Bloody River Blues

down and looked into the car from just three feet away . . . No, not even. One foot away. If he says he didn’t see anything he’s lying.”
    Gianno said, “All he’s gotta do is talk and the case’s a grounder. Nothing to it. A hose job.”
    Buffet said, “You’ll keep on him?”
    “Oh, you bet, Donnie boy. You bet.”
    They hung up. Buffett’s stomach was growling regularly but he didn’t feel hungry. They were giving him something from a thick plastic bag, a clear liquid that dripped into his arm. Maybe glucose. He wondered if that was a good idea, because glucose was sugar and before the shooting he had been meaning to lose a few pounds.
    He thought about the doughnut and coffee Pellam had brought him. Was it just last night? Two nights ago? It could have been a week. Why was Pellam lying about seeing the killer’s partner? Afraid probably.
    The door pushed wider open and a doctor cameinto the room. He was a compact man, about forty, with thick black hair. Trim, with muscular forearms, which made Buffett think that he was an orthopedics man. Buffett loved sports, all kinds of sports, every sport and he knew jock docs; they were always in good shape. He pulled a chair close to the bed, sat down and introduced himself. His name was Gould. He had a low, pleasing voice.
    “I guess I met you before,” Buffett said. “You operated on me?”
    “I was one of the neurosurgeons, yes.”
    Gould lifted the chart from the rack and flipped it open. He skimmed it, set it down. He leaned forward and, with a penlight, looked into Buffett’s eyes. He asked the policeman to watch the doctor’s finger as it did figure eights then to extend his arms and touch his nose.
    Donnie Buffett did as he was told.
    The doctor said, “Good.” Which did not mean good or anything else, then he asked, “How you feeling, Officer?”
    “Okay, I guess. My shoulder stings.”
    “Ah.” He examined Buffett’s chart again and he examined it for a very long moment, it seemed to Buffett.
    “Doctor . . . ?” Buffett’s voice faded.
    The doctor did not encourage him to continue. He closed the metal cover of the chart and said, “Officer, I’d like to talk to you about your injury, tell you exactly what happened, what we did. What we’re going to do.”
    “Sure.”
    “You were shot in the back. Several slugs hit your bullet-proof vest. They were small—.22-caliber—andshattered right away. A third bullet hit the top side of the vest. It was deflected but it grazed your scapula, your shoulder blade. That’s the pain you feel there. It’s a minor wound. We removed the bullet easily. There’s some risk of sepsis—that’s infection—but the odds are that won’t happen.”
    Gould was taking out a pen, a fancy gold and lacquer pen, and was drawing what looked like the lower half of a skeleton on the back of a receipt.
    “Donnie, three of the bullets hit you below the vest. They entered here, that’s where the lumbar region of the spinal cord joins the sacral region. One shattered and stopped here.” The pen, top replaced, was now a pointer. “The other two lodged in your intestine but missed the kidneys and bladder. We removed all the pieces of lead. We’ve repaired the damage with sutures that will absorb into the tissue. You won’t need any further surgery, unless we have a sepsis situation.”
    “Okay,” Buffett said agreeably. He squinted and studied the diagram as if he’d be tested on it later.
    “Donnie, the bullet that shattered—it entered your spinal cord here.”
    Buffett was nodding. He was a cop. He had seen death. He had seen pain. He had felt pain. He was totally calm. His injury couldn’t be serious. If it were he’d be hooked up to huge machines. Respirators and jet cockpit controls. All he had was a tube in his dick and an IV that was feeding him fattening sugar. That was nothing. No problem. He felt pain now, a wonderful pain that ran through his legs, playing hide-and-seek. If he were paralyzed he wouldn’t be feeling pain.
    “Donnie, we’re going to refer you to a Dr. Weiser,one of St. Louis’s top SCI neurologists and therapists. SCI, that’s spinal cord injury.”
    “But I’m okay, aren’t I?”
    “You’re not in a life-threatening condition. With upper SCIs, there’s a risk of respiratory or cardiac failure . . . Those can be very troublesome.”
    Troublesome.
    “But your accident was lower SCI. That was fortunate in terms of your survival.”
    “Doctor, I’ll be