“Dad, what’s happening? It sounds very serious. Did you hurt Mr. Moretti on account of me?” Michael asked rather fearfully.
“It’s complicated. We’re waiting for the ambulance. More than likely they’ll be taking him to Memorial Hospital.”
“That’s not too far away from here, Dad. I’ll be waiting at the hospital.”
“No. You can’t leave the club unattended,” I said sternly.
“The club manager will cover for me. She’s the club manager anyway. She’s been asking for more responsibilities, more involvement with the shows. Here’s her chance.”
“Fine, we’ll see you there. Your mom and I are accompanying Moretti. We want to be on his good side once they fix him up at the hospital.”
“Good idea,” Michael replied.
Click.
He hung up before I could say good-bye.
“Go wash up before the police and paramedics get here. And get rid of your shirt,” Clarissa said quickly.
“I’ll clean up in the kitchen. I’m sure to find a shirt or something to put on,” I replied. The nervousness had gone away. The emergency somehow made me feel in better control of my emotions.
I went to the back. I removed my shirt and placed it in the garbage. I removed the garbage bag and went through the back door to the garbage dump. I threw the bag all the way to the back of the dumpster.
No one will find it here. The garbage will be picked up tomorrow morning.
I came back inside and washed off all the blood on my arms and belly. I dried myself with one of the towels.
Oh, shit. The towel has blood, too.
I did the same thing: I grabbed a garbage bag, put the towel inside, went outside, and threw the bag to the back of the dumpster.
Jesus, this is stressful.
I need a shirt; I need a shirt.
I found a shirt in one of the lockers. The shirt said Moretti’s nightclub. I put it on and came back out.
The ambulance was already outside, and the paramedics were coming inside the club with a gurney.
“What happened?” one of the paramedics asked.
“He’s wounded. We heard a gunshot and came out,” Clarissa interjected before I said something stupid.
“We were getting ready to prepare a special meal for our friend, Moretti, when we heard the shot. Please hurry and get him to the hospital.”
The paramedics gently carried Moretti onto the gurney and rolled him off outside.
“We’ll be taking him to Memorial,” one of the paramedics said.
“I want to go with him,” the driver said.
“I’m sorry. Only one person can go, preferably a family member or close friend.”
“He’s my dad. I’m Rocco,” the driver said.
I didn’t see that coming,I said to myself.
“Yes, of course. Please follow me,” the paramedic said to Rocco.
