Brandon continued to gently examine Joey B, moving his legs, asking questions.
Ciro asked, “Many cops around?”
“No. They opened up the streets about an hour ago. I took a walk around. All I saw were Crime Scene people in the back lot. And that one patrol car out front.”
Phineas said, “Best we get upstairs anyhow. Let’s go.”
“What about Joey?”
Brandon had finished his examination. “He’ll be okay. He broke part of his hip, but nothing serious. It’s just going to hurt like hell for a while.”
“That’s good,” said Beck.
Everybody turned. Beck and Demarco had come in unnoticed. Demarco was still holding him upright. The amount of blood on Beck turned everybody silent.
74
By 9 a.m. the second floor in Beck’s building looked like a combination hospital emergency room, computer hacker’s headquarters, and law office. With a kitchen.
The dining room table area served as Doctor Wright’s emergency room. The wrappers from surgical dressings and suture kits and bloodstained gauze littered the floor around him. The smell of isopropyl alcohol and Betadine mixed with the aroma of ham and eggs.
Phineas Dunleavy had taken over a space near the coffee table seating area, making phone calls to track down the court that had issued the warrants for Beck and Ciro.
Alex Liebowitz sat glued to his computer screens.
From the moment Ciro and Manny appeared with Joey B, Doctor Wright had instituted an efficient triage.
Joey B had been made as comfortable as possible downstairs, covered in blankets and dozing under a large dose of painkiller. Brandon was ninety percent sure that Joey had cracked the ischium, a part of his hip. It was painful, but didn’t require surgery. They would get him to a hospital to confirm the diagnosis when the cops cleared out of the neighborhood.
After Joey, he’d come upstairs. His nurse had prepped Manny, and the doctor began treating his bullet wound. His nurse then started prepping Beck.
Manny’s wound had given the doctor an open view of the acromion where a bullet had nicked off a small piece of the bone. There didn’t appear to be any fracture that had radiated from the area of impact. Wright already knew it was hopeless to try to get Manny to go for an X-ray. He did not take bullet wounds lightly. He carefully examined, cleaned, disinfected, and sutured everything. When he was done he gave careful instructions.
“Manny, wear that sling I put on you. You’ll have to sleep sitting up for a few weeks. Keep the wound clean. Finish the antibiotics. Okay?”
Perched on the edge of the dining table, his legs dangling, Manny nodded.
“Promise to let me know if something looks bad or starts to hurt too much.”
“I will.”
“Or if you start running a fever.”
“I will.”
Brandon looked carefully at Manny Guzman to make sure he wasn’t placating him. “Fine. Don’t push it. No fishing with that arm. Six weeks, you should be fine.”
Manny thanked the doctor and walked into the kitchen to continue preparing breakfast for whoever wanted it.
Wright determined that Ciro’s wound could wait, and turned his attention to Beck. Beck had been hit by two bullets as he fell to the ground to avoid the shots from Kolenka’s bodyguard, both causing fairly superficial wounds. One ran across the side of his left thigh, four inches above his knife wound. The second had slashed across the side of his left arm, just below the shoulder.
Branded injected the wounded areas with enough anesthetics that Beck actually fell asleep during the hour it took to examine, clean, disinfect, and stitch everything. The bullets had torn through clothes, skin, and muscles. They weren’t deep, but they had left ragged trails that had to be fixed before they could be sutured shut. As for the long knife wound on his back, it had been open too long to stitch. The doctor used a substance akin to Krazy Glue to hold the skin together, disinfected the area, and expertly bandaged the wounds.
By the time Wright turned to Ciro, he had been working nearly two-and-a-half hours without a break.
Whatever piece of the SUV that hit Ciro had ripped past his left eye and taken a narrow slice out of his eyebrow as it passed across his forehead and temple. Bandon cleaned the wound, pinched it closed, and used butterfly bandages to seal it.
“You’ll have a nice line through your eyebrow once this heals.”
“Good. Chicks dig scars.”
Brandon Wright pictured the end result and decided Mr. Baldassare’s scar would most likely make him look even more intimidating than he already did.
Brandon sat and drank coffee with his surgical nurse while Demarco, who had emerged completely unscathed from his battles, cleaned up the bloody cotton, gauze, used syringe tops, and packaging that littered the floor around the dining room table.
Beck stood next to Wright putting on new clothes that Demarco had brought down when Brandon started working on him.
Wright said nothing, watching Beck gingerly step into fresh jeans and slip on a well-worn flannel shirt.
Wright nodded toward the bloody clothes he had cut off Beck, and his sliced-up bloody shearling coat on the floor and said, “Do me a favor and burn those clothes in case the cops show up and notice that bullets made those tears.”
“Will do,” said Beck.
Demarco was already stuffing everything into a black construction bag.
“D, can you go through all the pockets before you get rid of that stuff?”
“Sure.”
Beck turned to Brandon. “I really liked that shearling coat.”
“Be that as it may, you want to hear my lecture on what you should do right now?”
“Not really.”
“I’m giving it to you anyhow. You’ve suffered significant trauma. Knife wounds and bullet wounds like that are no joke. I just put a couple dozen more stitches into you. There’s a ton of shock and trauma to your body. Not to mention blood loss. Not to mention risk of infection. Not to mention all the contusions and hematomas and other assorted damage on you. My point is, you should get into a bed for the next forty-eight hours before you collapse.”
“Right.”