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“We’re transporting him to emergency to have his jaw checked out before we charge him.” The senior cop loosens his grip as the EMT comes over. He focuses on my nose and the contusions on my cheek. “You need to be checked out, too?”
When I remove the tissue, the bleeding has stopped. “Can’t tell till the swelling goes down, but I think it will be fine. I’ll have a doctor check if something crops up.”
They wrestle Sam into the ambulance. The cop turns back to me. “We’ll need a statement from you. Meet us at the Eighteenth Precinct on Larrabee. Check in with the desk sergeant and tell him you’re there. See me, Sergeant Lam. He’ll know to expect you.”
I call after him, “Fine. I’ll be right behind you.” Crisse, this messes up my plans.
“Have Max and Cress pick you up,” I yell to Micki as I race for my bike. “I’ll meet you at the bar when I’m done.”
“I’ll take an Uber.” Her arms are tight across her chest.
“Please.” My sad hound expression must work because her arms drop, and her stony face softens.
“Okay. Just because you asked nicely.”
I give her a thumbs-up, then follow the blue and white down the street toward the police station. In my rearview mirror, Micki dwindles into the distance.
The building that houses the Eighteenth Precinct is fairly new and I stop by the long, raised counter inside the door, helmet under my arm. A woman in uniform leans over a partition and I let her know I’m here to see Sergeant Lam. She points me to the waiting room, chilly in the cold March evening. A cup of coffee would be welcome, but the pot has been sitting too long, smells burnt, and when I try to pour out the inky black liquid, it’s almost congealed. With a small twitch of my shoulders, I put the foam cup down on the table.
I alternate between sitting in one of the vinyl chairs and pacing back and forth, the heels of my boots clacking against the beige linoleum tile flooring. Two groups huddle in different corners of the room, ignoring me but occasionally looking over to stare at each other. Several of the women have swollen eyes and tear-streaked cheeks, mascara melted into blotches. The men keep their distance from the women, forming several smaller groupings close by. All I hear are occasional swear words and some sobs. I wonder if there was some incident they were all involved in. Yelling comes from the hallway, in some language I don’t know. It gets louder, then gradually fades.
When Lam calls me in, my body floods with relief. This is a crap way to have a first date. I stand, find I’m stiff, and stretch out my back before following him back to an interview room. The other guy is already there, a notebook out. “I thought you recorded these things now,” I say.
“We do. But sometimes I want to make a note.” He taps the ballpoint against the stiff green cardboard cover.
I didn’t see Sam when I came in and when I ask, they tell me he’s still at the hospital. “You wouldn’t have seen him, anyway. We take suspects through a different entrance.”
Knowing I won’t find out any more from them, I finger my nose, trying to decide if it’s broken or bruised. It feels swollen but not too disfigured. Breathing is laborious. I tell them my story, then wait for them to produce a statement. I sign and rush out the door. Before I go to Stanley’s Kitchen & Tap, I have to go home. I can easily wipe the blood off my jacket, but I need to change. I like tie-dye, but a blood-spattered shirtfront is not the look I’m going for.
ChapterThree
I don’t run away from a challenge because I am afraid. Instead, I run toward it because the only way to escape fear is to trample it beneath your feet.—Nadia Comaneci
Micki
Regret makesmy chest ache as JL recedes into the distance on his snazzy red-and-black motorcycle. A sense of yearning fills me with the desire to ride on the back of it, arms tight around his waist, one cheek pressed against his back. My imagination gets the better of me, and I fantasize about the thrum of the engine through my core. I start to tremble with desire. Once he is truly out of sight, I trudge back into the building, only partly successful in skirting rocks and broken glass. Tommy brushes down his uniform and mutters curses under his breath and little drops of blood deface the lobby floor.
My mouth droops as I apologize. “Sorry about that, Tommy. I never expected Sam to find me here.”
“What’s wrong with the jerk?” Around sixty with short silvery hair, Tommy is originally from New York and thirty years in Chicago hasn’t affected his Jimmy Cagney accent. He sticks out his chin pugnaciously, and with his boxer’s stance, looks ready to go fifteen rounds with Mohammed Ali.
“It’s a long story. He’s aggrieved that I kicked him out.”
“Aggrieved, huh? This looks more like a convention of ticked off cabbies. Wad he do to ya?” Tommy gives free rein to his curiosity as he digs deep into his Lower East Side roots.
“He had sex on my new couch—and not with me. Let’s just leave it at that.”
Tommy surveys me, lips curved up in appreciation. “Dirty, yellow-bellied rat.” His Cagney imitation is a little shaky. Then he switches back to his normal voice. “Okay. He was always a jerk, not just a jilted lover.”
“Right. And now I need to finish getting ready to go out with friends.” I move toward the elevator, but Tommy stops me.
“Your feet. Can you manage okay?”
“I don’t expect you to carry me. I got into the building by myself. Just sorry for messing up the floor.”
He looks down, then shakes his head. “Custodial staff will take care of it, no problem.”
I move closer to the elevators.
