“You gonna stand out there the entire shift feeling sorry for yourself?” Preacher called from his bed. “Or you gonna come in here and offer your condolences?”
Maureen peeled herself off the wall and walked into the room, her hands clasped in front of her belt buckle, shamed like a child called in to see the principal. She said, “Condolences are for the survivors of the dead.”
“And there will be plenty of those to go around,” Preacher said.
Maureen stopped short, not because of his words, but because of Preacher’s company.
In an armchair pulled alongside the bed sat a hefty man in loose jeans and a dirty gray Saints T-shirt. The man reminded Maureen of hired muscle, of a security guard or a bouncer, maybe a gangland legbreaker, gone to seed. He had dark chocolate skin, a large round and bald head, and an expansive, expressive face with wide brown eyes. He was about Preacher’s age. He needed a shave. His stubble had a dusting of gray at the jawline. He nodded to Maureen and said nothing.
At the edge of the bed, he and Preacher held hands.
“I thought you couldn’t see me,” Maureen said to Preacher. “I’m sorry to intrude.” She broke into a smile. “Man, I was expecting so much worse. The stories going around. You wouldn’t believe.”
“I couldn’t see you,” Preacher said. “But I sure could smell you. How many cigarettes you smoke tonight anyway?”
On cue, Maureen coughed. “All of them.”
Preacher turned his head to the man beside him. Their hands stayed clasped. “Officer Coughlin, this is Doctor Anthony Green.” He turned back to Maureen. “My partner.”
Maureen almost said In what? but she caught herself. “Well, shit.”
Preacher grinned. “You had no idea? Coughlin, I must say I’m surprised. And here I was admiring your discretion.”
“I have no gaydar,” Maureen said, shaking her head. “None.” She shrugged. “Even after all those years in the bars in New York. It’s kind of embarrassing. It’s a blind spot.”
Anthony patted the back of Preacher’s hand, careful of the IV, a smile curling his lips. “This is the one in such a hurry to be a detective? The talented one? Your last great trainee.”
Maureen nodded, hands on her hips. “I can see the attraction.” She walked over to him, her hand extended. “Nice to meet you, Doctor. You work here at Touro?”
Anthony gripped Maureen’s hand, rising slightly from his seat. He shook his head at her question. “I’m an orthodontist. I have a practice in the Gentilly, near where we live.” He raised his eyebrows. Tears welled in his eyes. “What happened to this one today. Years, decades with hardly a scratch. Then this.”
Preacher reached out, wincing from the effort, touching the back of his hand to Anthony’s face. He lowered his arm, settled his hand on his chest, tossing a quick, commiserating glance to Maureen before exhaling to release the pain of moving. “I was the lucky one today. Fucking bad fucking day. Goddamn.”
“Fifteen years,” Anthony said. “For fifteen years I’ve been making fun of him because every time we go out to eat, this one has to sit with his back to the wall, somewhere he can see the door. You’re not Wild Bill Hickok, I said. This isn’t Tombstone. Then today happens.”
“So this means I don’t have to hear that anymore, right?” Preacher said.
Anthony shook his head.
Maureen raised her hands. “What did happen, Preach?”
Preacher raised three fingers. “I took three, believe it or not. One in the left side, one in the left hip, one in the right thigh. The two on the left, they were through and through. Graze wounds, really. Caught mostly body fat and took some of it with them. The one in the thigh, that was a bit more complicated. That one they had to go in and get. I got it around here somewhere.” He pushed himself up against the pillows stacked behind him. The pain took his breath away and he gasped. Sweat speckled his forehead. “Maybe another time.”
“Yeah, absolutely,” Maureen said. Anthony was squeezing the armrests on his chair. Maureen sensed his patience with her visit was waning. “Preach, relax,” she said. “I’ll take your word for it.”
Preacher glanced at Anthony, then looked at Maureen. She could tell he felt Anthony’s impatience. And that he wanted to tell the story. That he had been waiting for another cop to walk in at the right time. He’d been waiting, she thought, for me.
Preacher licked his lips. “Guy walks into the joint calm as you please. Solo. Long coat like a gunslinger. I think about it that way now, I didn’t then. Nobody did. Nobody was thinking gun. Why would they? Because he has a long coat? It’s wintertime, practically. And all the shit that’s gone on in this country and we still don’t think about it. But something about him tripped the wire, eventually, you know, if not at first? He caught my eye. He had that hinky vibe. Not that I had much time to analyze; he came right for us, and the place ain’t that big.”