Chapter 21: "red light means go…"; two rocks and a cup of water; "Everybody's got a family…"
Prompts: Body horror (don't worry… it'll be OK)
Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1, there are suggested music, etc., to accompany this and other Chapters, meant to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them.
Blocks from Manhattan Memorial Hospital, January 2015
Now that night was on the way, he'd taken up his spot on top of the grating. Hot air, rising through the grate, rustled the ends of his hair and a few of the curlies in his beard, tickling the skin underneath.
When he grinned and rubbed at his chin for the tickle, knew his teeth were gonna show – well, the lack of 'em. Let his hand slide up and cover his mouth before anyone saw. Scare 'em away. Or worse.
Raised the paper sack up, all crinkled and stained from all that time, and took a good swig outta the bottle inside. Made him cough a little. Loose-like. Rattle-y in his chest. Gettin' kinda boney there, too, he'd noticed.
Took a deep breath. Hardly noticed the smell comin' up through the grate. Always the same. Subway smell. When it got too cold to hang out on the grate, he'd hit the subways. Ride around all night, rockin' and rollin' through there, all night. That smell – there, too.
Heard somethin' comin' his way.
Squinted into the lights and damn if he didn't see a sight. Man rollin' down the street in one-a them wheely chairs, leg stickin' out in front, one-a them waffle-y hospital blankets on him. No coat.
Kept rollin', closer and closer.
Lookin' all kinds-a messed up when he got there in front of him. Stare-in straight ahead, like didn't even notice nobody around.
"Hey!" he tried. But nuthin'. Never even bothered to look his way. Kept on goin'.
Rolled down into the street at the corner and stopped his wheely chair. Looked up at the traffic light.
"Red light means go; red light means go," and the guy kept rollin'.
Nothin' comin', so's he was gonna make it over, anyway.
Watched him 'til he rolled hisself too far to see anymore. Took another swig from his bottle.
Somebody gotta help that guy, he thought, and shook his head. Musta escaped outta that hospital over yar.
Primary Safe-house, Mid-town, January 2015
Reese had just stepped out of the shower. Mist fogging the mirror in there. Toweling himself off, when his phone buzzed. Took a look and frowned. That officer from the hospital the other day. Yesterday now; losing track.
"This Detective Riley?" he asked.
"Yeah. What's up?"
"Your friend over here. Took a walk."
"Whadya mean?" Reese's mind exploded into twenty different scenarios – none of them good.
"Signed himself out. Thought you oughta know."
"Did anybody try to stop him?!"
"His choice, right?" Sounded like he felt bad about it. Why else would he have called to let him know. Reese ratcheted back on the heat in his voice.
"So, what happened? Why'd he wanna leave?"
"Some kinda beef with one of the docs, I think. Not real sure."
"How'd he leave? Cab or what?"
"Nah. Took one-a the wheelchairs and he took off like that."
"On my way," Reese said in his whisper-voice and clicked off.
two rocks and a cup of water;
If you hang around hospitals long enough, especially big-city public hospitals, you start to notice how there's a ring of walking wounded, circulating.
Sometimes they're sitting in one of those plexiglass bus stops, rain coming down outside. Sometimes they're swinging along on their crutches, one pantleg empty and pinned up high. And sometimes they're just staring out at nothing at all, lips moving, mumbling to the passersby, who move away a little further when they see them.
Reese drove along, searching the streets. Making a grid search with the hospital in the center, wider and wider around it on the streets.
Nothing so far.
Shouldn't be hard to spot him, if he'd stayed on the streets. Pretty empty. Dark already this time of year. Getting cold, too. He probably wouldn't stay out in it for very long. Should check the diners. Could be in one of those, unless he'd left without his wallet.
The streets of the City are mostly set up like a grid, anyway. So it wasn't a stretch to search them that way. One-ways, for the most part. You drove one way on this street, then the other way on the next block over. Back and forth.
Gotta watch for the walkers, though, who dart outta nowhere, or cross at the crosswalks even when they're not supposed to. Gotta have your eyes everywhere all at once. So, looking for him out on the streets wasn't as easy as he'd thought it'd be.
Up ahead, he saw something. Might help. Drove up on him slowly. Didn't wanna spook him, and it gave Reese some time to check him out, too. An old guy, standing on the grate over the top of the subway. One of the ways to keep warm when the weather got cold.
Surprised he was still out in it. Usually, they'd get into the subways and ride the rails all night to stay warm and maybe catch a little shut-eye.
That's what he used to do.
Left the car running, and stepped out. Let him see him limping. The old man's eyes were on him, sizing him up – what did he want? What was he gonna do? Had a little shake in his hands, standing there.
Down by his feet, he had a little sign, cardboard, off on the cement next to the grating. Said HOMELESS on it. Two cups on top. One with something that looked like water in it, to hold the cardboard down in the wind, and another for coins or paper money. Reese looked in. A couple of bucks, curled, standing on their edges; some coins, silver; and a few pennies.
Something else, too. He looked a little closer. Two rocks. Someone had tossed two rocks into his cup. Two rocks and a cup of water to his name.
Reese pulled a fifty out of his coat pocket and rolled it like a short cigar, so the number showed.
He limped, slowly, with the bill rolled in three fingers. Held it up so the old man could see it. His eyes widened, and the shake in his hands got a little bigger.
"Watcha want?" he said, eyeing Reese, and backing against the bricks behind him.
"Just a little talk," Reese said, in his whisper-voice. "Only talk," he said.
"'Bout what?" The old man's face looked slack, missing teeth inside.
"A friend. Mighta seen him comin' by? Left the hospital not too long ago, and I'm tryin' to find him. Help him."
The old man squinted at him. Then at the bill in his fingers.
"Yep. Seen him rollin' by. Stopped right there," he said, pointing at the corner.
"Okay, good. That's good. What happened then? Where'd he go?"
"Kept on, that-a way."
"Didn't turn off? Cross the street?"
"Nope."
"How long ago, Friend?" The old man screwed up his face.
"Don't got no watch," he said, pointing to his wrist.
"Few minutes? An hour?"
"Middle-a dat, maybe," he said, frowning, then looking up at Reese's face.
"Don't know nuthin' else."
"Okay, Friend." Reese limped a little closer, with the old man's eyes alert on him, watching his hands and backing up as far as he could against the bricks. Ready to run if he had to.
An arm's length away, Reese held his hand out, with the fifty in it.
"Maybe get yourself something to eat; right, Friend?"
The old man started to raise his arm, really slowly, watching Reese like a hawk. Higher, higher, until Reese turned his fingers and pushed the bill out to him. The old guy flinched for a second with the motion, but grabbed for the bill and took it out of his grasp.
Reese backed up a step or two. Gave him some space.
"Thanks, Friend," he said. The old man noticed his eyes, then. Blue. But softer now.
Reese turned away and limped back to his car. Lowered himself into the seat and looked back at the old man. He'd gathered his cups, and the old piece of cardboard. The last he saw was the old man disappearing around the corner.
"Everybody's got a family…"
Reese rolled forward down the street. An NYPD patrol car passed him, lights flashing on the lightbar on top. No siren, though.
He drove along, not sure if the old man had been telling the truth or not. Felt right, though. He'd said the man had rolled by and he couldn't have known about the wheelchair any other way. Would have said he'd walked by if he'd never seen him.
The car cruised along, and Reese stared at the nooks and side streets where a man could be.
An alleyway coming up, just wide enough for his car, or a garbage truck to enter. No space to turn around though – in and out the same way. Felt like the right move, and Reese turned in, his headlights shining down the damp, narrow street.
Flash of silver up ahead.
He rolled on, closer. Fusco in his lights, raising his arm and blocking the lights hitting his face. He pushed himself back with one foot on the ground, away from his car, rolling. Reese cut the lights.
There were a few dim doortop lights hanging in the alley. Enough to see him pause. Crane his neck to see.
Reese rolled his window down.
"Lionel. It's me, Reese. Hold up." The foot on the ground rolled the wheelchair forward, then backward, then forward. The other leg, with the bad foot, stuck forward on some kind of metal piece. He had a blanket thrown over the leg and most of the way up to his neck. Couldn't be that warm.
Reese left the car running and turned the heat on higher. He swung himself out and closed the door behind him. Limped forward toward Fusco.
"Been lookin' for ya," he said, in his whisper-voice.
"Didn't wanna get found." Sat there in his wheelchair, looking up at him. Stuck his jaw out.
"Heard somethin' about a beef with one of the docs back there? What's that about?"
"Ya don't wanna know. Trust me on that," he said, rolling the wheelchair forward and back in a rhythm.
"So what did he say? Never gonna play piano again, or what?" Reese jabbed.
Fusco didn't say anything. Looked down, toward his foot. Had a look in his face, his bruised, swollen face, like he'd given up.
Shaw's words came to mind: "That bad, huh?"
His face crumpled in front of him. He raised an arm and slammed his fist on the arm of the chair. Reese let him go. Two, three, four more times – slamming the chair. Until a sound came out of him. Deep, like torn out – someplace so far in, no one could guess it was there.
Echoed down the alley. Made Reese flinch for a second.
"What, Lionel? What did they say?"
His face tipped up – in the light of the dim doorlights. His shoulders shook, and a long wheezy cry came out of him.
"My foot," gasped out.
Reese stood there. His eyes closed, and he drew in a breath. Had to get to the bottom of this.
"Cold out here, Lionel. Heat's on in the car."
The shoulders stopped shaking for a moment. He had his hand over his good eye. The patch was there over the right one.
"How about we get outta here. Coffee? Somethin' to eat?"
Fusco wiped his eye on his sleeve and snuffled a couple of times. Let out a groan.
He looked up at Reese with his usual smirk: "Ya don't get this way by turnin' down meals," and grabbed a hunk of belly.
Reese smiled. He limped forward and around to the back of his wheelchair. Got it over to the passenger side, with just enough space to spare. Fusco stood up and hopped next to the door, and managed to squeeze himself in, while Reese waited.
Then he rolled the chair back to the trunk. Fusco leaned far enough over to trip the lever for the trunk. It thunked and the lid started to rise. Took a minute to figure how to fold up the chair so it'd fit inside. Reese stowed it and closed the trunk lid.
"Ya didn't hafta come," he said. "I was gettin' ready to make my move." Fusco tried to smile.
"Yeah. I could see that, Lionel." Reese smirked at him. But his face turned serious.
"Had tuh get away. Couldn't think straight. Can't believe them docs. They don't know everything!"
"That's why you got us, Lionel. To do the thinkin' for you." Thought it sounded pretty good. Half-smiled.
"Geez. Now I'm depressed."
"Everybody's got a family, Lionel. Even you."
Reese looked over at him, as he put the car into reverse.
"Even us, Brother."