Free Big Numbers by Jack Getze Page B

distant horns.
    Sweet Jesus. Not easy to tell who it is. The face is bashed, features smeared across a bloody hunk of meat. But I recognize my friend by the overall size of the head, the partial hairline, the shape of one good ear.
    It’s Cruz, not Luis.
    I throw up on Mallory’s shoe.
     
     
    It takes the Branchtown cops all day to approximate the time of Cruz’s death, then three minutes to verify my alibi with the hospital nurses station. Those girls must have been able to recite the exact time of my every bowel movement.
    During my wait at the police station, I tell Mallory and a tape recorder everything I know about Cruz, Luis, and the restaurant. But once I’m done with my two Branchtown Blackie stories, Luis’s switchblade, my info apparently isn’t that exciting. I’m sent home with a warning to stay available for further questioning.
    I call Walter for a ride. He has a dozen questions, but my answers are one syllable or less. Poor Cruz. He probably got himself killed trying to defend the restaurant.
     
     

 
    TWENTY-TWO
     
    I wake up cold and worried. Night air leaks inside my camper, chilling my arms and chest, yet perspiration drips in the hollow of my neck. The first two fingertips of my right hand collect the moisture like evidence. What’s wrong? Cruz’s death? Anxious and restless about my shitty life? Or did a nightmare rouse me? A noise?
    Knuckles rap tenderly on my camper door. “Austin? It’s me.”
    I slide carefully off my bunk. Definitely a female voice, or Psycho Sam. Sounds like the redhead, actually, but why would Kelly show up here so late? I stoop-walk to the back and crack open the door. The Branchtown night greets me with a cold wet kiss.
    It’s Kelly alright. Her gaze shifts from my eyes to a place above my forehead. “I thought you were kidding about the helmet.”
    I remove my headgear, toss it on the bunk. “Obviously you’ve never lived in a camper. I was developing permanent contusions and lacerations. You want to come in, have a beer?”
    “I…” She can’t finish, and her green eyes thicken with sudden unshed tears. What’s wrong? Same old problem about too many nursing responsibilities? Or a new drama? Maybe she knew Cruz.
    “Gerry’s gone,” she says.
    Oh, my. I wasn’t ready for that so soon. My monster looked almost well the last time I saw him. “Did he die peacefully?”
    “No, no,” she says. “I mean he’s gone, not dead. He left the condo in an ambulance.”
    I push aside the rusty camper door and hop down beside my goofy redheaded lover, place my hand on her shoulder. Kelly must be treated with love and kindness. She can’t help it she’s a ding-bat.
    A three-quarter moon throws our shadows on the asphalt and puts a frightened glare in Kelly’s moist eyes. Some kind of night bird squawks in the oak tree across from Shore Securities’ parking lot. I pull a blanket off the camper floor and wrap it around our shoulders.
    “What happened?” I say.
    She spreads her fingers on my chest. “Last night after dinner he lost consciousness. I called 9-1-1 and went with him to the emergency room. The doctor there got Gerry’s Sloan Kettering doctor out of bed, and they decided to transfer him to a hospice. They don’t think Gerry will live more than a few days.”
    I reach for her hands. “I’m so sorry.”
    “I’ll be all right.” She sniffs. “Gerry and I’ve known this was coming.” She digs in her purse for a tissue. “It’s just that…even if we weren’t married…well…we’ve been together a long time.”
    My arms slips around her waist. The redhead presses her hips against me.
     
     
    “I don’t need all of it,” Kelly says an hour later. We’ve moved to the penthouse condo. “Just a little. We’ll go to Mexico, you and me. Live in the sunshine like the people in that fancy painting.”
    I kiss her neck, then gaze up at Renoir’s Pont Neuf , the centerpiece of Gerry’s collection of Impressionist reproductions. “I