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I cut across a couple streets, hit Collins, and drove north. Hooker was slumped in his seat, looking dazed, clutching the food bag.
“Are you okay?” I asked him.
“Hunh?”
There was a fine line of blood trickling down the side of his face. I slid to a stop under a streetlight. The blood was oozing from a gash in Hooker’s forehead. It wasn’t a gunshot wound, and it didn’t seem to be deep. The area around it was red and swollen. I shifted my attention to the windshield and saw the point of impact. Hooker’d released his shoulder harness and hadn’t rebuckled in time. At some point in the garage fiasco I’d pitched him into the windshield.
“Good thing you’re such a tough guy,” I said to Hooker.
“Yeah,” he said. “And I’m going to protect you, too. Both of you. You’re going to have to hold still, though. I can’t protect you when you keep spinning like that.”
“Hang on. I’m going to take you to the emergency room.”
“That’s nice,” Hooker said. “I like going places with you.”
I called Judey and got directions to South Shore Hospital. It was a weeknight, and Hooker and I arrived after the hospital’d had a flurry of rush-hour road-rage victims and before the hospital got into the late-night parade of drug-and alcohol-induced disasters. Since we were between peak hours Hooker was seen almost immediately. His head was examined and a Band-Aid applied. Some tests were taken. He was diagnosed as having a moderate concussion. I was given a sheet with instructions regarding his care for the next twenty-four hours. And we were dismissed.
I had Hooker by the elbow, guiding him down the hall to the exit. A gurney rolled toward us, pushed by a male nurse. A man was on the gurney, most of him covered by a sheet. His chart had been placed on his stomach. I passed close by the gurney and made eye contact with the man. It was Gimpy.
Gimpy gave a startled gasp. “You!” he yelled, suddenly sitting up, clawing out at me, sending the chart clattering to the floor.
I jumped away, and the nurse gave the gurney a quick shove ahead.
“You didn’t hit him hard enough,” Hooker whispered to me. “It’s like he’s the living dead. You can’t kill him.”
Good to know Hooker was feeling better.
I helped him get into the Mini, which now had one side entirely crumpled, a missing visor, and a scattering of bullet holes in the lower part of the hatchback.
I crossed South Beach and drove north on Collins. I didn’t want to chance going back to Hooker’s, or Bill’s, or Judey’s. For that matter, I didn’t want to chance staying in South Beach.
Hooker had his eyes closed and his hand to his head. “I have a massive headache,” he said. “I have the mother of all headaches.”
“Don’t fall asleep. You’re not supposed to sleep.”
“Barney, I’d have to be dead to fall asleep with this headache.”
“I thought I’d drive north of town and look for a hotel.”
“There are lots of hotels on Collins. Once you get north of the Fontainebleau we should be safe.”
I tried four hotels, including the Fontainebleau, and none had a vacancy. This was high season in Florida. The fifth hotel had a single room. Fine by me. I was afraid to leave Hooker alone anyway.
I moved us in, and I called Judey to tell him everything was okay. The room was clean and comfortable. The hotel was on the beach
, but our room faced Collins.
Hooker stretched out on the king-size bed, and I crept into the bathroom to check my hair. I stood in front of the mirror, held my breath, and whipped the hat off.
Shit.
I blew out a sigh and put the hat back on. It’ll grow back, I told myself. And it’s just one chunk. And it’s not like I’m bald. I must have at least an inch or two of hair left where he chopped it.
I returned to the bedroom, and I sat in an armchair and watched Hooker. He opened one eye and looked at me.
“You’re not going to sit there and watch me all night, are you? It’s creepy.”
“I’m following the instruction sheet they gave me at the hospital.”
