Page 55 of Save the Date
A shrill woman’s voice called from the back of the house. “Whoever’s out there I’m calling the cops. I mean it, I’m calling them right now!”
“Fuck you, bitch.”Coarse laughter. But the men slunk off into the darkness, like so many feral cats. All but the one, who was still on the ground, clutching his black fedora, curled up now in a fetal position. Even from where they stood, they could hear his groans of pain.
Jack sighed. “I better see if he’s all right.”
***
“Tommy?” Jack crouched over the fallen man. “You okay?”
Dumb question. Tommy Hart was definitely not okay. His nose was already a bloody, swollen pulp, and his left eye was closed, a ring of purple already blooming.
He helped the younger man to a sitting position.
Tommy held both hands to his face. “I’m fuuuuucked up.”
“I see that,” Jack said. “Did they hit you anywhere else?”
“No maan. Just my faaace.” The words were slurred. “I think my nose is broke.”
They heard the loud wail of a police siren.
“Will he be okay?”
Jack turned, and was surprised to see Cara, kneeling on the filthy, glass-strewn asphalt, at his side.
“His nose is probably broken,” Jack said succinctly.
Before he could say anything else, Tommy Hart, improbably, staggered to his feet. “I gotta go, man.” He swayed, and it looked, for a moment, that he might fall down again. Blood dripped down the front of his face, onto his white shirt.
“Whoa,” Jack said. He wrapped an arm around Tommy’s shoulder. “You need to get your nose looked at.”
“Yeah. Later.” Tommy tried to pull away, but Jack held his ground.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“I got to go,” Tommy insisted. He glanced toward the end of the lane. “Cops. I don’t need to be messing with the po-po.” He tried again to free himself from Jack’s grasp. “Come on, Jack. I’m okay.”
“You’re not okay,” Jack repeated. “You’re shitfaced. You can’t drive like this.”
The sirens were growing closer.
Tommy moaned. “I can’t get another MIP. They’ll pull my driver’s license. I’ll lose my freakin’ job. My old man will kill me.”
“Come on, then,” Jack said. “Let’s walk.” With his arm around Tommy’s shoulder, he force-marched him in the direction of the K of C hall.
Cara followed, unsure of her next move. She hesitated, then picked up the battered black felt fedora she found lying on the ground.
Jack banged hard on the K of C’s kitchen door, and a frightened-looking Hispanic man yanked the door open a few inches.
“Incoming,” Jack said. Silently, the porter held the door open wide enough for them to pass.
Jack shoved Tommy onto a rickety kitchen stool, went to the commercial ice machine, and scooped up a handful of ice, which he wrapped in a white terry dishcloth.
“Jesus!” Tommy yelped, as Jack held the cloth to his battered nose.
“How’d you get here tonight?” Jack asked.
“Huh?”
