned the baby.
When I finished, I went into the bathroom, thought about vomiting, but didn’t. I peeled off the gory gloves and washed up to my armpits in the old fashioned shower.
When I left the bathroom, I went straight to the dresser at the side of the room. There was enough splashover from the flashlights to enable me to find what I was looking for.
The 7-P Principle in operation again. A liter of Jim Beam from the bar. Even though I don’t do metrics, I made an exception.
I upended the bottle and gurgled happily for a moment.
“Ahem.” The voice startled me.
Mary Lynn reached out and took the bottle from my hands. She did not upend the bottle and gurgle. But she did take two healthy slugs of the amber liquid before she returned the bottle to me. Her hiccups were gone.
A pounding came at the door.
“Hello in there.” The lit gov.
Angie opened the door and explained that it was over.
“Good,” said John Dellum Ionata. “Mr. Birthday, would you step out here for a minute?”
Angie stood aside, her flashlights swinging awkwardly, and I walked out still holding the bottle of bourbon.
The corridor was lighted by a gas lamp Silas Smith was holding. The tall geek and the short geek were standing to the side.
Tapes was standing in front of them with his arms crossed. He was livid. I didn’t need ESP to pick up the emanating danger signals from him.
“Mr. Birthday,” Ionata began, “you have the right to remain silent, you have the right to—”
“Tapes, what the hell is going on?”
Ionata said quietly, “You both are being placed under arrest for suspicion of murder of Governor Henry B. Gonzáles.”
I drank quickly from the bottle. “Just washing a bad taste from my mouth. Ionata, you take dislike a long way.”
“You also have the right to an attorney present—”
“You aren’t a cop,” I pointed out. “You can’t arrest or charge anybody.”
His Florida-cane voice was assured. “I am constitutionally sworn to uphold the law. I am de facto governor. The governor is in direct chain of command of the state law enforcement agencies, including the Highway Patrol.” He said highway patrol as “ha-way pee-troll.” “Which gives me all the authority I need.”
Angie applauded awkwardly, flashlight beams swinging. “Very good, John.”
“You’d best back off, Mrs. Maple, lest you be stung by my words.” The vehemence in my voice caused her to step back.
I was tired and shaken by tending to Sandra Dee Kowalski and child. For once, I was out of words.
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