I was coming out of Fairway Market off 25th Street and there he was, talking up a storm, on the street corner, behind a little booth with a tin can for donations.  He was sparking up a conversation with anyone walking by, trying to get them to say anything, which he would then make into a rap.  I mean good rap.  I was, like, hip-hopping crazy, he was so good.  I was break dancing in the street, never mind no cars.  And funny.  He was laughing.  I was laughing.  Everyone passing by was smiling.  And more than a few of them were dropping bills in his can. 

 

I was huffing and puffing, dodging tires, rolling on the street, and spinning like a top.  Who cares if I’m missing a leg?  I was foot-loose for all to see.

 

When there was a lull, being as no people were walking by, I went over to introduce myself, thinking we could be homies. I know what you’re thinking; he’s just doing a job, hustling money.  But that was not it.  He was down.  You get me?  Some kids walked by and he hid behind the booth, then poked his head out the side just to get them to laugh.  No.  It was a calling.  Even when there was no one around, he was still humming and chuckling to himself.

 

I was so impressed with his performance: continuously changing and flowing with the crowd, how well it blended with the street and how the laughter was so contagious that even the traffic was laughing.  I tried to tell him but he couldn’t hear me over the wind. I came in closer but was hit by a piece of paper tumbling down the street.  Actually scooped me up and dropped me off, about a half block away, at the start of a dark alley, and you know how I like dark places.

 

I was considering heading back to the street performer, my new comrade, but I have to admit, the darkness of the alley had a different appeal.  Plus, it looked like some action happening about halfway down, beside two completely full dumpsters. Why would four guys be in hard discussion in front of a dumpster?  I mean, really.  And now I’m thinking the guy leaning at the corner is the lookout, idly looking up and down the street, like he was just passing time.  Barely noticed him myself as I headed down the alley.

 

When I got close I could tell they were closing on some important deal, but using a lot of street jargon so hard for me to follow.  Talking about tar.  But that’s odd, I was thinking, since that comes from Asia and Mexico and mostly on the west coast. What we get here is the powder.  You know, the good stuff, diamorphine.  Right?  Maybe I was missing something so I came in a bit closer, at which point I caught the smell of some rotting bananas – my favorite – drifting from the nearest dumpster, like fine perfume in the air. 

 

Quick as a wink, I was up the side of that container and diving headfirst in absolute bliss, forward somersault, 1½ turns, tuck position, into the trash, following my nose.  There it was, mixed with a few orange peels.  We are talking heaven!  And the more I ate the better it tasted.  Who cares about heroin at a time like this?

 

So, yeah, I heard the guy at the alley entrance give the warning whistle.  I’ve seen it all before.  He whistles, then walks off, all nonchalant like.  I also heard the “businessmen” break it off and scramble deeper down the alley, just as a siren blasted at the alley entrance. 

 

The police screeched to a stop just beside my dumpster and I heard doors open, then shouting to put down their weapons.  It was in the ‘Police Command Voice,’ like that made it more convincing.  But not this time, judging by all the gunfire and shouting and screeching wheels.  What a racket.

 

After I had finished my snack and climbed out of the dumpster, still wiping my mouth, everyone was gone.  The place was empty save a number of bullet cartridges on the ground.  And oddly, no crime scene tape, forensics, or anything.  The shell casings were also odd.  Why would there be shell casings of different calibers. If the police were firing, wouldn’t they all be the same?  You see what I’m getting at? 

 

I started doing a few measurements, checking angles, directions, things like that.  The car had leaked a few drops of oil, 0W-40 by appearance.  I’m thinking that pretty fancy for the police.  There was a tire mark in a muddy area and clearly Uniroyal but pretty worn out tread.  Different foot prints, but all different shoe types.  If this was the army, I mean police, wouldn’t they all have the same gear, socks, shorts, t-shirts, shoes.  That’s the way it works, right?  I’m saying this is not the work of the NYPD. 

 

Okay.  So let’s look at the evidence.  There was clearly a deal going down, maybe a big deal.  Two parties negotiating and then a third arrives in the guise of the police.  Interesting.  Driving a car with worn out tires but still wailing like it was the real thing. 

 

Definitely had me fooled.

 

I started circle perimeters around the scene.  I found a still smoldering cigarette butt.  Pall Mall.  Prison Reds.  Do they still make those?  It was a good clue.  The paper had a bite mark.  Looked like a place where he was rolling it under a tooth, but by looks, a broken tooth.

 

On the next circle I found an empty pack of matches with the name of a local bar.  I knew the place but it wasn’t a bar I would hang in.  Kind of rough. 

 

About another 100 feet up the alley there is a metal fence but with an open gate.  Also, the lingering smell of gunpowder.  And blood, just inside the gate.  There were some scuff marks on the ground, maybe where someone had fallen and then helped back up but stumbling.  On the right was an open door into a maintenance storage room, dark save the lighted hallway across the room, barely visible through rows of metal shelves.  There was also more blood on the edge of the metal rack at the corner, a handprint, but smudged.  Nonetheless, I quickly copied the prints that were still legible.  The lighted hallway led to another door that opened into a different street. But there was no handprint on the doorknob; obviously, someone was helping him.

 

So where would they go?  I flagged a cab but they drove right by.  So I ran instead.  Destination: Bellevue Hospital at 1st and 26th. 

 

An hour and 10 minutes later I pulled up, on foot, at the Emergency Department. Holy crap!  The ER was jammed.  Looks like average wait time currently extended to about 6 hours.  There was a pizza delivery in progress in the west corner of the waiting room and a tamale salesman wandering around pushing his cart, singing his song, deep baritone, “TAMALES,” echoing down the corridor.  If it weren’t for the rotten banana, I would have taken his offer.

 

So, where was my guy?  Not in the waiting room.  I sat in one of the chairs to think.  Where would he be?  Maybe, just maybe, a bullet wound would have more priority.

 

zzz…

 

 

Sorry, I just dosed off.  Where was I?  Oh, yeah, the HOSPITAL.  You know I have had some, let’s say, experience there, and believe me, this time I did not go anywhere near the MRI.

 

So, here’s what happened.  Quick as a wink I scanned the beds in the ED but no suspect in any of them.  Okay, so where would a bullet wound go?  To surgery, right?  I was off and on-the-run, wary of any environmental cleanup crews – you know what I’m saying?  Anyway, as soon as I was there, I started by reading the room assignment board because there was no way I would be able to personally check all the operating “theaters,” as they say.

 

On the board there were several GSW’s listed.  If I removed the “GSW Head” from the list, I’m thinking self inflicted, there were only 6 other rooms to check.  First room, totally silent – a bad sign.  Four surgeons and two scrub techs surrounded the patient and more units of blood running than I would say healthy, anesthesiologist, 3 nurses and an RT, but no one saying a word other than the quiet and continuous, mechanical, “hemostat,” pause, “Debakey,” pause, “sponge,” pause, “Halstead,” pause.  The patient was a woman in her thirties, so not my guy.  Second room, a young black man.  These guys were white, so, nope.  Third room, a man in early 40’s with gunshot wound to the right mid abdomen.  Could be him.  Dis guy – I mean, this guy had a swollen right eye with a large abrasion on his forehead.  Looked more like a punch than a fall.  The board showed a start time of 13:05.  That would have been before my guy could have arrived.  Fourth room, young man, age 31, bullet wound in right upper chest, start time 14:17.  That would be the right time.  No other marks visible.  Chest tube in place; blood scrubber partially full; hemostasis achieved; surgical resident bantering to the anesthesiologist, “son of a bitch was lucky; just missed the pulmonary artery.  Lucky for him but I’m not so sure for us.”

 

“Keep your attention on your own work and don’t worry about his,” the good attending responded.  Anesthesia made no comment but instead checked several boxes on a clipboard hanging from the front of his DRE Ventura CS2, a hood ornament of sorts, I suppose.

 

Yes.  This was the guy.  I mean, “Dis was duh guy."

 

Like a good PI, I propped myself in the corner in a spot I would not be noticed and pretended to read the newspaper.  But I was paying attention alright, except the mark never said a word.  Just the steady rhythm of the ventilator.

 

After about 45 minutes, I was bored out of my mind.  I mean, I was literally* dying.  What would Sam Spade do?  I was in a tight spot.  I couldn’t stay focused.  I started humming; I paced back and forth on the top of the Cell Saver; I did some jumping-jacks.  None of it was working.  I was getting antsy and irritable.  How long could a surgery last?  How come they all look so calm?  Jesus!  Come on people.  Let’s keep moving here, there are other patients waiting.  “What is wrong with you guys?!  He’s just a thug, for chrissake.  Close him up!” 

 

 

Okay.  So I sort of lost it there and had to leave.  I think I may have a touch of Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder Predominantly Hyperactive/Impulsive Presentation, ICD10-F30.1.  But this was not my fault.  Look, they were just slow.  That’s nothing to do with me.  I’m fine.

 

Where is that banana?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* AKA “metaphorically”