Page 58 of Hard to Kill
Jimmy touches his face and feels the blood, not just from the windshield now, but from when his face hit the rocks and dirt as he dove under the car.
His chest feels like it’s been hit with all the worst body blows he ever took in the ring. But he gets his phone out and manages to call Jane before he passes out.
The light shining on his face is what wakes him up.
Jane standing over him.
“Does that white light mean this is heaven?” Jimmy asks.
“You wish,” she says.
She sits down next to him in the dirt then, leaning over to kiss him on the forehead before telling him she needs to call 911.
“No,” he says.
FORTY-EIGHT
JIMMY’S CAR HAS BEEN towed by a friend of theirs, Lenny Morrell, who owns a gas station on Springs Fireplace Road. By now I’ve driven Jimmy—at his request—to the office of Dr. Ben Kalinsky, who has X-rayed Jimmy and taped up his three cracked ribs, cleaned and bandaged the worst cuts to his forehead, and told him it’s a miracle he doesn’t need stitches.
When Ben tells Jimmy he’s really going to need to take it easy for a few days, they both hear me snort.
“I’m sure you both have your reasons for not calling the police,” Ben says.
“I don’t want them to be the ones who find the guy driving the car,” Jimmy says, “or Annie Oakley.”
I grin at Ben. “He’s always been very inner-directed.”
“And extremely inner banged up,” Ben says.
“I’ve already filed a report with a cop,” Jimmy says.“Me.”
I drive us back to my house, after Ben points out once again what a full and interesting life I’m leading. The sun is up by now. I tell Jimmy I have some pain pills he can borrow. I’ve been hoarding my own for a while. He says it only hurts when he laughs, and since none of this seems particularly funny, he’ll be fine.
What I do give him is coffee enhanced by a healthy shot of the Kentucky Owl Straight Bourbon I keep in the house for him. It’s not as pricey as Pappy Van Winkle. But not cheap, either.
Jimmy drinks some of his bourbon-laced coffee. He picks the mug up with his left hand and then gently places it back on the table, making sure to take care with even the smallest moves. I’ve been there. I broke two ribs playing college hockey and for the next month was worried about taking deep breaths and became more afraid of coughs and sneezes than I was of snakes.
Jimmy has awakened Detective Craig Jackson, asking him to find out anything and everything he can about Anthony Licata, and if he might have a female partner now that Joe Champi is among the departed.
Jimmy has the call on speaker.
“Anything else you need?” Jackson asks.
“You’ve always been a giver,” Jimmy says, and ends the call.
Jimmy carefully raises his mug to his lips and drinks.
“I like your triple shot better than the kind you get at Starbucks,” he says.
“Breakfast of former Golden Glove champions.”
We sit in silence. I’ve told him I’ll drive him home when he’s ready. He says not yet.
He coughs now, nothing he can do to stop it, and bends over in pain, which I can see only makes things worse.
“You’re supposed to be the sick one,” he says when he straightens up. “You know that, right?”
“You’re the one who keeps getting shot at.”