But Nobody Wants To Die Read online

“Well, we’re driving through the desert at night and she opens the door and jumps out. By the time I find her, she’s got a rock in her hand and hits me in the head with it,” Mikey said, deciding not to mention that she punched him in the nose first.

  “She hits you with a rock?” Big Ears said. It was hard not to root for the underdog when Mikey was involved.

  “Well it was dark. I didn’t see it,” Mikey said.

  “Did you cap her?” Big Ears said.

  “No, I didn’t have a gun,” Mikey said. “My costume didn’t have any pockets.”

  “Your costume?” Big Ears said.

  “Uh, yeah, it was a costume party,” Mikey said. “I went as a Power Ranger.”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Big Ears said. “So what happened, and why isn’t she dead?”

  “She might be dead by now,” Mikey said. “I busted her up pretty good, and left her way out in the desert. It’s the middle of July. I don’t think she’s walking out of there.”

  “You better hope the heat kills her,” Big Ears said, “So what was your plan, or did you have one?”

  “I thought I could choke her out, hit her with a rock, you know, then run her over with the car, just to make sure,” Mikey said.

  “Sounds like she stole your idea. So then what?” Big Ears said.

  “I was hurt pretty bad and lost a lot of blood,” Mikey said. “I was pretty dizzy, worried about passing out, you know? I must have drove around for almost an hour but I couldn’t find her. Believe me I looked.

  I don’t know how I even made it back here.” If he was looking for any sympathy from Big Ears, he decided it would be a long wait.

  After a prolonged silence, all he got was, “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the Marriott Camelback Inn on Lincoln Drive. Room 214,” Mikey said.

  “Stay put,” Big Ears said. “Don’t go anywhere. Order room service, understand?”

  “Yes,” Mikey said.

  “When they bring the food, stay in the bathroom,” Big Ears said. “Tell them to just leave it. Don’t let anybody see you. I’ll send Fagamo and a doctor. You got it?”

  “I got it,” Mikey said, and if I ever get another chance, he thought, next time I’m using a gun.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  THE LONG MARCH

  T he Red Chinese army had nothing on me. I had no rice, no rice bowl, and hell, not even water to cook the rice. Throw in the busted ribs, what felt like a broken arm, and my newly improvised shuffle meant I was averaging just over a mile and a half an hour. I knew if I stopped to rest some hiker or dirt biker would find what was left of me months from now and I’d just be another Jane Doe at the Maricopa County morgue down on Jefferson.

  The thought of my body gradually decomposing in the dry desert heat kept my feet moving forward. That and being able to tell the cops that some jerk wad with a busted nose, a big gash in his head, and oh yeah, get this, wearing a red Power Ranger suit, was responsible for my present condition and could they possibly pay him a visit? The thought of him behind bars, sharing a nice quiet cell with the Westside Crips was pleasant enough, thinking maybe I could bust a couple of his ribs first, was even better.

  It was late afternoon when I heard the whine of a semi traversing the desert terrain. Surely the first car that saw me would come to a screeching halt and deliver me straight into the waiting arms of a handsome paramedic or two and they would fall all over themselves trying to win my affection by alleviating my suffering. Girl, I thought, you’re a stitch. And don’t call me Shirley.

  The sound of the cars on Interstate 10 gradually became louder, and soon, squinting through my one good eye, I could see far-off specks hurtling down the distant highway. I could no longer say the name Rubin “Hurricane” Carter, through swollen, painful lips. In fact, I could no longer speak, my tongue, thick in my mouth was as dry as burnt toast. The throbbing in my arm, not to mention my ribs, now taking a back seat to my increasing dehydration and worsening fatigue. Ding, ding, ding, fifteenth round, let’s go hurricane, you can do this. The realization that if there was no highway, no sound of cars to propel me forward, I couldn’t have gotten off the stool. The scorecard would read: Lost by forfeit/TKO.

  When I finally got to the highway, the first car didn’t stop; neither did the second, nor the third. It was almost dusk, just light enough for someone to see that they didn’t want dirt and blood on the leather upholstery of their two year old Lexus. Besides, they had places to go, things to do. Good Samaritans were in short supply and picking up hitchhikers was a high risk proposition.

  As the light faded from the sky, I watched the cars as they whizzed by, thinking please God let somebody stop. With each passing car my legs grew weaker and it was only the thought that I needed to remain standing so the referee could call me to the center of the ring to raise my hand that kept me from dropping to my knees.

  CHAPTER SIX

  MERCY GENERAL

  F inally an older model four door Chevy sedan stopped in a screech of tires and a cloud of dust. I hobbled to the passenger side door as they rolled down the window.

  “Oh my God,” the driver said, “what happened to you, are you all right?” He reached over and opened the door. Middle aged guy, late thirties, two kids in the back.

  “Water,” is all I could manage. It came out a croak.

  “Get in,” he said.

  Cloth seats, not leather. It figures, I thought. They didn’t have water either, but they had Dr. Pepper. “Was that okay?” he said. I nodded. It was the best thing I ever tasted. I vowed to buy a hundred cases when I got out of the hospital, or won the lottery, whichever came first. The kids seemed stunned by my appearance initially, but when they figured out I wasn’t going to die, they amused themselves by giving me the third degree, “Why are you wearing that costume? How bad are you hurt? How did you get in the desert?”

  Their Dad told them to quit bothering me but that had as much effect as pissing ona forest fire. Just sitting felt so good, the last thing I wanted was finding myself back on the side of the road for telling the two future detectives to zip it. I volunteered just enough information to con them out of the rest of their Dr. Pepper. I discovered the cans were cold enough to double as an ice pack, pressing them against my swollen eye between gulps. Not only were the car seats not leather, but there was junk everywhere, the car’s interior possessing all the charm of a recycle bin.

  Angels come disguised I thought, if they all wore wings and glowed like the sun, no one could find an empty pew on Sunday. And not only that, they don’t drive luxury cars.

  The driver introduced himself as John and said he had taken his kids down to Tucson to visit the Desert Museum and they were on their way home when they saw me standing by the side of the road. John said he didn’t ordinarily pick up hitchhikers but it looked like I needed help. I could see that he was dying to ask me what happened but couldn’t press me for more details after telling his kids to leave me alone. I knew I might need this guy on my side, someone to confirm the details when I told this story to the cops, or wound up in court. A corroborating witness, as Dad would say.

  “John,” I said, “I’m really grateful that you stopped. I know you’ve done a lot already and I’m sorry to trouble you further but if I can get your name and phone number, just in case the cops want to talk to you?”

  I smiled at him through lips, as cracked and dry as the Arizona Sonoran desert I just walked through. And I knew I must have looked like a ten car pile-up, but he was kind enough to smile back anyway.

  “Sure,” he said, “I’ll be glad to help.”

  What a nice guy, I thought. Probably plays church bingo on Friday nights with Matthew, Mark and Luke. Finally though even he couldn’t stand it anymore and after a while he looked over and said, “Do you know the person who did this to you?”

  I shook my head. “No, I never saw him before in my life,” I said. “I was at a costume party and all I can figure out is that some guy really didn’t like my costume.”r />
  He smiled. “Is that what you’re going to tell the cops?” he said.

  “Believe it or not,” I said, “it is. The only difference is that I hope to provide a much better description than just some guy.”

  “I hope they catch him,” he said.

  “Thanks, I hope so too,” I said. When we pulled up to Admissions at Mercy General (actually St. Luke’s in central Phoenix) he held my elbow and slowly walked me inside. While we waited he handed me a folded up piece of paper.

  “It’s my name and phone number,” he said, “you need anything, just let me know.” I hugged him with my one good arm, “God bless you,” I said, “you’re an angel.”

  But like most angels, it wasn’t about him, it was about doing the right thing. He just laughed and turned and walked away.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ER

  T urned out the ex-army surgeon in charge of St. Luke’s ER did a tour in Iraq. And even for a dogface, he ran a tight ship. He was small and compact with a fine head of hair just going gray at the temples and the sad eyes of a man who witnessed the life drain from too many brave young men. When I got back from x-ray, they sutured the cut over my eye, putting in five stitches. By the time they were done, the pictures of my ribs and forearm were hanging on the wall, lit up like the Christmas tree on the White House lawn. It was only one broken rib, the doctor said, the others just bruised, although the pain was such that if it wasn’t for the x-ray I couldn’t tell which rib was broken and which ones were not. They all felt like shit. He said they had some more good news in that they didn’t think the forearm was broken; at least they couldn’t find a break on the X-ray. It was most likely a bone bruise with a collateral 2nd degree strain of the ligament. He said they would put a cast on my left forearm as a preventive measure to keep it immobile and protect it while it healed. He said the nurse would be by to explain how to keep it one piece for the next six weeks.

  When they were done with the cast the doctor came back over and asked what happened. I kept it simple, “I was assaulted and left in the desert,” I said.

  “We’re required to notify the police when we have reason to believe a patient is the victim of a crime,” he said. “Sometimes by the time the police arrive, a patient will change their mind, maybe tell them they got drunk and fell off a barstool, that kind of thing.” He waited.

  I looked him straight in the eye, “Don’t worry Doc, I didn’t fall off a barstool, and I can’t wait to tell the cops all about it.” That got a smile out of him.

  “Okay,” he said, “we’ll give them a call. You need anything while you’re waiting?”

  “Maybe a couple gallons of ice water with a Demerol chaser.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MACY’S SPRING SALE

  E very woman has a gift. Some women can see a red jacket at Macy’s Spring Sale and know that it perfectly matches the red skirt they picked up at a yard sale two years ago. Some women can lock eyes with a stranger across the room and know instantly that is the person they are going to marry. My gift was knowing down to the pound how much a man weighed. My best friend Jamie said it was because I had seen so many men without their clothes on. Funny girl. So maybe I’d seen a few, but the fact was I’d seen hundreds of men in the ring wearing only boxing trunks, everything from light flyweights to super heavyweights. After watching so many fights it became second nature, I didn’t need the ring announcer to tell me how much the fighters weighed, I already knew. Right handed? Southpaw? Scared? Confident? I knew that too.

  Amazing how much you could learn just watching a man enter the ring. Too bad my gift wasn’t picking winning lottery numbers, but at least it was something.

  So when the cop finally showed up and asked me to describe my assailant, I gave him both barrels, “He was 6’ 3”, 233 pounds, late 20’s, short brown hair, brown eyes, small scar over his left eye, big hands, he has them done, manicured you know? He has a slight limp, right knee, and he’s got an accent, maybe he’s not from New York, but I bet his parents are.”

  It looked like it was all he could do to keep his mouth from dropping open. “Women are usually the worst witnesses,” he said. “Well, he was a big guy is about as much as I usually get. I have to lead them. Black, White, Mexican? Color hair, color eyes?” he shook his head in disgust at the memory, “Anything else,” was all he could say, writing furiously.

  “Yeah, I broke his nose for him, at least I think I did, and I split his head open with a rock.” He gazed at me in what I imagined was admiration.

  “And how did you manage that?” he said, looking me up and down.

  “I box a little,” I said, following his eyes. I tried to help him out. “I’m a lightweight, 135.”

  “Miss,” he said, “you’re anything but a lightweight. Sounds like you were ahead on points.”

  “Thanks,” I said. He was pretty cute, I thought. You think they’re all cute, was what Jamie said. I told him about the blue Volkswagen, even though I already knew that would lead nowhere. I didn’t think it was his car. Stolen maybe, but not his.

  I noticed there was no ring on his left hand. Lots of cops are married, but they don’t stay married. They become too cynical, hardened, life becomes a felony in progress. I thought about batting my one good eye at him but decided that was just the Demerol starting to kick in. I needed to talk to Dad. He hadn’t been a homicide detective all those years for no reason. And I was starting to think there was a connection between his job in Vegas and what happened to me.

  “When you start to feel better, can you come downtown, look at some mug shots, make a statement?” He handed me his business card.

  “Sure, I can do that,” I said. Miss Congeniality had nothing on me.

  “My partner is not going to believe your description of the assailant,” he said. “You’re sure this guy weighed 233 lbs.?”

  “Well, no, I mean he could have been 232,” I said.

  He smiled. “So how much do you think I weigh?”

  I glanced briefly at his expanding waistline, and thought about the dozens of chocolate doughnuts with sprinkles he must have eaten in the ten years or so since he had graduated from the Academy. I subtracted fifteen pounds, “Maybe 190, 191,” I said, with what I hoped was a straight face.

  He smiled again. He had a nice smile. “You’re too kind,” he said.

  “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about,” I said.

  CHAPTER NINE

  JAMIE

  I t was close to the beginning of a new day by the time I called Jamie and asked for a ride home. She didn’t ask why I was calling her at zero dark thirty from the emergency room. We went all the way back to the second grade sandbox at Pueblo Gardens Elementary. To say we were best friends was like saying Nike sold shoes.

  “You look like hell,” Jamie said, taking in the stitches over my multi-colored eye and swollen lips, not to mention the cast, as I very gingerly opened the passenger side door and slowly eased myself into the seat.

  “You should see the other guy,” I said, trying to hide what I knew must be a dopey grin.

  “Oh, you’re much funnier when you’re high,” Jamie said. “What in the hell happened to you?”

  “I went to a costume party and somebody didn’t like my costume,” I said.

  Jamie just shook her head. “They must have given you something for the pain,” she said.

  “Do you think that’s why I’m funny? I’m always funny,” I said. “Much funnier than you. Sexier too. At least that’s what Johnny says.”

  “Johnny has way too much good sense to even think a thing like that, much less say it out loud. Besides, I’d kill him,” Jamie said.

  “Look, I promise to tell you all about it tomorrow,” I said. “I just need twelve, maybe fourteen hours sleep and I’m sure I’ll feel much better.”

  “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” Jamie said, “but I doubt you’re going to feel better tomorrow. In fact,
I’m sure you’re going to feel much worse.”

  I had nursed Jamie back to health enough times to know she was speaking from experience. It was as if Jamie’s dating pool consisted entirely of ex-convicts, con artists and drug users. Jamie was bigger than I was, a natural welterweight, and was born with an attitude, but couldn’t throw a straight right to save her life. And even worse, the attitude was only a facade; she was an easy mark, a soft touch for stray kittens, jobless men and almost anyone with a sob story. That explained why she carried far more internal and external scars than I did, and why there was always somebody sleeping on her couch.

  “I’m worried about you,” she said. “Can I come check on you tomorrow afternoon when I get off work? Will you be okay until then?” She pulled to a stop in front of my house.

  “I’ll be fine as long as the Demerol holds out,” I said.

  “I knew it,” Jamie said, as she walked me to the front door. It was a slow walk. Even with the Demerol, my ribs hurt. As we made our way up the sidewalk, I noticed that none of the Ninth Street Locos were out and about. I knew it must be late if even they were in bed.

  “I know that you feel sorry for me,” I said, “and think that if you hug me it will make me feel better, but for God’s sake don’t touch me.”

  “It’s your ribs, isn’t it? How many?” Jamie said.

  “Just one, but he kicked me so hard, it feels like they’re all broken,” I said. “Well, you better Marine up, you were in the Marines, right? Maybe show a little backbone.”

  “No, dumb ass,” I said, reaching for the spare house key behind the loose brick, “my Dad was in the Marines.”

  “If a lion has cubs, what are they, housecats?” Jamie said.