Free Short Squeeze by Chris Knopf

said you were probably fine.”
    Markham as in Dr. Markham Fairchild, Jamaican giant and king of Southampton Hospital’s emergency and trauma unit.
    “I’m talking about what happened,” I said.
    “Getting run off the road? Been there. No big deal as long as you survive.”
    I forced myself up onto my elbows so I could look him in the eye. “I need to find out who did it and have them permanently incarcerated or I won’t be able to sleep, eat, or drive a car ever again in my entire life.”
    I like to think I’m good at reading people—interpreting their facial expressions and body language. Good luck trying that with Sam. I guess he has the same muscles in his face the rest of us have, but I’d never seen them in action. I used to play poker when my dad’s friends caught me sneaking a peek at their game in the basement. That’s where I learnedwhat people meant by a poker face, and the best of them were Marcel Marceau compared to Sam Acquillo. He just sat there and stared at me. Implacable.
    “What?” I said.
    He stared a little more, then said, “You’re not gonna let down, are you?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Back off from what you’re doing.”
    Maybe letting down is not a bad idea, I thought to myself. Better that than dead.
    “Can’t do that now. I have to find out,” I said.
    “What?”
    “Why me? I must’ve done something to bring this on. What the hell did I do?”
    He stood up from the visitor’s chair and sat on the edge of my bed. He took my hand in both of his. Hands bigger than a man his size should have. Meaty, knuckly, calloused, and coarse to the touch. But careful and tender.
    “Good,” he said. “And don’t worry. If someone kills you, I’ll kill them. Simple.”
    I don’t know why acts of kindness make me want to turn the other way and run. Maybe it’s a reverence of self-sufficiency or maybe I don’t work well in team environments or maybe I just can’t stand the intimacy.
    Sam was an exception, usually. The ledger with him still had a balance in his favor, though there were plenty of entries in both columns.
    So I did the logical thing. I grabbed the poor guy’s sleeve and held on until I fell asleep, a little drugged but mostly on board with his logic:
    You’re gonna die eventually anyway. You might as well live the life you have without worrying about who or what is going to end it.
    Or how.

    Later that night, after surviving some poking and prodding by Markham Fairchild, I got a pat on the head and a ride home in Sam’s old Pontiac Grand Prix. The car, once a total loss after a similar run-in, was now completely restored for no good reason anyone could think of, including him. I told him Potato Pete’s pickup would not enjoy the same resurrection.
    Sam offered to stay with me, but I did what he really wanted and told him to get out of there and let me get some sleep. I gave what I thought was a convincing performance because he seemed to leave convinced.
    It wasn’t until I was alone in my house, after I’d carefully and dispassionately stripped off my clothes and taken a shower, slathered cream all over my body, and poured myself a glass of wine, that it was safe to sob a little.
    I hated myself for it. Not the crying, but the cause. I hated losing control of my emotions. I couldn’t afford it. Not now. Now that people were actually trying to kill me, too, it was time to get serious. I had a dead client to look after—one who might be past looking after—but that was tough.
    I wouldn’t have chosen the method, but I had to admit, they had my attention.

7
    The next morning I couldn’t move, predictably enough. Markham had given me a bottle of painkillers. The label said three a day, so I got a head start and took two. I waited another hour, then got out of bed and felt my way to the bathroom.
    I pulled up my pajamas to assess the damage in the mirror. Half my left boob had turned purple, with highlights in pink and yellow. Very attractive. It actually