Play It Again, page 7
Dickie crouched down where the credenza had been emptied and shuffled around the items dumped on the floor. “Shit,” he said. “My gun’s gone.”
Joe froze when he heard a sound come from the kitchen. He took a few steps, the tire iron up in front of him, and stopped on the other side of the wall before the wide-open entrance. He tried to get Dickie’s attention, tell him to keep quiet. When Dickie looked up, Joe put his finger in front of his mouth, made a shhhh motion without any sound.
Dickie picked up a gold letter opener from the mess on the floor and walked toward Joe. He stood right behind him. He whispered, “You see something?”
Joe didn’t answer but took another step and looked around the corner at a man, somewhat overweight, wearing a nylon stocking over his head.
The man was at the sliding glass door, trying to get it open.
“Hey!” Joe yelled, charging after him.
The man looked through the nylon stocking pulled down, covering his face. He picked up a wooden chair from the kitchen table between him and Joe and tossed it through the air.
Joe ducked, and the chair bounced off the wall, smashing into pieces on the hardwood floor.
Dickie came around the corner right behind Joe, waving the letter opener. “Is that my gun, you son of a bitch!”
Joe stood on the other side of the table from the man, trying to get to him, with the tire iron in his hand. He got close enough and tried to take a swing, but the man pulled a gun from the waist of his pants and pointed it at Joe.
Dickie hurried back around the corner, poking his head out to watch. “Get the son of a bitch, Joey!”
The man held his arm out straight, the gun on Joe. “Take another step closer and I’ll shoot you. I swear, I will.”
Joe couldn’t see the man’s face behind the nylon stocking but could tell the man was clearly nervous, his voice a bit shaky and his hand with the gun the same. “You sure you know how to use that thing?” he said.
Dickie stepped out from behind the wall, bent over, and picked up a splintered, broken chair leg.
The man moved the gun to Dickie and back to Joe. He kept his eyes on them both, feeling behind him with his free hand, trying to get the sliding glass door to open. But it wouldn’t budge. “What the hell’s wrong with this door?” he yelled, the nerves apparent in his voice.
Dickie said to Joe, “Been meaning to get that lock fixed. It’s a bitch to open.”
The man started for the door but tried to keep the gun pointed toward them.
Joe knew it was his chance. He threw the tire iron at the guy and hit him in the back, put one foot up on the chair and stepped on the table with the other, leaping across and on top of the man.
The two slammed into the glass door, Joe trying to wrestle the gun from his hand.
A shot rang out, the man firing a bullet straight up and through the ceiling.
Dickie looked up, white dust falling around them. He held the chair leg up in the air like he was going to throw it. “Get the son of a bitch,” he yelled.
The guy’s shirt was soaked with sweat, and Joe had a hard time with him. He was quite a load and had to have been a good two fifty, mostly fat.
They struggled, both grunting until Joe finally had the guy in somewhat of a headlock, almost getting things under control.
The man flailed, not about to give up, kicking his feet. He still had the gun in his hand, but Joe had it pinned down against the floor.
Dickie ran around the table to help Joe and started throwing wild punches. But the only ones he landed were against the back of Joe’s head.
Joe put his arm up over his head to block Dickie’s punches. “What the hell are you doing? You’re hitting me!“ He looked over his shoulder at Dickie.
In that split second, the man broke free, turned the gun on Joe again, but Joe kicked his hand. As his foot hit the gun, the man pulled the trigger, firing another shot.
Joe threw a quick punch, knocked his head back as he fell against the glass door.
Dickie ran over to where Joe had dropped the tire iron, picked it up, and charged the man before he could get to his feet. He had the tire iron up over his head, screaming like a madman as he moved around the table. He took two steps and stopped, like he was frozen. He dropped the tire iron and it clanked off the hardwoods. He looked at Joe with fear in his eyes, the color in his face completely drained.
Joe saw Dickie clench the left side of his chest, got to his feet, and hurried toward him without concern for the armed man by the sliding glass door.
Dickie stumbled and fell into the wall, sliding slowly down to the floor. He curled his body like a baby, making gasping sounds like he couldn’t breathe… choking for air.
Joe didn’t know what happened. Did the bullet hit him?
There was no blood. He kneeled over Dickie. “Were you shot?”
Dickie looked up at him but didn’t respond.
Joe pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed 9-1-1, acting as if the man wasn’t there. But he looked up and saw the muzzle of a gun pointed a couple of feet from his head. “
“Hang up the phone,” the man said.
Joe shook his head. “He needs a doctor!”
The man tugged at the nylon stocking pulled down over his face, like he was trying to adjust it.
Joe grabbed another broken piece from the chair and jumped from the floor before the man could react. With the phone still up to his ear, Joe drove the sharp piece of wood into his shoulder.
The man screamed and dropped the gun, trying to remove the wood sticking straight out, with both hands. Blood ran down his hands. He spun around, tripped on one of the other chairs, and fell into the glass door.
Joe saw the gun under the table, crawled under, and picked it up just as the 9-1-1 operator came on the line.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
There was a crash as Joe got to his feet, about to answer.
The man had thrown a chair through the door, smashed the plate glass, and disappeared somewhere behind the house.
Joe looked down at Dickie, barely conscious on the floor.
“We need a rescue. One-five-two-four-three Southwest One-Sixty-Second. I think my friend’s having a heart attack.”
Joe stood next to Dickie’s Lexus watching the Miami-Dade rescue vehicle pull from the driveway, lights flashing.
The officer walked up to Joe, pulled out a small pad, and licked his finger to flip the page. He looked back at the house, then at Joe. “You want to tell me exactly what just happened?”
Joe nodded, not ready to give the officer the whole story just yet. “I assume it was a heart attack. But I’m not a doctor.”
The cop shifted his stance and gave Joe a look, like his eyelids were heavy. “I don’t need you to be a smart-ass.”
Joe grinned, but barely. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be. But I already told you guys I have no idea what just happened. We went inside; the place was torn apart. The guy was still in there when we showed up.” He shrugged. “Then I called nine-one-one when Dickie went down.”
The cop looked up from the pad at Joe. “I believe you’re still leaving out some important details. There are busted chairs all over the kitchen, bullet holes in the ceiling, a sliding glass door someone smashed… and blood all over the hardwoods.” He looked back toward the front door. “Are you going to look me in the eye, tell me you saw the guy, but nothing happened?” He looked at his pad. “Mr. Caldwell had a heart attack. And you called nine-one-one. That’s it?”
“I told you, he had a gun. Luckily he had no idea how to use it though.”
“And he took off with it?” the officer said.
“The gun?” Joe shrugged. “I guess so.”
The truth was, Joe had hidden the gun. He didn’t know if Dickie had it registered or not. And he knew it didn’t really make much of a difference whose gun the man used. And he didn’t want the cops to take it.
Mostly because he had a feeling he might need it.
Chapter 9
Joe sat in the parking lot at Jackson Memorial, staring across the lot, trying to put some pieces together in his mind. He looked at his phone and remembered Lauren had called but didn’t leave a message. He hadn’t called her back but felt he had a good enough reason, with Dickie in the hospital.
They hadn’t talked much since she took off for the job up in Daytona. They’d been friends for so long, without even a hint of romance. When it happened, it was great at first, but then it got strange right around the time the job offer landed in her lap.
Next thing Joe knew, she was gone.
Like Bart, Lauren couldn’t understand why Joe remained loyal to Dickie. But even when he tried to explain their friendship to her, she didn’t get it.
But even if Dickie wasn’t her favorite person, Joe felt she’d want to hear what had happened. He was sure she’d still be concerned for Dickie’s well-being.
Joe was nervous when he tapped on her name to call her. He wasn’t sure why. It was never like that for him before, when they were just good friends.
When she answered his call, Joe had expected her to sound excited to hear from him. But what came through the phone was a little colder than he’d hoped. She didn’t ask about him or anything else…
“I have a meeting in five minutes,” she said. “So now’s not really a good time.”
“Oh,” Joe said. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you.”
There was a pause, and a tiny laugh through the phone. “I didn’t say you were bothering me.” She paused. “It’s nice to hear your voice. I’ve been wondering why you haven’t called me back.”
“You didn’t leave a message. I just figured…”
“I know,” she said, “I just… I’ve had a lot on my plate today. How about… maybe I can call you back tonight?”
“Maybe?” he said. “If I can just tell you why I’m calling. I have some bad news.” He didn’t plan to sound so dramatic, but he wanted to make sure he had her attention.
“Joe? Are you… are you all right?”
“Me? Yeah, I’m fine. I think I am, at least. But, well, it’s Dickie. He’s in the hospital. He—”
“Oh no,” she said, sincerely concerned. At least that’s the way it came across. “What happened? Is he all right?”
“I don’t know yet. He had a heart attack. I’m out in the parking lot at Jackson Memorial. I haven’t been inside to see him yet.”
“Oh, Joe. I’m sorry. I hope he’s okay. Is there anything I can do?”
Joe stared up at the fifth-floor windows of the hospital, not even sure what room Dickie was in. He wasn’t even sure he was still alive. He pushed open the driver’s-side door and stepped out. “Listen. I’ll let you get to your important meeting. If you want to call me later, you can—”
“Why did you say it like that?” Lauren said.
“Like what?”
“Important meeting. The way you emphasized it… you said it like you don’t think it’s important.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. Although, I lost hours of my life sitting in meetings over the years. I’d say there were maybe a handful I’d actually consider important.” He paused and thought about how he was coming across. “You know… I’m sorry I—”
“I’ll call you later, Joe. Or text me… or leave a message when you know something. I hope Dickie’s all right.”
Joe wasn’t sure she meant it.
“Okay,” he said. “Maybe we’ll talk later.”
The line went quiet.
“Joe?” Lauren said. “It’s still nice to hear your voice.”
Joe hated the hospital’s odors when he walked in, a hint of some kind of antiseptic with a tint of urine, mixed with whatever was served to patients for lunch. Although he didn’t think the smell was much different from an elementary school cafeteria.
Dickie was sitting up in the hospital bed when Joe walked into his room, eyes up on the TV on the wall across the room. He had the clicker in his hand, flipping through channels. He turned to Joe. “What kind of hospital is this, doesn’t have ESPN on the TV?”
Joe was happy to see Dickie looked a lot better, the color back in his face. It was a far cry from the way he appeared when they closed the door on the rescue. He put his hand on Dickie’s shoulder. “Good to see you’re alive.”
Dickie gave Joe a nod, acting like nothing had happened. He looked back to the TV, then turned it off. He tossed the remote on the bed by his feet underneath the white blanket and looked toward the door. “I hope they’re gonna let me out of here today. I can’t stand being in this place. It’s as bad as prison.”
“I don’t know many people who enjoy being in the hospital,” Joe said. He walked to the foot of the bed and looked at the clipboard, flipped the pages, but didn’t really know what he was looking for. “So what’s the story? You going to live?”
Dickie shrugged. “Cardiac arrest. They don’t say took a heart attack anymore, although I don’t know what the hell the difference is. Doctor said they gotta do more tests. So who the hell knows.”
Joe went to the door and pushed it closed. He grabbed a chair from the corner and slid it next to Dickie’s bed. “I don’t know if the cops talked to you yet, but I didn’t tell them much about what happened. And I didn’t tell them the gun the guy had was yours.”
“Good thinking, Joey.” He tapped his temple. “You’re always using that big brain of yours. That gun…” He looked toward the closed door. “It’s hot… one of those new Glocks. Someone I know got it off the truck. I’d be in big trouble, they knew I had it.”
Joe sighed. “I figured.”
Dickie pushed the button, and the bed moved him slowly upright, so he could sit up straight. He folded his arms across his chest and turned to Joe. “I wish I knew what the hell the guy was after.”
“You recognize him?” Joe said
“Not with that pantyhose over his face. I thought people only wore stuff like that robbing banks. You break into a house, you wear the ski mask. Am I right?”
Joe let out a slight laugh. “He wasn’t a pro, whoever he was.”
Dickie looked toward the window, like he was thinking. “I’m surprised the guy would show up without his own gun, right?”
Joe nodded. “Like I said, he was an amateur. I have no doubt about that. Never seen anyone so nervous.”
“No? You looked pretty nervous when you thought I was going to kick the bucket.”
Joe got up from the chair. He smiled and placed his hand on Dickie’s shoulder, then walked to the window. He looked down at the parking lot and thought for a moment before turning back to Dickie. “Don’t you wonder if this has anything to do with Maxine?”
Before Dickie could respond, the door opened, and an older doctor of Indian descent, about five-and-a-half feet tall and wearing a white lab coat, walked into the room. His eyes were down on his phone, and he walked to the foot of the bed and grabbed the clipboard, looking it over, before he made any kind of eye contact. He finally gave Joe a nod and stepped over next to Dickie’s bed and shook his hand. “I’m Dr. Pasqual.” He looked down at the clipboard again. “Looks like you’re lucky to be alive,” he said. “Your blood work came back, but we’d like to run a few more tests before we let you go home.”
“What kind of tests?” Dickie said.
Joe dragged the chair out of the way and went back to the corner. He sat down and watched from across the room.
The doctor said, “Well, we suspect you have fluid buildup in your lungs, so we’re going to do a chest X-ray, perhaps an MRI. We’d also like to run a more thorough echocardiogram and see what, if any, damage occurred from the trauma. Additionally, if we could run another—”
“Jesus Christ. How many tests you gonna run? I had a friggin’ heart attack.” Dickie shrugged. “What are you doing, trying to make some extra money for the family vacation?”
The doctor raised both eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“All these tests. That’ll put, what, I’d guess an extra fifty grand or so in your pocket?” He waved off the doctor. “Just give me some pills or whatever you gotta do and send me on my way. I’m a busy man, you know.” He nodded toward Joe. “Tell him, Joey. Time to get me out of this hellhole.” He pointed with his thumb toward the covered tray on the table on the side of his bed, opposite the doctor. “I don’t even want to lift that cover, see what the hell’s underneath it. I can smell it… like something died, and they serve it to the patients.”
The doctor glanced over at Joe, a somewhat stunned look on his face. Joe couldn’t imagine he’d come across a patient like Dickie before. “We are recommending these tests to ensure you can live a healthy life, going forward. We are not in the business of trying to make money off our patients.”
Dickie laughed. “You hear that, Joey?” He looked up at the doctor. “I had a girlfriend who worked in the insurance business. I know what kinda racket you people have going on.” He yanked the blanket off himself and moved his legs to the side of the bed, exposing his naked lower half. He pulled the blanket back and covered himself. “Joey, where the hell are my pants?”
Bart had called while Joe went outside for a walk around the hospital, getting some fresh air. But he stopped when he realized he wasn’t sure how far he’d gone, and whether or not he should retrace his steps or keep walking around the building, hoping he’d come to some kind of an entrance.
“I just spoke with Woody. Said a neighbor of Dickie’s reported a maroon Saab, an older model with faded paint, parked out on the street not far from Dickie’s house. You sure you didn’t see anything when you first got there?”
“I don’t think I was paying attention,” Joe said. “I probably would’ve noticed a shitty-looking Saab in that neighborhood.”
Bart was quiet. “I’ll tell you what I don’t get, is why Dickie wouldn’t have had that alarm turned on. I don’t know, Joe. Something doesn’t smell right.”
“What’s that mean? Something doesn’t smell right? Of course it doesn’t smell right. Someone broke into his house. And Dickie almost died. I almost got shot. What would sound right about that?”
