in the ribs flattened him back down on the cement walk. Something hit his head, hard.
Chapter 8
…Seconds, minutes later--Gary never could be sure how long it had been-- he was standing on wobbly legs, with two policemen supporting him by the arms.
“Are you okay there? Can you stand on your own okay?”
The florid face of the cop with eyes the kind of blue that could be cold and cruel or warm and sentimental swam into cloudy focus. “I’m fine, I’m okay,” he said, struggling to remember…the letter, yes, racing to the mail-order house, the gang circling… menacing….
“Ah, you don’t look so good to me. I think a trip to the hospital for a check-up wouldn’t hurt.”
“No, no, thank you, no hospital,” he said, still groggy.
“This package here on the ground,” the second officer said, picking it up, “yours?” His lean body looked as hard as the soulless eyes studying him. “Or theirs? Been stepped on.”
Gary reached for it. “Yes, that’s it. My name’s on it, see? I just picked it up…” he gestured…“when… when--”
“We know,” the lean one said, appraising him as if he were sizing him up for a suit. “Took off like gangbusters when they saw us coming. We know that bunch.”
“No real harm done,” Gary said, trying to blink away the cobwebs shrouding his eyes. He brushed off his pants and sweater, anxious to get back home.
Both officers eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t know, do you, Ed? It looks to me he could use some medical help.”
Ed, the lean one, shrugged.
“A police report wouldn’t hurt, either. Show the captain we ain’t just out here cruising the streets doing nothin’, or mooching coffee and doughnuts someplace.”
Ed nodded. “What are you doing in this neck of the woods, anyway? The address on that package you’re carrying puts you a little ways off from here.”
“Special order. I just came down to pick it up. Honest, officers, I’m fine, really fine. They were only a bunch of kids, a little wild, that’s all. You know how kids are these days, too much time on their hands.”
“What do you think, Ed?”
Ed shrugged again. “Let’s do a report, anyway. Just to cover ourselves.”
“Sounds fair enough to me. And you,” he said, resting a gentle hand on Gary’s shoulder, “we’ll drop you off at the doctor’s for a quick check-up. That eye and that split lip could use a little fixin’.”
Gary wondered if they were playing good-cop-bad-cop as they led him to the curb and helped him into the back seat of the police car. Ed pulled out a clip board and Gary gave his name and address as it was on the package. They pulled away, cruising slowly.
The smell of blood in his nose and the taste of it in his throat nauseated him, and he tried to get his mind off his discomfort by gazing out the window at the houses sliding by. Even through clouded eyes, he could see that the neighborhood was old, older than his, but looked well-maintained and better than his. He thought about his grandmother and how one day he’d get her into the suburbs where everything was clean and new and safe. It could’ve been her on her way to the post office or someplace today instead of him who got mugged. He thought about the man across the street, watching, and didn’t do a damn thing to help!
Shifting position to ease the ache in his ribs, he noticed how cramped the back seat was and, for the first time, really paid attention to his surroundings. What the hell is going on here? As a matter of fact, the cops themselves looked somehow out of place, and the uniforms they were wearing-- though he couldn’t put his finger on it-- resembled something actors impersonating cops would wear on a stage. And this antique car, what’s that all about?
“Is there some kind of a parade or centennial going on today? A special occasion?” he asked.
“Why do you want to know?” Ed said.
Gary shrugged. “This car, for instance.”
“What about it?”
“It’s ancient. Are you using it in a car show or something?” He let out a nervous laugh. “Or is the police department really that hard-up for funds these days?”
Both officers looked at each other. “I think you might have cracked your head pretty hard there on the concrete. What did you say your name was? …What’s his name, Ed?”
“Gary…Gary Tyler,” Ed said, checking his sheet.
“Uh huh. Tyler, tell me, what day is today?”
“Today?”
“Today.”
“Today’s Monday.”
“Monday, is it?” He looked at Ed. “You’re sure of that?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
“Okay. Well, when you see the doc, you tell him what happened and all your symptoms.” He pointed to his head. “Be sure he sees that lump. Doc Goldman’s a good man. He’ll take care of you. And stay the hell out of that neighborhood! It ain’t safe.” The car wheeled up to the curb. “Need help getting out?”
“I appreciate the ride, and thanks,” Gary said, grasping the handle and stumbling out. He rubbed his head, still foggy from the beating.
Chapter 9
The shingle with black lettering hanging from a white post on a seedy lawn read: EMILE GOLDMAN M.D. Holding tight to the wrought iron railing with one hand, and his ribs with the other, Gary limped up the half dozen steps to the door, obeyed the Enter sign and walked in. Three people turned to stare at him: two elderly ladies and a shabby man about fifty, with horny, yellow toenails sticking out of a bandaged foot, and a pair of crutches occupying the chair beside him. He was smoking a cigarette.
Seeing no receptionist, Gary eased into a chair opposite the others. After looking around a few moments, his attention came back to the man. Gary pointed to the cigarette curling smoke into the air. “You can hardly do that anyplace anymore,” he said.
The man seemed startled. “If it’s bothering you…” he said, reaching for the ashtray.
“No, not at all.”
The man looked askance at the women, who had stiffened in their seats and were already appraising Gary’s dirty clothes with steely-eyed disdain.
Something strange here, Gary thought. Even though this part of town was poor and way behind the times, it seemed oddly strange… oddly out of place. He looked
