Page 10 of The Attercop

Mickey went in, pulled a quarter from his pocket and turned the door lock on the occupied cubicle from the outside. Fred, one of the bar’s oldest patrons, was sitting on the toilet, head leaning against the toilet paper dispenser. This was the same Fred who at age thirty-one and in drag had hurled bricks at the cops in the early morning of the 28thof June 1969, outside the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village. He was a hero back then, and a hero today, in spite of his inebriated state.

“Come on, Fred. Let’s get those pants up.”

It wasn’t the first time that Mickey had dealt with a customer in this state, and though he may not have been tall, Mickey was fit. He was in as good a shape as he had been while serving in the military as a medic. Even so, with a man Fred’s age, he needed to be careful.

“Angel, can you come in here and give me a hand?” Mickey yelled.

Angelpopped his nose in, then left. A moment later he returned with a wheeled desk chair from the office.

“Smart,” Mickey said.

The two of them got Fred upright, trousers restored to their decent position, and wheeled the bar’s hero out into the main room.

“What next?” Angel asked.

“I’ll get my truck. You can help me get him in and I’ll drive him home. One of the attendants there’ll give me a hand getting him to his room. While I’m gone, just take the trash to the bin in the alley and give the washrooms a final clean. That should do it for the night. I should be back soon and I can give you a ride home.”

“Thanks, Mickey.”

Everything went with military precision, just like Mickey’d hoped. He managed to drop Fred off at his home and return to the bar within twenty minutes. As he pulled back into his parking spot behind the bar, he noticed the back door was open. He stepped out of the truck and glanced around. It seemed odd that Angel would have left the door like that, even if he was coming right back with another load of trash.

“Angel?” he called out.

There was no response. Mickey walked into the bar and called out his name again. Nothing.

He must have gone home. But he wouldn’t have left the door open. Not Angel.

Mickey went back to the bar and noticed Angel’s jacket and pack sitting on a bar stool.

Something’s wrong.

He grabbed a flashlight from his office and went back outside.

“Angel! Are you out here?” he yelled.

It took a few minutes, but eventually he spotted him—or his legs at least…sticking out from behind the dumpster.

“Angel!”

Mickey ran over and pulled the dumpster away from the wall. He knelt down beside Angel’s body, hoping that he wasn’t dead. He checked and found a pulse—not strong, but a pulse nonetheless.

“Angel, can you hear me?” he hollered.

There was no response. The boy had been badly beaten and was unconscious.

“Hang in there, buddy. I’m getting an ambulance.”

Mickey called nine-one-one from his cell phone and as he waited for the paramedics to arrive, he kept talking to Angel…reassuring him that he was going to be all right.

He has to be all right, Mickey thought.

He would do whatever he could to make sure that happened.

The police arrived first. They helped roll the dumpster well out of the way. The paramedics arrived a few minutes later. Mickey knew that Angel wasn’t in great shape, but it seemed like he was stable. As the paramedics put him in the back of the ambulance, Mickey said, “I’m as close to next of kin as that boy has. Which hospital are you taking him to?”

“Foothills,” one of the paramedics grunted.

“Well, I’ll be at the hospital as soon as the police are done. Do you need anything else before you go?”