V Is for Vengeance

to go inside, and it was nearly 11:00 when the surgeon finally appeared. Judging from his ID tag, he was foreign-born with a surname I wouldn’t know how to pronounce. I took one look at his face and left the two of them to confer. I wanted to hear what the doctor had to say, but it seemed tacky to listen in. As I watched Pinky’s expression change, the news probably wasn’t good. As soon as the surgeon departed, Pinky sank into a chair and wept. I sat down beside him and patted his back. I didn’t think she’d died, but I was afraid to ask, so I simply murmured and patted and waited him out. The woman at the desk saw what was going on and she appeared with a box of tissues. Pinky grabbed a handful and mopped at his eyes.
    “Sorry. Oh man, I’m not long for this world.”
    “What’d the doctor say?”
    “I don’t know. He had an accent so thick, I couldn’t understand a word. The minute he started talking, it was like I went deaf because I was so afraid he’d have bad news.”
    “Is she going to be okay?”
    “Too early to tell or at least that’s what I think he said. He didn’t seem all that happy and when he threw in all that medical gobbledygook my ears went out on me. His eyes were so sad, I nearly busted up right then. I think he said he’d know better in the next twelve hours . . . or some amount of time. She’s been moved to ICU. I can stay if I want.”
    Talking seemed to help, and by the time he’d pulled himself together, I felt like I was on the verge of collapse myself. Of course, Pinky opted to spend the night in the waiting room down the hall from ICU. I wanted to stay as well, but he urged me to go home. It didn’t take much in the way of persuasion. I told him I’d get in a few hours’ sleep and check with him in the morning to see how she was doing. Before I left, I volunteered to go down to the cafeteria and buy a couple of cups of coffee, for which he seemed grateful. I was the only one who seemed to be wandering the halls. I knew the location of the cafeteria from other occasions. The place would be closed, but I remembered a row of vending machines that would be humming with choices. When I reached the corridor, I took out two singles from my wallet and slid the bills into the slot, one by one. I punched the button for coffee, punched a second button to add cream, and picked up some sugar packets from a small cart nearby that stocked napkins and wooden stir sticks. I paid for a second coffee and carried the two Styrofoam cups with me back to the ER.
    As I reached the waiting room, I saw a black-and-white pull into one of the parking spaces outside the entrance. An officer got out of the car and came in through the sliding doors, glancing at Pinky in passing. I did an about-face and remained in the hall while the mini-drama played out. I knew how it would go. The cop would ask the desk clerk for the victim’s name and next of kin. He’d be directed to Pinky, after which he’d quiz him for however long it took to complete a detailed report about the shooting. I didn’t want to participate. I was tired. I felt itchy and out of sorts and too impatient to put up with an interview. I’d be happy to tell the cops what I knew, but not right then. In any event, the officer would leave his business card with Pinky in case he thought of anything he wanted to add. I’d get his name from Pinky and go into the station in the morning. If he was off-duty, someone else would take my statement.
    I peered into the waiting room where the two sat in one corner, Pinky slumping forward, talking with his head in his hands, while the officer took notes. I dumped the two cups of coffee in a trash bin and found an exit in another wing. The walk to the parking lot was longer but worth every step. I retrieved my car and drove home through the dark, deserted streets. I turned up the heat in the Mustang until it felt like an incubator and I still couldn’t get warm. Once home, I crawled under the covers without bothering to undress.
    In the morning, I skipped my run. After I’d showered and dressed and downed my usual bowl of cereal, I pulled out the telephone book and looked for Lorenzo Dante’s name. There was no home address given, but I spotted a listing for Dante Enterprises, which was located downtown in the Passages Shopping Plaza. Though it was strictly in the none-of-your-business category, I thought it was time to bring Cappi’s brother into the equation. I had no idea what the