Spiral

take?”
    Another tired smile. ”Thirty-six.”
    I looked down to my left again. ”Seems like a lot.”
    ”You were lucky a plastic surgeon was available. A first-year resident would have used about twelve, and your forearm would thereafter resemble a railroad track.”
    There was something she said before that.... Right. ”You mentioned the Discharge Desk. When can I get out of here?”
    Her smile disappeared. ”As soon as the police have finished with you.”

    Detective Kyle Cascadden actually held the door for Sergeant Lourdes Pintana. Both came to the side of my bed. Pintana said, ”I hope you are comfortable.”
    ”If only I could afford the accommodations.”
    She grinned without showing any teeth. ”I am sure Mr. Nicolas Helides will pay your bill.”
    Cascadden wore another short-sleeved shirt, the Marine tatt’ on its side to me as he pointed toward my bed. ”Heard you brought your arm to a knife fight, Beantown.”
    I said, ”The expression is, ‘ bringing a knife to a gun fight.’ ” He stopped. ”You were carrying, you’d have a lot more to worry about than a couple stitches.”
    ”At least he didn’t jump me in my hotel room.” Cascadden froze, Pintana looking at me strangely, as though knowing she’d missed something.
    I said, ”Then my blood would have wrecked the carpeting.”
    Pintana flicked her wrist toward my bandaged arm, ”What happened?”
    ”I didn’t give any statement?”
    She paused. ”The patrol officer who rode with you in the ambulance said you didn’t wake up.”
    ”Did this officer also recover the buck knife from the scene?”
    ”Si. It is being checked at the lab now.” Different tone of voice. ”Tell us what happened.”
    ”Mitch Eisen took me—”
    ”That manager fella?” said Cascadden.
    ”Yes. He drove us from my hotel to three bars for some food and music.”
    ”And booze,” from Cascadden again, but not as a question.
    Pintana said, ”Kyle?”
    Cascadden folded his arms across his chest and stood down a little.
    I talked to the sergeant. ”After the third place, he brought me back here.”
    ”Here?” said Pintana.
    I shook my head. ”Sorry. I mean the hotel.”
    She canted her own head, so much like one of Nancy’s mannerisms that...
    ”Mr. Cuddy?” said Pintana, now a look of concern in the amber eyes.
    I took a breath. ”The doctor said I probably have a mild concussion.”
    ”Handy,” said Cascadden, but a glance from Pintana stopped him there.
    ”All right.” She shifted her feet. ”I get that Mr. Eisen drives you back to your hotel, but why were you by the pool at that time of night?”
    ”He dropped me at the garage.”
    Pintana closed her eyes a moment, as though picturing something, then opened them again. ”Why didn’t he drive up to the lobby entrance?”
    ”We talked in his car for a bit.”
    ”What about?”
    ”The band.”
    ”Huh?” said Cascadden.
    ”Spiral. He’s worried about his clients.”
    Pintana watched me. ”So you get out of Mr. Eisen’s car...
    ”...and I start walking through the pool area toward the hotel. I hear a noise behind me and turn just in time to take the first try on my arm.”
    ”Good reflexes,” she said.
    ”They used to be better.”
    A slow nod from her. ”Go on.”
    I explained about my kicking the guy and hitting my head.
    Pintana said, ”So we are looking for a man with possibly a hyperextended knee and/or elbow. Can you describe him any further?”
    ”White, a little shorter than I am, solid build, rough features.”
    ”Big help, Beantown,” said Cascadden.
    ”Southern accent.”
    He said, ”You mean ‘redneck,’ you fucking—”
    ”Kyle?”
    Cascadden shut up.
    Pintana sighed. ‘That it, Mr. Cuddy?”
    ”Except for his prints on the knife. Oh, and the tattoo.”
    Both of them perked up.
    Pintana said, ”What kind and where?”
    ”Some kind of spider, on the right forearm.” Cascadden’s mouth opened as he looked to Pintana, but she stayed with me.
    ”Mr. Cuddy, did this man say anything to you?”
    Christ, the concussion at work. ”Yes, but it didn’t make any sense.”
    Pintana seemed to rein herself back. ”What did he say?”
    ”‘This is for Sunday.’”
    Now Pintana did look at Cascadden.
    I said, ”I was still in Boston then.”
    Sergeant Lourdes Pintana came back to me. ”Mr. Cuddy, I think you’d better get dressed.”

    I stared at the array of ten mug shots on my chair’s side of Pintana’s desk in the Homicide Unit. All were