Portland Noir - Kevin Sampsell [37]
“No.”
“All right, I’m going to see if I can make a bandage.” She puts the Ruger and Tylenol over on the coffee table out of my reach, and then kneels down next to me with the duct tape and paper towel.
“Christ … is that blood?” She notices my soaked jeans.
“It’s piss.”
“Eww!” She recoils.
“I’m fucking dying here and you’re scared of a little piss?”
She does her best to regroup and folds up a piece of paper towel into a half-assed square, adding strips of duct tape to the four sides to form a makeshift bandage.
“What the hell is that?”
“It’s the best I can do, is what it is.” She does a few more deep breathing exercises, and then slowly lifts my hoodie and T-shirt.
The hole seems almost ludicrously small—about an inch below, and an inch to the left of my navel. My whole stomach is smeared with blood, but not a Hollywood amount. For some reason, exposing the wound to the air makes it hurt even more, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming.
“You don’t have HIV or anything …?” She hesitates at the sight of the blood.
“No,” I lie.
She looks at the hole for a few more seconds, building courage. “Did the bullet go through?” she asks.
“How the fuck should I know?”
She reaches gently around to the small of my back to feel for a hole.
“It must still be inside you.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
She shrugs, and adds a few more strips of duct tape to the paper towel bandage.
“Okay, this is the part that’s going to hurt.”
She uses an extra sheet of paper towel to carefully mop up the blood around the gunshot hole, and then slaps the bandage on.
I scream.
She’s so startled that she momentarily lets go.
I keep screaming.
She puts pressure on the bandage again and begins to tape it down.
I keep screaming.
She lets go.
I stop screaming. And then promptly shit myself.
“Oh gross!” She jumps back from me, covering her face with her hand to try and block the smell.
Somehow the change in bowel pressure shifts things around, and I have to start screaming again.
“Shut up!” She grabs the Ruger off the coffee table and waves it at me for emphasis. “Shut up or I’ll fucking shoot!”
I manage to stop screaming, but it’s not going to last.
“Look, you fucking cunt, either finish me off or get me something for the pain.”
She hesitates.
I start to scream again.
“Shut up!” She slaps a hand over my mouth.
I try to bite it.
“Look, just shut up for a minute and I’ll see what I can do, okay?”
I shut up.
She speed dials the number again, and there’s more rapid back-and-forth in Spanish. After a few seconds, she covers the mouthpiece with her hand.
“He says someone will be here soon.”
“How soon?”
She’s back on the phone for another few seconds, but then her expression changes and she covers the mouthpiece again.
“He wants to know who you work for.”
“Who I work for? No one. I’m a fucking junkie.”
She’s back on the phone, and this time actually winces at whatever Esteban is telling her.
“He says he needs to know right now.” She walks over and kneels next to me again, keeping her face turned away from the smell. “I’m sorry.”
“About what?”
She winces again at what she’s hearing over the phone, and then reaches out with her free hand and presses on my stomach.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!”
“Tell me.” She keeps her hand there.
“AHHHHHHHH!!!”
“Tell me and I’ll stop.”
“Okay! Stop! Stop!”
She lets her hand up.
“Voodoo Mike.” I gasp for air. “I work for fucking Voodoo Mike, all right?” The idea is completely absurd, but it’s the first name that pops into my head. Besides, I owe him money.
She relays this information to Esteban, then flips the phone shut again.
“You fucking blond bitch. You fucking cunt whore cooze. I’ll fucking kill you, you fucking cocksucking motherfuck-ing—” “I think someone’s here.” She runs over to look out the front window.
I hear what sounds like a truck pull into the driveway, and then a door slam. The blond bitch heads back to the coffee table for the Ruger, then sprints to the front door and opens it. A moment later, a uniformed EMT walks