Sunset People. Herbert Kastle
bed opened his eyes. He was bandaged about the head, and bandaged over some sort of metal brace about the jaw. His eyes and nostrils showed, as did a small hole where his mouth would be. Except for the eyes, he was absolutely still.
Larry said, “I’m Lieutenant Admer, L.A.P.D.” He brought his credentials in front of the man’s eyes. “Congratulations on fooling that bastard who shot you. Was the woman your wife?”
“He can’t speak,” the nurse said. “And he can’t write, as we told you. She spoke to the man in bed. “The doctor will be back late this afternoon, Mr. Crane. He’ll have the results of those X-rays and tests we took earlier.”
“You can blink your eyes, Mel. One for yes, two for no.”
The man’s eyes blinked once. And he grunted.
“Or grunt once for yes, twice for no.”
The grunt was loud and clear.
“Fine. Was the woman your wife?”
One grunt, and the eyes closed. Larry murmured,
“Sorry,” and waited for them to open.
“Did you see your attacker?”
A pause, and a sigh.
“Saw him but not clearly?”
One grunt.
“Clearly enough to give a description?”
Long pause. Two grunts.
Larry couldn’t hide his disappointment, and a muttered, “Damn.” Then he said, “Well, when you’re able to talk, we’ll get more from you than you think you know. You’ll remember more as you recover.”
A little nod, and a groan.
“Let’s get some basics. It was a male, right?”
One grunt.
“White?”
One grunt.
“Young? Say twenty?”
Two grunts.
“Middle-aged? About forty?”
A pause, then one grunt.
“Facial hair? Like a mustache or beard?”
A pause, and a faint grunt.
“Not sure? Face in the dark, in shadows, or made you turn from him?”
One grunt, then a sigh and the eyes closed.
“He’s not ready for this,” the nurse said.
Larry spoke quickly. “The gun, you saw it, didn’t you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Just tell me if it had a silencer at the end.”
Crane didn’t open his eyes, didn’t answer.
“An extension, thicker than the barrel. You know—you’ve seen them in movies.”
One weak grunt.
“Did the hand holding the gun have any special characteristics? Like a scar, a deformity, missing fingers?”
No response.
“A ring?”
“I really must insist!” the nurse said, voice climbing.
Larry said, “All right; sorry.” And to Crane, “Take it easy, Melvin. I know you want that creep, and we’re going to get him for you. And don’t worry about your money.” The eyes flew open. Larry smiled. “Safe, the whole five thousand. And your other possessions.”
The eyes stayed on him.
‘I’ve been a police officer for some time, Melvin, and I’ve never met a man, a real man, who didn’t want to avenge a loved one’s death himself. We all know how lousy the court system is, and how light the sentences are, even for murder. But the police and the courts are all you’ve got. Remember that. And remember that we’ll not only help you nail that killer, but we’ll be grateful if you really extend yourself, if you push yourself to remember every last bit of information that might be hiding in your memory. Grateful enough, Melvin, so that one of your possessions, in a bag, might get misplaced.”
The eyes closed. Larry turned to the door. He’d gotten a feeling about Crane while questioning him: halfway through the interview there’d been a change, a holding back. Sometimes rage and hatred made citizens, especially men, feel they could do the law’s job themselves. It usually didn’t last long, a few days after the tragedy, but in this case he didn’t want to waste a single hour. And in this case the bag of dusted pot would provide leverage.
If his instinct about Crane holding back was correct. If he wasn’t getting paranoid about being a cop!
A sharp dude, the lieutenant, Mel thought. Because sometime during the questioning, Mel had decided not to give everything he knew on the fat white fuck. Had actually given some misinformation. And the cop’s expression showed he had guessed Mel was holding back.
Because the courts did stink, and even when they convicted murderers they let them off easy, out of jail and on parole in seven to ten years. And Beth-Anne would get no parole from her hole in the ground; and old black Melvin might get no parole from this bed or, at best, a wheelchair.
So he’d made a quick decision and grunted “Yes” when Admer had said middle-aged and forty; and the fat white fuck was younger. And said yes to facial hair when that fat white face was baby clean and baby smooth. And wouldn’t be able to say it was a fat white face; would claim he’d barely glimpsed it.
But Admer had a lid of marijuana treated with angel dust. The PCP made that a heavier rap than usual for three ounces of pot, which could be a good rap anyway if they nailed him for pushing, for dealing. And the five grand made it a natural for dealing.
Still, the least of his worries. What the doctor had to say was the main event. What he’d already said was no Bob Hope special—fragments of bone had “touched” the brain; “minute fragments” that might not be removable. Sometimes such fragments “ceased being a problem” with the passage of time. Then came the bad news: “Sometimes, however, they continue to cause problems, with the motor centers for example, as in your case.”
Which meant paralysis, baby. Which meant being dead from the neck down.
Though he thought he’d felt something when the doctor had jabbed his upper right arm with a pin. Nothing anywhere else, but something, maybe, in the upper right arm, like a grain of sand falling there.
They’d wheeled in machinery and taken more X-rays in addition to those taken while he was out cold. And taken blood and made other tests, “Now that you’re conscious and strong enough to withstand them.”
He didn’t know how conscious he was. He kept falling asleep every ten or fifteen minutes. And didn’t mind.
But he got the idea that the doctor minded; that the doctor was worried he might fall asleep and not wake up, ever.
If it meant death, Mel wasn’t afraid of it. He didn’t want it, but he wasn’t afraid of it. In his condition, it wasn’t that big a deal.
But if it meant being a vegetable, lying here for months and years, like that girl in New Jersey who’d been plugged into a machine, “fear” was a weak word for his reaction.
Or if it meant waking up for a few minutes each day and being out the rest of the time and having his body wither, shrivel, rot . . .
There was much to be afraid of, and he breathed heavily and told himself not to think of those things, to think only of finding the fat white fuck.
He could do it, too, even from here.
He closed his eyes. He ran names, faces through his mind. Dangerous people whom he’d hoped never to have to see again. People who could be his arms and legs. And fists. People who would see to it that the fat white fuck didn’t