The staked Goat

way.”
    ”The black guy, Murphy, he figures it that way, too.”
    I shook my head.
    Wasser didn’t continue.
    ”So, what are you going to do about it?” I asked. ”Me?” he said, then giggled. A faraway giggle. ”The stiff, he aced your buddy, right?”
    ”Right.”
    Wasser yawned, dug around again but fruitlessly in his pockets. He moved to the door. ”Fuck it,” he said and walked out.
     

Twenty-five
     
     
     
    I SLEPT, FOR REAL, FOR A FEW HOURS AFTER W ASSER left. A nurse awakened me so that a doctor could speak with me. Fortunately, he happened to be both my ”admitting” and ”treating” physician. After a brief exchange of information about hospital room rates, the effect of shock and blood loss, and my absence of medical insurance coverage, we agreed I could be discharged that afternoon. He also told me there were several reporters interested in an interview with me. I declined, but said I would love to see a newspaper. He said he would ask the nurse and departed.
    I spent the next thirty minutes or so wondering if I should call Nancy, since I had already decided that I would wait to confirm Eddie Shuba’s compaction of the Pontiac. I resolved against using any nonpublic telephone for a while.
    I was about halfway through the mental accounting of where the ”J.T. Davis” money would go when the nurse popped in with an ”early stocks” edition of the Globe. Crowley and I had made the small box on the right lower corner of page one. Few details, and those given were misleading. They got the hospital’s name right, however.
    A different nurse looked in on me an hour later and changed my dressing. She gave me a printed list of instructions for further ”outpatient care,” interlineat-ing a few suggestions of her own. I promised her I would come back in two days so the doctor could check my progress. She helped me on with my clothes, the local constabulary not having impounded them. She said an orderly would be by somewhere between ten minutes and two hours later to wheel me down. I thanked her and waited patiently (no pun intended).
    A Bahamian man, in white togs and about thirty, came by for me half an hour later. I settled in the chair, and we left the room. No police outside my door, no reporters. His name was Bragdon Bailey, and he was as sunny as a Caribbean mom.
    ”Somebody here to fetch you, my friend?” he asked.
    ”No. I thought I’d take a cab.”
    ”My cousin, he have a taxi. I can call him, no problem.”
    We pulled up to the elevator. ”Thanks. I’d appreciate it.”
    ”Hey, my pleasure. The gentlemen of the press, they real interested in you. We can go out the back way. Avoid them.”
    ”That would be a blessing.”
    The elevator doors opened. Bailey pushed me in and hit a button.
    ”The chap you shot?”
    ”Yes?”
    ”Must have been a bad fella!”
    ”He was.”
    ”The police letting you go?”
    ”I haven’t heard otherwise.”
    He chuckled. The elevator lurched to a stop and the doors opened. He wheeled me down a corridor into a small office.
    ”You don’t have no insurance, you settle up here. I’ll call my cousin.”
    I thanked him. I gave the cashier’s clerk Nancy’s address and telephone number. The clerk was a lot more courteous and understanding about the situation of a homeless, ID-less man than I expected, and I told her so.
    She smiled and tapped the news account folded open on her desk. ”You’re a celebrity. They’re always better treated.”
    I returned her smile.
    ”Where are you headed?” she said.
    ”To see my wife,” I said softly.
    ”That’s good. Kids?”
    ”No.”
    ”Too bad. My Sam and me got three. What’s your wife’s name?”
    ”Na—” I stopped, blinked. ”Beth,” I said, a little thickly.
    She reached over, patted my hand lightly. ”Don’t worry, you’ve been through a lot. She’ll understand.” She always has, I thought, but just nodded.
    Bailey stuck his head around the corner.
    ”Ready, Mr. Cuddy?”
    The woman and I both said yes at the same time. We all three laughed.
    Bailey wheeled me through a rear corridor, making small talk. We hit the back door and cold, bright sunlight.
    We went down a ramp toward an orange and white taxi.
    ”Momin’, Mr. Bailey,” beamed a heavy-set man who got out of the driver’s side and came around to help me.
    ”Fine momin’, Mr. Delton,” replied Bragdon. ”This gentlemen is Mr. John Cuddy. He had a tough time of it last night, and I want you to be good to