Goose in the Pond - Earlene Fowler [90]
“Sam,” I croaked, forcing myself to crawl to him. “Are you okay?”
He wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand, attempting a smile. Even in the dark I could see the blood staining his white teeth. “Are you?” he asked.
I tentatively touched my already swelling eye, my stomach churning from the sizzling pain. “Mostly.” Before I could say more, two girls ran up.
“Hey, are you guys all right?” a girl wearing a white beret asked. “We saw those guys beating up on you. My friend went to get the cops.” She looked at our ravaged faces and the smashed windows of the truck. “Man, why didn’t you just let them take the truck?”
Sam and I caught each other’s eye. For some reason, we found her perfectly sane and sensible remark hilarious, and we started giggling. We were sitting on the street with our backs against the bumper of the truck laughing like a couple of drunks when B. Girard and another cop ran up.
“Crap,” she said. “It’s the chief’s wife.” She squatted down and peered into my face. “Are you all right?”
I stared into her concerned face. “What’s the B stand for?” I asked inanely, trying to think about something other than the blowtorch blasting my eye.
She gave me an odd look. “Bliss,” she said. “I have a twin sister named Joy.”
Only Sam seemed to understand how incredibly funny that was. We burst into another round of hysterical laugher. Officer Bliss Girard shook her head in bewilderment and stood up. “Call dispatch and have them get a hold of the chief,” she told her partner, a thin Asian man who stared at us like we were a couple of three-headed cows. “Have them tell him his wife and—” She looked at Sam, a question in her steady eyes.
“His son,” I said, in between gulps of laughter.
She was struck silent for a moment, then regained her composure. “His wife and son were mugged on the two-hundred block of Morro Street. And call the paramedics.”
The paramedics were working on us when Gabe arrived. Gabe’s head towered over the cute EMT who was cleaning around my eye with alcohol. “Ouch,” I complained when the paramedic probed too deeply. I gripped the curb to keep from passing out from the pain.
“Sorry,” he said. “Just want to make sure it’s clean. You’d better keep ice on this for a couple of hours. But you’re going to have a real shiner there, Mrs. Ortiz.”
In my hazy vision, Gabe’s face appeared as villainous and unforgiving as a hit man’s.
“How’s Sam?” I asked, trying to peer around the paramedic’s body.
“He’s fine,” Gabe said. “Just a broken nose and some sore ribs. What happened?” His eyes were gray and hard.
The paramedic handed me a cold pack, and I placed it against my eye. “We were mugged.”
He stared at me a long time without answering. Then he said, “We’ll talk about it at the station.” He helped me stand, keeping his arm tight around me while leading me toward a patrol car. Sam was already in the backseat, holding a cold pack to his swollen bottom lip. Gabe helped me into the seat next to Sam. “I’ll be back shortly.” He slammed the door.
I turned to Sam. His sun-reddened nose was twice its normal size. “How are you feeling?”
He shrugged and attempted a grin. Pain turned it to a grimace. “Okay. He’s pissed, isn’t he?” He sounded like he was talking through a mouthful of wet oatmeal.
“Without a doubt,” I said, resting my head on the slippery vinyl seat. “What did you tell him?”
“That we were mugged. But it was pretty obvious that the truck was involved.” He pointed past me. The truck was illuminated by the flashing lights of the emergency vehicles. The completely