Free Live Free

The Casualty

When Captain Davidson stepped out of his car, the street was calm again. The television crew had departed for a more visual disaster, and of the varicolored kids and old folks, only a corporal’s guard remained. Four policemen, in attitudes diversely self-important, oversaw the conversation of the salesmen. A fifth drooped some distance away. “Now then,” Captain Davidson demanded. “What’s going on here?”

A big, red-faced policeman stepped forward. “They got him in there, sir.”

“The hell they have.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You were here when it happened?”

“Yes, sir. I been here the whole time. I come with him. I’m Evans, sir.”

“And you let them take him inside?”

“I couldn’t help it, sir. The doctor did it. The sergeant was down on the sidewalk floppin’ around, with these salesmen steppin’ all over him—”

“Did you say salesmen?”

“Yes, sir. Them over there, sir. Then this old doctor come runnin’ up from someplace. I think he lives around here, sir. He was yammerin’ about stoppin’ the bleedin’. Then the door opened. This big fat gal in a pink robe that threw the water at us opened it, and the doc yelled help him up. So I did, and the first thing I knew, the doc had his shoulder on one side and the guy with the mustache was on the other side, and the two of them carried him in the house and locked the door, sir.”

“And you didn’t go with him.”

Evans shook his head. “I tried to, sir, but all the salesmen was tryin’ to get in too, and the fat gal was pushin’ them away. She’s a good pusher.”

“This whole God-damned operation has a curse on it,” Captain Davidson said bitterly. “It’s already taken ten times as long as it should have and used up ten times too many men. Now this.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You looked like you were going to say something, Evans. Spit it out.”

“No, sir. I wasn’t goin’ to say anythin’.”

The captain jerked his head toward the construction vehicles parked along the curb. “Where are the operators?”

“Down the street, sir, gettin’ some coffee.”

“I don’t blame them.”

“No, sir.”

Captain Davidson walked to the stoop and leaned forward to peer at the door.

“Watch it, sir. It’s icy.”

“So I see.”

“Think we’ll get much more snow, sir?”

Captain Davidson turned around to look at Evans. “Not before we have them out of there, no. Not before I have the whole God-damned bunch of you screw-offs back on the job. Who’s got the ax?”

None of the policemen spoke.

“You heard me. Somebody hit this door with an ax. Williams, you beaned Proudy with it. Where is it now?”

Williams muttered.

“Speak up! If you’re afraid to swing it again, I’ll do it myself. Where is it?”

“Somebody got it.”

A slightly disheveled man in blue spectacles separated himself from the knot of salesmen. “A little guy with thick glasses got it, Captain.”

“What?”

“This officer was somewhat dazed—I think we all were—and this little guy came up to the officer and said, ‘I’ll take that,’ and took the ax from his hand. That was the last I saw of it.”

“Who are you?”

It was said briskly and even abruptly, but the man in the blue spectacles stepped forward smiling. “Nathaniel Glasser, Captain.” Like a stage magician producing a miraculous bouquet, he extended his card. “I’m an investment counselor. Possibly you’ve heard of us—Papke, Mittleman, Glasser & Dornberg. We got our clients into women’s preperfumed bras right at the beginning. They made millions, and we steered them into tax shelters. Our own percentage is very small, of course.” The card was in Captain Davidson’s hand. Glasser stepped back, still smiling.

“The sunlight troubles your eyes, Mr. Glasser?”

“Hm? Oh, you mean these?” Glasser removed his blue spectacles. “Yes, it does. When the sun’s out, I mean. Reflects off the snow. I’m not wanted, if that’s what you’re thinking, Captain.”

“No, I suppose not. The sun’s not out now, Mr. Glasser.”

“They have my correction,” Glasser said, and replaced the blue spectacles.

Captain Davidson turned away. “Evans, you’re pretty big. I want you and Williams here up on that stoop. You two—” he gestured toward a pair of policemen who had been watching the salesmen. “You go around back. You, Peters,” he pointed to his driver. “You come—”

At that moment, the door of the Free house opened; Mick Malloy stepped out, closing it behind him.

“What are you waiting for, you dumb bastards! Evans! Get that door!”

Evans lunged for it, slipped on the ice, and caught himself by grabbing the knob. After a moment he got his knees under him and tried to turn it. “Locked again, Captain.”

“Yeah, I bet.” Captain Davidson stalked across to Malloy. “Who’re you?”

“Eighteen years on the force,” Malloy said. “Seven in plain clothes. I’m Mick Malloy. Used to be Eleventh Precinct, Captain.”

“You live in there?”

“’Fraid not, Captain. I was just in there talking to Sergeant Proudy; I’m his insurance advisor.” Malloy’s hand dipped into an inner pocket and came out with an official-looking document. His eyes sought out a red-faced man in the crowd. “I just signed Sergeant Proudy up for twenty-five thousand whole life.”

The red-faced man stepped forward, swinging his attache case. “You signed him while he was lying there bleeding? You dirty cocksucker!”

“He was anxious to sign,” Malloy said happily. “He wanted to sign, Steve. You should have heard him thank me afterwards. I could have made it fifty. I’m kind of sorry I didn’t.”

“Suppose he dies?” Marshal asked angrily. (Captain Davidson watched the two of them in silence.)

“He won’t.”

“The hell you say! You’re no doctor.”

“The doctor’s a doctor. He’s got him in there taking stitches in his head. He’s not yelling about oxygen and transfussions, is he?”

“How the hell would I know?”

Captain Davidson said, “You said you didn’t live there, Malloy.”

“I don’t, Captain.”

“Then you wouldn’t mind if we had a look at your keys, would you? Just friendly. You say you’re an ex-cop. You ought to know how it is.”

“I’d like the keys back, Captain. I hope you’ll keep the card. You know how it is.”

“I don’t. I never sold insurance.”

A shivering man in shorts and a short-sleeved shirt appeared at Malloy’s elbow. “Did you say twenty-five thousand whole life?”

Captain Davidson tossed the keys to Evans on the stoop.

“Double indemnity. Beneficiary’s his wife.”

“That’s what I thought I heard,” the shivering man said. He was nursing a styrofoam coffee container. “One of the guys was talking about it when I came up. I had him—” He paused to wipe his nose.

Glasser pushed him aside. “Look, you’re leaving, right? Malloy, right?” He thrust out a hand, and Malloy took it. “Nat Glasser. You got nothing to lose, so tell me. What kind of a presentation did he go for? Man-of-the-world? Serious? We’ve got something opening up that—”

“How do you know I don’t have a concussion?” Sergeant Proudy asked argumentatively.

“Do I look like God?” the old doctor said. “I don’t know.” As a matter of fact, he did look like God. He was a small, elderly man who sported a little white beard and an even whiter mustache; the collar of a tattersall shirt—an almost infallible sign of the presence of deity—peeped above the collar of his overcoat.

“Suppose I do have a concussion?”

“You’re blacking out? Seeing spots?”

“No.”

“Dizzy?”

“Not much.”

“Your fingers are numb. You drop things.”

“Not since I dropped that flashlight, and that was before I got hit.”

“Then supposing you have a concussion, I’m ordering you to go home and go to bed. In the morning, see your regular doctor and tell him what happened.”

“That’s what you said before.”

“I noticed it myself.” The doctor glanced at his curved needle and put it away. “Concussion is a bruising of the brain. It can be so slight there’s practically no symptoms at all. The main thing is to leave it alone until it gets better. Don’t play football. If you see somebody trying to hit you with a ball bat, duck. (Nurse, let me have some tape.) If you want to find out for certain if you have a concussion, we’ll perform an autopsy. If you think you might have a fractured skull, go to the emergency room of the nearest hospital and tell them that. They’ll zap your head with a few X-rays, and it’s a poor X-ray man that can’t find a little crack someplace if he looks hard enough. He’ll tell you to give up football until the bone knits. Okay, all done, put on your hat and you can go home.”

“You’re through bandaging?” Sergeant Proudy’s fingers groped at the gauze.

“Why do you think I was pulling you around while I was talking to you? I warn you, if you press it, it’s going to hurt.”

Candy Garth said, “Here,” and extended a pink plastic hand mirror. Proudy accepted it and inspected his bandage.

“I made it look worse than it is. If a dressing doesn’t look bad, nobody ever believes the patient is hurt.”

“I’d hate to be hurt as bad as that bandage looks.”

“You’d be dead.”

Candy asked, “Is it going to leave a scar?”

“I’m afraid so. He’s losing hair up there. Of course a plastic surgeon could erase most of it.”

“I’ll keep it.” Sergeant Proudy rubbed his hands together. “When some rookie asks me what happened, I’ll just tell him I got it in the head with a fire ax. You got any aspirin?”

“I never carry it. My theory is that any patient too dumb to buy his own is too dumb to live anyway.”

“I’ll get some,” Candy said. She bustled out, and they heard the stair groan beneath her weight.

Barnes said, “That girl enjoys nursing. You ought to hire her, Dr. Makee.” He stood with his back to the fireplace, where the wreck of a table burned.

The physician shook his head and snapped his bag shut. “There was a time when I would have taken you up on that. Now I’ve had to learn restraint.”

Sergeant Proudy stood, swayed, and gripped the back of a chair to steady himself. “How much do I owe you, Doc?”

Dr. Makee winked at Stubb. “I can always tell when they’re getting better. They call me Doc.”

“How much? If it isn’t more than I got on me, I’ll pay you now.”

“Ten dollars. Quite a few years ago, I swore I’d never charge more than ten dollars for a house call.”

Stubb said, “Nobody else even makes house calls.” The bloody fire ax lay across his knees.

“I don’t either. I’m retired, or that’s what I keep telling people.”

“Here’s the aspirin,” Candy announced. “I’ll get you a drink, if the pipes aren’t frozen yet.” To Barnes she added, “Madame Serpentina’s packing. I listened outside her door.”

Stubb glanced at the dark and silent television. He whispered, “Where’s Free?” but Barnes only shrugged.

Sergeant Proudy gulped down two aspirin tablets and wandered across the room to look out the window.

“There he is!” Sim Sheppard shouted.

Everything stopped. Everyone turned to look. For perhaps twenty seconds, the prominent nose and small eyes of Sergeant Proudy appeared at the parlor window, still recognizable beneath a rakish cap of white surgical gauze.

Sim’s coffee was trampled in the snow. Steve Marshal’s attache case came unattached. No physicist could say how hard the front-runners struck the door. They were weighty men, most of them, police and sales alike; they had been sprinting, and they were unable to brake on the ice. Behind them were a dozen more even weightier and equally unable—or unwilling—to stop.

The weakened door made a sound much like that of a large model plane jumped upon by a small boy.