Death and the Devil, Chapter 3
The hospital was a five-minute drive on deserted city roads by night. Fred had chosen to sit in the backseat. Wyatt would have been mildly offended except that, even with some distance, Fred’s body odor was clearly detectable, in combination with whatever food had stained his shirt. The bleeding had stopped but the swelling was just starting. Fred was still soft from the booze, but soon enough, the pain would begin.
“In case you’re wondering, I don’t have insurance.” Fred offered from the backseat – his foot was propped on the center console, inches from Wyatt’s elbow.
“Oh.”
“The restaurant pays for some stuff, but you’re kinda on your own when it comes to the hard scrapes. You know what I mean?” Fred pulled himself upright with a groan as they pulled up to the Emergency Room curb. “You can drop me off, Chief. I’ll take it from here.”
“You sure?” Wyatt asked, trying not to sound too eager to get back to the party.
“I’m sure sure. Look at this guy! Bulletproof.” Fred threw open the door and crumpled to the pavement. Wyatt sighed.
******
Wyatt was wedged uncomfortably between a defunct water-jug dispenser and Fred. He felt unused to the unpredictable nature of a man like Fred and wanted to extricate himself from the situation as soon as humanely possible, but that wasn’t the decent thing to do and he was trying to be decent, for once.
Fred, unbelievably, appeared to have passed out in a stupor, snoring softly towards the ceiling tiles. His swollen ankle was propped on a stack of Woman’s World magazines on the table. That left Wyatt to survey the emergency room corridor. In his line of sight, he could see a sobbing child gingerly holding his elbow, an evidently inebriated older man in a wheelchair with a rag clutched over one eye, and a quietly anxious pregnant girl of about sixteen sitting on a hospital bed. It was shaping up to be a long night.
******
It had been just over a month since Wyatt landed back in the City. The past few weeks had been a bizarre collision between his adult life and the childhood single bed that he now re-occupied. His parents were fifteen years older than when he had last lived under their roof, but the dynamics remained eerily similar. The dinner offerings, too. Hamburger Helper had not innovated in all that time, its tangy flavor a familiar punctuation mark at the end of a long day.
He had started at City Hall on a Wednesday, when the ID office was open to print a new badge: Special Assistant for Urban Planning and Development. A job he would have killed for in many other cities, but one he had settled for grudgingly in this town. In LA, he had most often been left to proofread the ambitious proposals that never got through committee. Every so often, he’d be out in the field – hardhat on, reflective vest, the works – watching a crew dig into the dry soil of Southern California; mopping his brow in the sunshine, just like the guys. On a few occasions, he was offered entry into the decision room. Once, he was asked his opinion.
Then, he was fired. Then, he was dumped.
Being home was a promotion of sorts, albeit a demoralizing one. He didn’t harbor any illusions of why he’d been allowed to hopscotch up the chain to a brand-new, public-facing role: Wyatt was a former public school kid who had made it good. His hiring was a visible nod to the red-blooded, blue-collar, white families that were the backbone in the Mayor’s reelection efforts.
Still, he could envision a real future, if he played it right. Not in the City, of course. He’d never actually live here again. It would be a few hard years, being close to everyone he’d fallen out with, having to handle his sister again… He would manage, though. Racine was around, and having even one friend made the prospect of carving out a temporary little life feel possible.
******
“The only pathway to true healing is… rebound sex.” Fred said sagely. “And a good steak.”
Wyatt laughed, realizing for the first time the vice grip he’d had on the arms of his chair. He wasn’t sure what had made him confide any part of his circumstances to this unhinged stranger, but now found that he was enjoying himself, just a little. “I’m good, dude. You’re the one that needs healing.”
“Nah, I think it’s just sprained. I’d totally say let’s split if it wasn’t for the two-concussion thing. Last week and now this.”
“...What do you do, exactly?” Wyatt eyed Fred with open suspicion.
“Mostly pills, but other stuff, too.” Fred’s eyes sparkled with mischief.
“And that’s what causes you to fall out of windows.”
“No, Wyatt. That’s not what causes me to fall out of windows. What causes me to fall out of windows is a dedication to my craft, and using my fire escape for a cooling rack. You are looking at, and probably smelling, the City’s best fucking chef.”
A nurse stopped short alongside Fred and gave him a hard look.
“Whoa, Kara! Whatever I did this time, I swear I can explain!”
“Fred. It's been too long, babe. I brought you the good stuff,” she deadpanned, and opened her fist to reveal a single pill of Tylenol.
“You’re too good to me, gorgeous,” he said, with so much charisma that Wyatt could see the stoic ER nurse blush just a little.
******
“All good?” Wyatt asked as they pulled out of the parking lot.
“Yeah, thanks.” Fred said, seeming oddly reflective. The night was quiet and the radio was off. The sound of a keychain – heavy with Wyatt’s government-issued key fob – smacked against the plastic neck of the steering column, acting as a busted metronome, counting the beats until they are back at the GlassTown lofts.
Fred examined Wyatt’s ID badge from its spot hanging from the rearview mirror. He let go of the badge and watched it dangle. “You know your guy is corrupt as shit.” He looked over to gauge Wyatt’s reaction. “You won’t get very far.”
Wyatt turned into GlassTown’s parking lot and rolled down the window at the security gate. “What’s the code?”
“Oh, it’s 867 5 309.”
“Clever.” Wyatt said, meaning the opposite.
The gate swung open and Wyatt pulled in. He unlocked the doors. Fred didn’t move.
“Thanks for the ride tonight, man. I got friends, but most of them don’t have cars, and the ones that do don’t have gas. And even those fuckers wouldn’t sit around and wait on my sorry ass.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
Fred got out of the car.
Wyatt watched him limp to the building, until the solid steel door slammed closed behind him. It now seemed much too late to rejoin Racine’s party; maybe they were even clearing the cups by now. Alone now, he grabbed the ID badge from the rearview mirror, leaned over the passenger seat, and slammed it into an already over-stuffed glove compartment.
