Calculated in Death

laugh.
    •   •   •
    C haz Parzarri felt fine and good. But then he’d flown on the private shuttle, compliments of the insurance company of the shitheads who’d busted him up, and the cab company for their substandard safety features. And he’d flown on the really good drugs the in-flight nurse kept pumping.
    They said he’d be laid up a couple more weeks, and he’d need a couple weeks of PT after that—but he was fine and good with that, too. As long as the drugs kept coming.
    He had work to do. He could do that from the hospital in the private suite, also courtesy of the insurance companies. The audit wouldn’t take long, and being willing to do it earned him points with his supervisor and with Alexander.
    The accident, now that he didn’t hurt like fuck every time he blinked an eyeball, had actually worked out for him. He’d get a big-ass settlement, paid time off, piles of sympathy and attention. In fact, he planned to run some numbers for himself. A big enough settlement, and he might just retire, go live the good life in Hawaii the way he’d intended to do in another six-point-four years.
    When he’d first come out of it, he’d been scared. Really piss-pants scared. That maybe he’d die, or maybe they’d find irreversible brain damage with all the tests they’d run. When he stopped being scared of that—or mostly—he’d been scared about the audit. He’d barely started on it before the convention.
    Okay, maybe he’d procrastinated some, but there’d been plenty of time. Should have been plenty. And he had the framework for the adjustments, the doctored figures, the clean monthly files he’d kept carefully buried on his home unit.
    A couple of days to implement, run an analysis, do a recheck, and boom! Done, clear, and a fat fee wired to his holding account, then wired—by himself—to his numbered, anonymous, and tax-free account in Switzerland.
    Still all good, he told himself. Just a few days later to finish it all, and still comfortably ahead of the deadline.
    He hadn’t been able to contact Alexander. They hadn’t allowed him a ’link in his room, but then again, he’d been barely able to talk until yesterday. He’d take care of that as soon as he was tucked into his medical suite.
    Jim Arnold hobbled over on his skin cast. “How ya doing, partner?”
    “Cruising, partner.”
    As Jim sat, stuck out his casted leg, he winced a bit. “I can’t wait to get back, get home. The Vegas doc said they’ll probably let me go home after they check me over. Maybe keep me one night, but then spring me. I’m sorry you weren’t as lucky.”
    “Yeah.” Parzarri put on a grim face, though he liked the idea of a few days in the hospital, people fussing over him, bringing him food. “I guess I used up my luck at the blackjack table.”
    “You were rolling. I wanted to tell you Sly just texted. He’ll meet us at the hospital. I told him he didn’t have to do that, but he texted back he wanted to see us for himself. You know Sly. We’re going to land in a minute. Look, my wife’s meeting me at transpo, but I can ride in with you if you want.”
    “Forget it. Go ahead with the wife. Hell, you already stayed on an extra day until they let me travel.”
    “Can’t leave a buddy behind. We’ve been through the war together now, partner.”
    “You bet.” Parzarri lifted his hand for a high five.
    He drifted in and out, comfortable and secure on his gurney as the shuttle made its landing.
    Good old New York, he thought. Would he miss it when he settled down with palm trees and ocean views?
    He didn’t think so.
    Maybe he’d buy a little tiki bar, get somebody else to run it. It would be fun to own a bar, hang out, watch all the half-naked women sipping mai tais or whatever.
    Maybe he’d learn how to surf.
    Smiling to himself, he kept cruising as they rolled him out of the shuttle, fixed the gate to slide him out. He felt the sudden, wicked cold—closed his eyes and envisioned balmy breezes, sun-washed sand and surf.
    “I’ll be right behind you, Chaz.” He opened his eyes briefly, gave Jim a thumbs-up, then saw his associate’s pale face light up. “Hi, honey!” And his Vegas compatriot hobbled away and into the arms of his wife.
    “Happy reunion,” Parzarri mumbled as they lifted him into the back of an ambulance. Warm again, he let out a sigh. He heard voices—the in-flight nurse giving a report to the MTs, Jim’s wife babbling, Jim’s happy-I’m-home