Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [36]
What the fuck?
As if in answer, I hear a woman’s voice behind me.
“Freeze.”
I’m so surprised that I spin around to face her before the meaning of the word sinks in. I actually see the flash of the pistol.
When I come to, I find myself sitting on the rug, with my legs splayed and my back partially propped up by the love seat. I have no clue how long I’ve been out.
“I have a gun! I have a gun!” the woman starts shouting as soon as she realizes that I’m awake.
“No shit,” I manage to whisper.
She stops shouting and takes a step toward me. I force my eyes to focus. Generic thirty-something blonde dressed like she’s about to drive her hybrid SUV to the yoga studio. Christ, if it weren’t for the Ruger 9mm in her left hand, she could be in a Whole Foods commercial.
“Don’t move or I swear, I’ll … I’ll kill you.”
“I can’t move. My legs don’t work.”
I look down at my lower abdomen and see the little hole in the front pocket of my hoodie. There’s no blood, but somehow just looking at it cuts through all the endorphins and sends the first wave of pain rolling across my torso.
“Did I hit you?”
“What the fuck do you think?”
She takes a step back again and tries to calm herself down by doing some sort of ridiculous deep breathing/grunting exercise.
“Huh-uuuunh … Huh-uuuunh … Huh-uuuuuunh …”
I put my right hand on my thigh. There’s no feeling in the limb at all—it’s like I’m touching someone else’s leg.
“Why the hell did you break in here?” The blonde stops hyperventilating for a moment. “I mean, are you psycho or something?”
“Lady, I need an ambulance. Did you call 911?”
“The cops? Are you crazy? You know I can’t call the cops.”
“It’s okay.” The second wave of pain hits and lingers awhile. I grit my teeth and try to reassure her. “I’m just a junkie who broke into your house. Legally, you’re in the clear.”
“Legally?” She lets out a semihysterical laugh and starts with the ridiculous breathing exercises again. “Huh-uuuunh … Huh-uuuuuuunh …” I swear to God, it’s like the bitch is in labor or something.
I’m about to speak again, when the third wave of pain hits, and just stays. It feels like somebody left a hot soldering iron in my stomach. I decide to change tactics.
“Look, you fucking cunt, you shot me in the stomach. If you don’t call 911, I’m going to fucking die, and you’re going to fucking prison for the rest of your fucking life.”
She finally stops with the deep breathing, hesitates a moment, and then pulls out her phone. She hits the speed dial, and to my surprise, starts talking to somebody in rapid-fire Spanish. Not the lispy shit you might learn from a college year abroad in Spain, but Mexican street slang. The conversation moves so fast that about all I can pick up is the name Esteban. This bitch isn’t just fluent, she’s a goddamn native speaker.
“He wants to know who you work for.” She flips the phone shut and switches back to an equally native-sounding English.
“Work for? What do you mean?”
“He’s sending someone. He says to keep you alive.”
“Who’s sending someone?”
“Esteban.”
“Esteban?”
She nods.
“Who the fuck is Esteban?”
“I’m going to see if there’re any bandages in the bathroom.” She ignores my question. “I swear to God, if you move while I’m gone, I’ll kill you.”
“I told you, I can’t move. I think you hit my spine.”
“Good.”
She leaves the room and I’m left to ponder why she speaks native Mex slang, who the hell Esteban is, and why the bitch doesn’t even know what’s in her own medicine cabinet. I look down again at the bullet hole in my hoodie. There’s still no blood.
A minute later, she comes back with a roll of duct tape, paper towels, and a bottle of Extra Strength Tylenol.
“Lady, I’m a fucking junkie. Tylenol is not going to cut it.”
“That’s all there was.”
“Well, maybe if you called a fucking ambulance they might have something a little stronger?”
“I told you. Esteban