Part 16 (2/2)

”If you catch a terrorist from another country-catch him here here, I mean-how come you s.h.i.+p him back where he came from for questioning?”

The cop didn't say anything.

”I could be that other country for you. I find this guy, he's going to tell me everything. Not just about the rape I did his time for, about every one he's ever done.”

”Somehow, I can't see you wearing a wire.”

”Wouldn't need one. On every rape this guy committed, they found something something. Maybe he's got a trophy case. Maybe he takes pictures. Maybe he had a partner. I don't know. But, whatever I get, add it to what you already got, wouldn't that be enough to nail him?”

The cop pinned me with his eyes. Wasting his time-I wasn't going anywhere.

”I'll get back to you,” he finally said.

”How?”

”That's a good question.”

”I'll call you, okay? Just say when.”

The cop looked at his wrist.w.a.tch. Maybe it had one of those calendar things in it.

”I got two years until I pull the pin,” he said. ”Retire. Me and the wife, we've already got a place picked out. Far from here.”

”It was worth a shot,” I said.

”I said two years, Caine, not two days. There's benches by the other river, too. You know the Hospital for Special Surgery?”

”I can find it.”

”Just keep walking on Seventy-first; you'll find a little bridge, takes you up to where you can look at the river over the FDR. Next Friday, two o'clock, I'll be on that bridge.”

”Me, too.”

Walking around without a gun felt good. I never liked them-they always seemed to make things worse. But what I really really didn't like was guys who liked guns. Some of them, when they handed over what they were carrying so I could see all the special stuff for myself, it made me feel...slimy, like. didn't like was guys who liked guns. Some of them, when they handed over what they were carrying so I could see all the special stuff for myself, it made me feel...slimy, like.

Not the gun itself, the whole idea. Like the way those guys in the s.e.x Offender Treatment Unit would be talking about the stuff they did. Just listening, it was like some of their-I don't know what to call it-like some of what they were would rub off on you.

I don't like being around the iron jockeys, either. I never felt right listening to them talk. Maybe that's just me. Maybe I just don't like most most people. people.

I got shot once, a long time ago. The slug went into my upper arm, never touched bone. The doc in the ER was an Indian. Not one of those guys you see in cowboy movies; from the country India. He said I must have done something very good in another life to have deserved such luck. I was a little fuzzy, but I could tell he believed what he was saying.

Turned out, the bullet just went in one side and out the other. A nick, they called it. That Indian doctor said the only danger would be infection. Not from the bullet, from not keeping it clean.

I remember asking him how come I couldn't get an infection from a bullet. In prison, some guys would dip the points of their shanks in their own s.h.i.+t, so you could die from the poison after you were stabbed. I didn't tell the doctor that, but I really did want to know.

”A projectile launched at supersonic speed would generate so much heat that it would be sterilized,” he said.

”What's 'supersonic'?”

”Did you hear the shot?”

”Yeah. After I-”

”You heard the shot because it broke the sound barrier. That's what makes it supersonic.”

”Thanks.”

He gave me a confused kind of look. But maybe it was the drugs they were pumping into me that made me think that.

They didn't even keep me. Just gave me a couple of more shots, cleaned it all out, and packed stuff inside before they taped me up.

The cops came. I knew they would. The ERs, they're supposed to call in any gunshot wound, even if you tell them it was an accident. There's docs you can go to who won't call it in, but they charge an arm and a leg, even if they don't have to take one off.

And-who knows?-they could be on some cop's Rat Rolodex themselves. A doctor who gets nailed for writing scrips by the pound, he'd ”cooperate” with the cops in a second-that prescription pad, that's his moneymaker.

So the rule is, if you got shot doing something that could drop you down a well, that's when you take the chance. Say you've got a cop's slug in you, no way you can let a hospital take that that out. out.

But with the bullet I took, I knew I was on solid ground.

What I told the cops: I never saw the shooter. I got no beef going with anyone. Broad daylight, probably one of those punks trying out his new nine. Or maybe it came from inside one of the buildings I was walking past.

What they told me: They can't protect me if I don't come clean with them. Maybe the next time, the shooter won't miss.

They were as bored as I was. Without a slug to put under their microscopes, there was nothing they could do, and we all knew it.

Whatever they put in the wound finally dissolved, just like the doctor said. All it left was a little pucker mark, like a vaccination.

But when I went back to the gym, some of the guys looked at the arm and said it was ruined. They were really sorry for me. I didn't get it at first. I mean, soon I was back lifting the same weight I always had, so what was the big deal?

One of them explained. He said that bullet had spoiled my skin. You could hide some stuff, like the blackheads they were always getting all over their backs and shoulders, but what I had would never look right.

I asked him, look right for what?

”You don't compete?” He sounded kind of...disgusted, like I told him I didn't wash my hands after I used the toilet or something. This was the same guy who was always telling me I had great genetics but I'd need some help if I ever wanted to get really really big. big.

I didn't go back to that gym.

f.u.c.k it. Wasn't like I was friends with anyone there or anything. I like working out by myself more, anyway.

I guess it depends on what you want it for. These guys, they were more worried about how good a suit of armor looked than how good it worked. Not me.

People think the worst thing about being locked up is that you can't have the things you had on the outside. But that's not it. Plenty of guys who hit the joint never had anything on the outside. So what did they lose, really?

Freedom? How much of that that do most people have, if you think about it? In prison, they tell you what to do. Outside, they do the same thing. Some people, they hate being told what to do so much that they end up Inside. Again and again. Time after time. do most people have, if you think about it? In prison, they tell you what to do. Outside, they do the same thing. Some people, they hate being told what to do so much that they end up Inside. Again and again. Time after time.

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