Red on Red (39 page)

Bedlam. They had room to move on the sidewalk. They cut east, where the fighting was thinner, less out of fear than a desire not to take fighting cops from the people who needed fighting. They stayed close to the wall, to keep from getting hit from the roof. Nick felt the edge of the blow—a bat, a board—when Esposito’s head bounced against his own. Nick was close to the wall and spun off it, still standing, as Esposito collapsed. The board came down again, on Esposito, on his leg, as he hit the ground. Bad noise, a pop, a thud, by the knee, maybe from the fall. Tino in the white suit, as round and white as the moon, taking another swing. Nick shot him, shot him again, leaning against the wall, then pushing off. Hard to stand. Not much kick to the gun. He held it firm. Nick stood on his one foot as Tino staggered, and it looked like Tino would have held himself in his arms, one arm, the other, but Nick had shot them both. Nick hadn’t aimed at Tino’s arms when he’d been pivoting on the foot, twisting like a scarecrow. The cops came. Finally, even though they’d been here the whole time.

Tino screamed as he was cuffed, despite his two shot arms. Good. Let him cry, let him bleed. Nick went down to Esposito on the sidewalk, pestering him to say something, gripping his shoulder. The top of Esposito’s head was sticky, his breath shallow. Nick was ready to open Esposito’s eyes, if they didn’t open themselves. More cops came. An ambulance, another. A stretcher was laid out on the street beside Esposito, and he was lifted onto it. Cops lifted Nick up as well. He said he was all right. Esposito went into the ambulance, carried by cops. Nick was borne in later, to the berth across from him. There was a bed on either side, a space in the middle. A woman took his shoulders, gently, and told him to lie down.

“No.”

“Yes. It’s the rules.”

“All right.”

She fastened the belt loosely around his waist. Hey, Nick knew her.

“Hey … Odalys?”

“Hey, Nick. Where are you hurt?”

“Not bad. Espo …”

“We got him. He’s good.”

“Lemme see.”

Odalys stepped to the front of the ambulance and sat down, so she wouldn’t block the view to the other bed. Nick could see Esposito, almost, but another EMT was leaning over Nick’s partner, someone else. Shit. If it was her, it was the other one, too. The other EMT, her partner, leaned over Esposito, tapping his chest, trying to rouse him.

“C’mon, Detective, wake up! Come on, guy! Wake up! Work with me! Whaddaya got in ya? Are you with me? Are you a fighter? You gonna fight? Are you a fighter?”

What movie was that now? Nick didn’t like it. Esposito shifted and muttered. He raised a hand, let it fall down again. Muttered again. Nick called over to him, “Hey.” Esposito looked at Nick with one eye, his annoyance plain despite the concussion. He didn’t need a pep talk. The EMT tapped his cheek.

“C’mon! Are you a fighter?”

Esposito punched him in the face, which was an answer to the question, after all.

T
he room was not as Nick had expected. Not his, not Daysi’s, not the hospital. Where, then? Too much of this, changing beds daily like a fugitive. The shades were drawn, but he could make out a dresser, a mirror, blue and white striped sheets on a queen-size bed, shared with the teddy bear beside him; not right. What did he have, a sprained ankle? Esposito had a concussion, a broken leg. Nothing that he wouldn’t come back from. He hadn’t even been admitted to the hospital. Hitting the EMT must have had great therapeutic value. Esposito became the most cheerful patient after, pretending he didn’t remember. When Odalys checked him into the emergency room, he acted the amnesiac, asking why she wasn’t working with the other one. She didn’t push the issue. When her partner came over, keeping his distance, Esposito put on such a show of innocent apology that they shook hands when he left. Nick didn’t believe it.

“You really don’t remember? Espo, you are full of shit.”

“Are you kidding? My children being born, punching that rat—if those memories cross my mind when I go, they’ll bury me with a smile on my face.”

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Yeah. How are you doin’, Hopalong?”

“Still hopping.”

Hours in the hospital, a hubbub of well-wishers, cops and bosses, others who didn’t wish, well or otherwise, as far as Nick could guess. Lieutenant Ortiz told Nick that if he wasn’t up to it, he didn’t have to make a statement. Nick said it wasn’t a problem. When Esposito was taken in for X-rays, Nick was interviewed by Internal Affairs, someone from the district attorney. The questioning was gentle, the answers brief.
Much easier than he’d thought it would be. Why? Nick learned later where the cameras had been placed—everywhere. The tops of buildings, streetlights, the door of the funeral home. The firefight between rooftops had been captured, showing that cops had not been involved. Kiko had not been pushed, despite the rumors that would later travel. Tino had made statements, angry ones, saying that he’d barely hit anyone, he didn’t deserve this, but yeah, he’d had a baseball bat. He had been brought to another hospital, so visitors would not mix. The bat was recovered at the scene. A few bones had been broken in the chaos, but the stories were remarkably coherent.

Who came to visit? So many people, all the guys in the squad. When Nick left for X-rays, he was glad for some time alone. Esposito was adamant that no one call his wife, utterly clear and coherent about it despite all his painkillers. He didn’t want to call her himself, with the hurt, groggy voice, but he didn’t want a stranger on the phone—
Mrs. Esposito? This is Detective X. I have some bad news
.—to make her collapse on the other end of the line. And no one was allowed to go to his house. No state troopers at the door, waiting to tell a ghost story. Esposito had been late before, so often that he wasn’t expected at any time, but the expectation had always been to hear his voice, see his face, whenever the day ended. Nick got that, he understood; he was saddened that he had never felt the need to develop any such protocol in the event of his own misadventure. His father might wonder about him if he didn’t see him for a week; with Allison, longer. He wasn’t expected anywhere. That bothered him. Should he have called his father, to tell him he was hurt? For whose benefit? To what end? He didn’t know, and it bothered him. It bothered him more that he didn’t know where he was. The teddy bear had a bow tie. He pushed it away. What else had there been last night?

“Kim Martone! How ya doin’, babe?”

It had been good of her to show, and it had been good to look at her. Nick had met her, once or twice. Kim had short brown hair and wore jeans and a leather jacket; every sloppy cop dressed liked her, but she looked coiffed, put together, as if she were going on a date or coming from church. He wondered if she’d been working, or if she’d come in when she’d heard the news. She looked at Nick, briefly, before sitting on the side of Esposito’s bed. She leaned over to Esposito and fixed his hair, shaking her head, with a fond look. She didn’t look at Nick, even though she spoke to him.

“This idiot, this guy? He pushed me out of the way of a car. It was some skell we tried to stop after a buy, downtown. He broke his foot.”

“Only a toe, baby, but I woulda given up a foot for ya.”

“I know you would, babe. How you feeling?”

“Not bad. Were you around for the fun?”

“Yeah, we were doing a buy. You messed it up pretty good.”

“Right there? At the wake?”

“Right there at the wake.”

“You’re kidding me—who? No, lemme guess—Tino!”

“That’s a good guess.”

“Beautiful. But you didn’t make the exchange? How much was it for?”

“A kilo. And no, we didn’t make it. Thanks, pal!” she said. She wasn’t angry, as she leaned in and touched his cheek. It was strange to think, but there were cops who would have blamed Nick and Esposito for messing up the buy; it could take a lot of work to get there. So many agencies and agendas; the squad didn’t know what Narcotics had going on, and who knew what the Feds had percolating in the Heights—FBI, DEA, and ATF—maybe talking to one another, maybe not. When one partner didn’t know what the other was doing, there could be complications, Nick knew.

“Nick’s the one who shot Tino. You can thank him,” said Esposito cheerfully. “How was the package getting in? Did you know?”

“We’re not sure, but we’re gonna take a hard look at that flower van.”

Esposito betrayed surprise, but covered it with a grimace, as if he’d had a spasm of pain. Kim huddled in close, concerned.

“Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

Esposito’s face relaxed, tentatively, slowly, as if trying out each muscle to make sure it didn’t hurt. He exhaled deeply, then put on his hustler face again.

“The nurse, she’s cute. But who I wanna talk to is your informant.”

“Espo, you are unbelievable! Would you just rest, tonight at least?”

“Does that mean you won’t let me talk to him?”

“I told you I wouldn’t. My guy is my guy.”

“I thought I was your guy.”

“You don’t quit! But come on, what do you need to know? You got your guy. Your shit is wrapped up. Anything I hear, I will tell you. I told you that.”

“I don’t know what I need to know, until after I know it, and then it’s too late.”

“That’s deep, baby.”

“Isn’t it? But, Kim, in case I do go—I don’t think I will, but hey, you never know, right?—would you at least give me his name? I really do think I’ll make it—what do these doctors know, anyway? I’ll probably be okay….”

“Now I know you’ll be okay. You’re back on the make.”

“This could be our last kiss, Kim.”

“It would be our first.”

“I’ll take it.”

Kim leaned down and kissed him, briefly but tenderly. Esposito batted his eyes, as if ready to faint. Kim got up and laughed, looking at Nick again. There was nothing in her face that showed she knew anything about him and Daysi, or even anything about Daysi’s van. Her smile was satisfied, and she looked at Nick with affection and trust; cops were the straight lines in a crooked world, with no thoughts of bending.

“See? He’s gonna be just fine,” Kim said as she left. “I love this guy, but my informant is my informant.”

Because Nick never said much, no one noticed that he said almost nothing that night. He had just shot someone, but he didn’t care. He felt no more anxiety or regret than Malcolm or Kiko had shown, or Esposito, for that matter. Tino wasn’t dead, but if a cop had burst into the room with news that he’d flatlined, Nick would have been untroubled to hear it. He thought about Daysi, what it might mean, about the old blue van.

In a few hours, the sense of crisis had passed; the visitors dwindled, and Nick and Esposito were cleared for release. Lieutenant Ortiz wanted to have Napolitano drive Esposito home, but he was insistent again. “No. Only Nick comes, only Nick drives. Besides, he needs the practice. Somebody can bring my car up later. I don’t need it. My wife has her own car. Besides, in a couple of days, a week, I’ll be going stir-crazy. I’m gonna be desperate to have people come up and visit.”

The lieutenant was reluctant at first, as they rolled out his detectives on wheelchairs, but he saw that Esposito was past persuasion. Nick was not eager to take the drive—What was the trip, an hour? An hour and a half?—but Esposito had just carried him out of a combat zone, and Nick wasn’t going to deny him. Why did he want Nick to drive? Nick didn’t understand, and then it came to him. Esposito wanted to talk. He didn’t
want the day to end. It had worked for him. He had closed a homicide. And Nick was fine, a little banged up but with a good foot for the gas and brake, good arms to turn the wheel. Esposito could reassure him about Daysi:
I don’t buy it, but we’ll find out
. That’s what he would say; Nick had started to say it himself. He was fine, fine. Wasn’t he?

“All right, Espo,” the lieutenant acceded. “Your partner can drive you, if he’s up for it—”

“Yeah, it’s no problem.”

“But I’m gonna have a car follow, just for my peace of mind. And that’s not negotiable. Who wants to go?”

“I can. It’s only half an hour from me anyway,” said Napolitano.

“Fine. But listen for your phones. Nick, if you don’t feel good, pull over and call Napolitano. I don’t know why I’m even listening to you guys, when you got cracked heads…. Safe home. All of you, get home safe.”

They helped Esposito into the backseat of the car, and Nick drove over to the highway. Esposito was right, Nick needed the practice. He stopped hard at a light, and Esposito slid on the seat, grunting at the sudden shift. “Sorry …” Nick wasn’t phobic about driving; he just didn’t do it often, or like it much. Up past Inwood, the park to the east, the river to the west, and then the Henry Hudson Bridge. The night-lit city—the sodium-vapor streetlights, the dirty gold haze of them; the cool fluorescence in offices, the light icy and thin; the warm, incandescent glow from homes; and then the stars, dim and flickering, kept more for sentiment than use. Into the Bronx, the mainland, past Yonkers, and then the countrified north, all of it country to Nick, city boy that he was. What vast differences in such small distances, he thought, thinking also of how his own geography had shrunk. Less light here, and no talk at all, though it was a while before Nick noticed the last.