Page 101 of The Happy Month

“Which one?”

“We met four years ago.”

“Dinner?”

“Absolutely.”

“Fancy or casual.”

“Fancy.”

“You sure? You don’t want to save that for next year. Five seems like a bigger deal.”

“It’s all a big deal.”

“Okay. La Boheme or Nectar? Or what about that place you like in Seal Beach?”

Before he could answer, I heard the screeching of tires. I turned in time to see a white Camaro fishtailing out of a parking spot a half a block away—and then it was bearing down on me. I had it in mind to get in front of my Jeep, but in a split second realized I wouldn’t have time. A flash of Sammy’s angry face behind the wheel and I jumped onto the hood of the Jeep—my phone flying, the Camaro sideswiping the Jeep and then nicking my foot, spinning me round, tossing me through the air over the Jeep, and onto the sidewalk beyond. I landed on my right side and heard my shoulder blade snap. And then, mercifully, everything was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

August 6-11, 1996

The next week was a kaleidoscope of images and snippets as I was drugged into various states of semiconsciousness. Ronnie fighting his way into the emergency room, arguing with a nurse about the definition of family, a doctor trying to explain my injuries to me. John showing up and putting them into English: broken bones in my shoulder, mostly the ones that had been shattered years ago, I’d need surgery—old screws out, new screws in. Much less important, a sprained wrist, a badly bruised ankle and foot, general bruising and abrasions, a possible—probable concussion.

After hours in the ER, I was moved to a room. That first evening—or maybe the next, I have a sliver of a memory—Lydia showing up in a red satin evening dress, her hair swooped over one eye. The movie premiere she’d mentioned ages ago was that night. I never realized before, but she looked like Ava Gardner. I can’t tell you if we talkedabout that or not. In fact, I don’t remember anything we talked about. There was concern on her face, though. I remember that.

The surgery happened, early in the morning the second day I was in the hospital and things became even more disjointed. I spent a good portion of that day uncomfortably, lying face down. Eventually, back in my hospital room I was allowed to gingerly lie on my side. It wasn’t much better.

Ronnie was there whenever I woke up. One time Junior was there too, with a gigantic bouquet that made me wonder how he afforded it. A uniformed police officer showed up, traffic, but I was too out of it to talk to him. They got me up the day after surgery and made me walk up and down the hallway.

I was still being given a lot of morphine on Thursday when two detectives from the Long Beach Police Department showed up. Old school White guys, older than me. One fat and one skinny, they both looked like they needed a cigarette just to get through a conversation. The fat one was Swanson and the skinny one Forsyth. I was struggling to understand why we’d gone from a traffic cop to detectives without my saying anything.

“We need a statement from you, as much as you can remember,” Swanson said with over-practiced kindness.

I went with the obvious, “Sammy Blanchard tried to kill me.”

“Yeah, that’s what your boss says. Your coworker, Karen Addison saw the crash happen. She ran out and got the first two numbers off the plate.”

“What do you remember?” Forsyth asked.

“I was on my cellular phone talking with my partner, and then she was coming at me.”

“You saw her behind the wheel?”

“I did.”

They looked at each other.

“Is she trying to say her car was stolen?” I asked.

A couple of nods, then Swanson said, “She reported it stolen about an hour later.”

“We accused her of murder that morning. I’d say it’s quite a coincidence that someone stole her car and then ran me down with it.”

“How about you answer the questions and we’ll draw the conclusions,” Swanson said.

“Is there something else you need to know?”