CHAPTER 14

THE CT SCAN hadn’t been a lot of fun. It wasn’t claustrophobia so much as the noise-loud, rhythmic clunking and banging while his head throbbed like an apocalyptic hangover. But worse was just lying there, not knowing what had happened.

Maybe the gun went off accidentally? But there had been two shots.

Were one or two of his best friends dead in an alley right now?

“Mr. Kern.”

“Yeah.” He opened his eyes. An Indian guy in a white coat stood in front of him. Weird. The guy looked younger than him. Alex pushed away his thoughts, struggled to focus. “Doc.”

“How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts.”

“Any nausea?”

“No.”

“Numbness?”

“I wish.”

“Pain in your teeth? Double vision?”

“Huh-uh.”

The man nodded, made a note on a clipboard. “Good. Well, the results are fine. No evidence of fracture or permanent damage. The blow hit just above the zygomatic arch, which protects some important nerves. Sort of like hitting your funny bone, how it shoots through your whole arm?” He took out a pad and began to write. “I’m going to give you some Tylenol-3 for the pain. Don’t take any more than you really need.”

“What about the cut?”

“We stitched that when you arrived. You might have a little scar, nothing too dramatic.”

“You did?” He blinked. “I don’t remember.”

“You have a mild concussion. That can affect your memory.”

“Will it-”

“Be permanent? You shouldn’t have trouble remembering things that happen from now on. If you do, come back immediately. Same with vision problems or severe pain.”

“Come back? You’re saying I should go?”

“You have insurance?”

“I have child support instead.”

The man laughed. “Look, if you want, you can stay. But my advice? You’ll rest better at home, and it’s a lot cheaper.”

“Rest? Am I allowed to sleep? I thought with a concussion…”

“Depends on the level. You’ll be fine. In a couple of days or a week, follow up with your family practitioner.” The man handed him a slip of paper. “Your prescription.”

After the doctor left, a nurse came in, helped him stand up, gave him his clothes, wallet, and cell phone. After he changed in the bathroom, she had him sit back down in a wheelchair. “I can walk,” he said.

“Policy,” she said. “You have someone here?”

“Someone?”

“To take you home. You shouldn’t drive, sugar.”

“I can call a cab, I guess.”

“I got a better idea.” The voice came from behind. Very gently, Alex turned his head to look.

The man in the chair wore a suit and tie. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with short hair trimmed to razor edge. Something about him made Alex immediately nervous. “My name is Peter Bradley. I’m a detective with the Chicago Police Department.” His hand held out.

“A detective?” Alex shook the guy’s hand on reflex while his brain conjured images of the tip of the scissors an inch from his eye. For a moment, he thought about calling for the doctor, saying he sure felt some nausea now.

“Do you remember what happened?”

“Umm.” His mouth was dry, his thoughts sticky. We robbed Johnny Love. Ian hit me too hard. Someone got shot, and I don’t know who. “There were men with guns.”

“That’s right. I’d like to ask you a couple of questions. I can give you a ride at the same time.”

“Do we have to do this now?”

“Not if you’re not up to it. But the sooner we talk, the more likely we are to catch these guys,” the detective said. He gave an apologetic shrug. “Since you need a lift anyway…”

You have nothing to hide. “OK, yeah, I guess. Sure.”

“Good.” Bradley stepped behind the chair, took the handles. “Don’t you hate this crap?”

“What?”

“This. Everybody so worried you’re going to sue. Cut your finger, leave in a wheelchair.” The automatic doors whooshed open. The night was sticky after the hospital’s air-conditioning. “Here you go.”

Alex put his hands on the armrests, stood up slowly. The motion sent a bolt of pain through his head. He wobbled for a moment, kept one hand on the arm of the chair.

“You all right?”

“Feel like I spent the night slamming tequila.”

The cop laughed. “Doctors say you’ll be fine. At least you probably got some good pills out of it, right?” He gestured. “I’m over here. Where do you live?”

“Rogers Park.”

Bradley reached the car first, a pale blue Crown Vic. He unlocked the passenger-side door and held it open. Alex got in, his eyes scanning the radio mounted to the dash, the switches that controlled the sirens, the handle that moved the spotlight. Bradley climbed in the other side, fired up the engine. “Ever been in a police car before?”

“Nope. Well, once. When I was a kid.” He realized how that sounded, continued in a rush. “Got caught drinking a twelve-pack in an alley. The cop-the officer-put me in the back, drove me home.”

“Ouch. He talk to your parents?”

“No, he was cool. Just put the fear of God into me.” He reached up and gingerly touched the side of his face, his fingers tracing cotton and tape. There was something about the cop that he liked, an easy manner. Under other circumstances, he seemed like a guy it would be fun to have a drink with.

Bradley signaled, then nosed into traffic, heading for Lake Shore Drive. “So. Tell me what happened.” The headlights of other cars flared into stars.

Keep it simple. “I was in the back room with Johnny Lo-with Mr. Loverin.”

A smile danced quick across Bradley’s lips. Alex continued. “Two men came in. They had guns and masks. They told us not to move. One of them was close to me, and I, I guess I took a swing at him. He hit me with the gun. After that, everything is fuzzy.”

“You tried to punch one of them?”

“I wasn’t really thinking.”

“Did better than most. People usually just freeze up.”

“Kind of wish I had.”

“Did you recognize the men?”

“No. Like I said, they had masks on.”

“Anything distinctive about them?”

“Guns.”

Bradley snorted. “Anything else? Scars, tattoos, heavy, tall? Anything about the clothing?”

A memory came, a time two years ago when he’d been mugged. How afterward he couldn’t remember a thing about what the man had looked like. It had been a strangely helpless feeling: all those hours lifting weights, all the standard male fantasies about what he would do, and in the moment, he’d done nothing at all-not even remember what the man looked like. “No. It’s weird, but I guess I didn’t really see them.”

“What about their eyes? Anything unusual about them?”

“Not that I remember.”

“You didn’t notice if one had a black eye?”

Something in Alex went cold. “I’m not sure.”

“What were you doing in the office?”

“Mr. Loverin asked me to come back.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

Bradley merged onto the Drive, pressed the gas. There was a party going on in a Gold Coast penthouse, men and women crowding the windows, smoking on the balcony. “Tell me about Johnny Love.”

“What about him?”

“How long have you worked for him?”

“About ten years. Well, at the bar that long. He bought it, I don’t know, six years ago?”

“Did you work with him before?”

“No.”

“You never did anything for him, any side jobs?”

“What kind of jobs?”

“Anything at all.”

“I never knew him until then.” These questions were hitting closer to home than he wanted. He faked a grimace. “Look, Detective, I’m really hurting. Do you mind-”

“Sure. Lean back, relax.” Bradley moved a lane over, sped up. “I don’t want to wear you out.”

Alex felt an absurd surge of gratitude. “Thanks.”

They rolled through the night, high rises glowing on the left, their windows too bright and plentiful. Out Alex’s window, sail-boats swayed in the harbor. “I’ve never been through anything like this before.”