Page 25 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)

Ramon Vasquez

Vasquez adjusted his shirt collar as he moved through the department bullpen. No one acknowledged him or waved in his direction. Ever since God and Day’s team spread nasty shit about him, he was persona non grata.

At seven in the morning, the precinct reeked of drunkards’ puke from overnight arrests and burnt coffee. But nothing stunk quite like the sight of God’s coveted narcotics division with its expensive tech, entertainment section, and gleaming office furniture.

Through the frosted glass, he saw Steele, the golden boy, Ronowski, Tech, and Free laughing together at whatever they were staring at on Free’s tablet.

I hate that fuckin’ tablet.

Especially the way Free ruled the world with it.

No one should have that kind of power at their fingertips. Most of the shit Free did was illegal, but of course, there was no way for him to prove it.

Vasquez squinted at the two new faces he’d yet to see up close. But he’d caught their names through the grapevine and looked them up.

Apparently, Wesley Drake and Lawson Sheppard were big-time famous on the West Coast with the movie industry, like blockbuster big.

He’d been shocked to learn they’d worked on a lot of the action movies he liked, but he had no clue who was responsible for what in movie production. He never stuck around and scanned the credits at the end. What for?

Now here they were back in their hometown and the entire department was calling them heroes.

“Just what this place needs,” he murmured, his voice laced with disdain.

If Lawson and Wesley had minded their own damn business, God and Day would no longer be a thorn in his ass… They’d be six feet under.

He stomped out of the building as if he were marching on the front lines.

He was so damn tired. He was always tired because the graveyard shift sucked ass.

He’d once had a cushy beat on the day shift and a pretty decent partner, until Hart filed a harassment complaint against him.

The captain hadn’t even been interested in hearing his side before he demoted him, and assigned him to a desk.

Vasquez wanted to go home and collapse on his bed, but instead, he had to go to Pleasant Pastures—another nursing home that couldn’t handle his father’s cantankerousness.

The old bastard had been kicked out of five already for being combative and too aggressive with the staff. Vasquez was getting regular calls about staff harassment, refusal to take medication, and sometimes worse, every other day.

Today, it was a food complaint. His father had cursed out an orderly and tossed his breakfast tray across the room.

He stopped at the Egg Bistro and ordered a country-fried steak platter with all the fixings and a tall hazelnut coffee—his dad’s favorite.

Maybe that would satisfy him. He’d eat it, then agree to take his medicine.

When he arrived, he was met by the always-frustrated charge nurse.

“Mr. Vasquez, this is becoming redundant,” she said by way of greeting. “Your father made a huge mess after he tried to bite the nurse. And he’s refused to let us bathe him or change his linen.”

Fuck.

“I’m really sorry about that. He probably didn’t sleep well, but I brought him some breakfast, and I’ll get him to take his meds, promise.

” He gave her his saddest look, hoping for sympathy.

“I’m gonna get everything all cleaned up, Ms. Janelle.

And, um, I appreciate your patience. You’re really great. ”

“We also didn’t receive your payment last week.”

“I’ll have it at the end of this week, swear it. I just had a couple of unexpected expenses come up.”

She gave him an exasperated glare before she nodded for him to go on.

He was running out of nursing homes. If his dad got kicked out of this one, he’d have to put him in one on the southside.

His father’s retirement pay and survivor’s benefits didn’t cover the full bill, and Vasquez didn’t have much to spare to make up for it.

Finding an even cheaper facility was out of the question. As much as his dad annoyed him, he was the only family he had left, and he didn’t want him abused or mistreated.

He steeled his spine—bracing for the impact—and walked into his father’s room.

The air stunk of bleach and body odor.

The floor was littered with runny eggs, clumps of oatmeal, and something unidentifiable on the wall that coordinated with the peeling wallpaper.

His father was lying in his twin-sized bed, and his scowl of disappointment hit him square in the chest, before he even got to his side.

“What are you doing here?” His father sat up, glaring at him through cataract-fogged pupils.

“Morning, Dad. I brought you breakfast,” he said flatly, as he set the food on the TV tray beside the one recliner.

He’d put it there on purpose to get his father out of the bed so he could sanitize it and change the sheets.

“Where’s your mother? Still avoiding me?” his dad grumbled, slowly swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “She was always best at that.”

Vasquez didn’t answer. His mother passed away nine years ago. His father’s dementia was worse when he was off his medication for days at a time. Nothing could bring back his memories, but the meds made him less agitated and cruel.

He gave his dad his cane, but he was hit in his shins with it before it was tossed to the floor.

“I don’t need that. I can walk just fine.”

Vasquez gritted his teeth, keeping his curses under control.

The way his dad walked slow and hunched over made it clear his back pain was pretty bad as well. If he wasn’t taking his dementia medication, then he most likely hadn’t taken his muscle relaxers either.

He did his best to help his father sit, then stuffed a pillow behind his back. While he was bent over removing the food from the bag, his dad tried to snatch it out of his hand and ended up elbowing him in the cheek.

“Ow, goddamnit,” Vasquez grunted, releasing the bag. “I was just trying to help.”

His dad huffed, removed the container with shaky hands, and tossed the lid onto the floor. He dug in with the plastic fork and knife, most of the food ending up in his lap, but at least he was eating.

Vasquez turned on American Hoggers and wheeled the TV cart holding the twenty-four-inch television in front of his dad to keep him preoccupied.

He went to the nurses’ station to get some cleaning supplies and his dad’s medication.

It was against regulation for him to administer it, but this place bent the rules a lot. And no one wanted to go back into his father’s room anyway.

Vasquez crushed the pills with his pocket knife and dumped them back in the plastic cup.

“Dad, I got some more sugar for your coffee. I know you like it extra sweet,” he lied. “How’s that sound?”

His dad didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t object when he sprinkled the fine dust in his small cup and stirred it in.

He’d let the medicine start to take effect before he attempted to get him in the shower and put on the transdermal patch for his Alzheimer’s.

In the meantime, he began to clean up the mess, using bleach on the stained wall and straightening the picture frames on the bedside table.

Vasquez had tried to make it feel like home, not a hospital room, by adding some family decorations from their old house.

He’d even brought his father’s memorabilia—his union patches, an oversized brass cargo hook, pins, and polaroids of his old crew—from his days as a dockworker at the Port of Savanna.

Last, he got a mop, some Lysol, and a fresh set of linen from maintenance. He had every inch of the one-hundred-square-foot room in pristine condition within thirty minutes.

But he was so damn tired his vision was blurring.

Damn my fuckin’ life.