Free The Coldest Mile by Tom Piccirilli Page A

counteract the effects. Ask ing for antibiotics is like asking for medicine. There's all different kinds for different troubles. I've seen plenty of gunshot wounds before, but nobody's going to be able to help you if you keep tearing it open. Man who sewed you up the first time did a shitty job.”
    “He was a safe doctor up near the Harlem River, a cokehead burnout. I saw catgut in the bathroom down the hall from me. Can you use it?”
    “I can use it.”
    He opened his wallet and laid a couple hundred dollars on the table. She snatched it up and tucked it away in her apron.
    “See what you can do about those antibiotics too.”
    “I'll make some calls.”
    He had a large cup of coffee and drank it slowly. It reminded him of getting into the auto shop early before the kids arrived for their first class. He'd sit there staring at a couple of cars with their engines in pieces, a chalkboard full of notes behind him, and a Styrofoam cup of coffee in front of him steaming in the frigid room. The same as garages, high- school auto shops were always cold, the metal shuttersnever sealing properly, the cinder- block walls holding in the chill. He'd sip his coffee and wait for the first bell. The kids walking in chattering about trivial matters that weren't trivial at all. He'd never been to school and still had a romanticized notion of what it must be like, the rich complexities of such rituals. Learning about life side by side with hundreds of your peers instead of being on the grift at ten, climbing into people's bedroom windows and boosting their watches and silverware.
    Cessy returned with the catgut and another bottle of pills. The amphetamines were black, which surprised him. He'd always thought they were red. He took two more painkillers and popped two uppers. He was worried about what it might do to his system.
    Swabbing his shoulder and sewing him up, Cessy muttered to herself. “Only met a few like you in my time. Quiet but carrying thick scars. Mostly I know gangbangers, drug dealers, and pimps. They're up front with their action. Same as the hoods around here. But you, you live a different kind of life, don't you.”
    Not asking a question.
    “Where's your family at?” she asked.
    “I don't know. After this I need to go find them.”
    “You wear a wedding band on those broken fingers. Where's your wife?”
    “Dead.”
    Cessy let out a slow, lengthy breath. “Sugar, don't you think that—”
    Chase said, “What do you know about Bishop?”
    She took a second to answer. “He likes to walk around with blood on his clothes.”
    Before hitting the estate garages, Chase scoped Jackie's office and some of the other rooms again. He tried to find out where Sherry Langan was really running the show from, but it had to be the third floor, where Lenny was dying and his wife and some other old ladies were always coming and going.
    There had to be loose cash around. People like this, they might just as soon hide it in a closet as in a safe. Thugs passed him in the corridors. Chase realized he probably should've gone about this another way. Get a string together. Two or three other second-floor men. Walk in right under everyone's noses, climb through the house checking every drawer and shelf and cupboard, just stick a gun to Jackie's temple and make him cough up the combo. Walk out while the rest of the mooks were out putting on the ninth hole.
    But Chase was still on the edge, trapped between two lives. He didn't want to call anybody in. He didn't want to have to draw down on the boss. He didn't know what he was going to do next. The three- prong hook was holding him in place as much as it was tugging him out of his shoes.
    Chase was sweating and his hands trembled. The drugs in his system hadn't found a balance yet. He felt light- headed and antsy, but at least all the pain was gone for the first time in weeks. He fought forfocus. He checked his watch. He had to get ready to drive Sherry to her theater group, and who the