Dead Red by Tim O'Mara Page B

it now. I grew up seeing it. You’re a good man, Uncle Ray. Probably the best I’ve ever known.”
    “That’s the concussion talking.”
    “No, it’s not. You are a good man. But that doesn’t make you right about everything.”
    He stood up. “That’s definitely the concussion talking.” He looked at his watch. “The girls’ll be back up with the food any minute. Why don’t you hit the head, wash your face, and powder your nose? I’ll get the plates and stuff.” He looked around my apartment. “I’m guessing, what with the absence of a dining table, we’ll be eating in the living room?”
    “You’re a damned fine detective, Chief Donne.”
    I went into the bathroom. The face in the mirror was definitely mine, but it seemed to have aged ten years since yesterday. I leaned in to get a better look at my eyes. The pupils were dilated—a result of the blow to the head—but not as bloodshot as I would’ve guessed. I ran the cold water for fifteen seconds and then splashed it on my face. With dinner about to show up, it would have to do for now. I remembered Allison’s earlier offer of a shower, and hoped for a quick dinner and exit by my uncle. His words to my sister came whizzing at me through space:
    “We all have hopes, kiddo.”

 
    Chapter 6
    RACHEL HAD TO LEAVE FOR HER dinner with Dennis, and thirty minutes later the only remnants of dinner were half an egg roll, an unopened box of rice, and an assortment of plasticware, plates, and bowls. Allison and I cleaned up and decided not to mention dessert or the possibility of one more drink to my uncle. When we got back into the living room, Uncle Ray was leaning back, eyes closed.
    “Damn,” he said, rubbing his belly. “That hit the spot. You guys wanna watch a movie or something?”
    Allison grabbed my hand and squeezed. I gave her a silent look that said I’d take care of it. My uncle opened his eyes.
    “I’m just messin’ with ya. Told my driver to meet me outside at six.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost that now. I’ll see myself out.”
    He got himself up off the futon with more than a little effort. He grabbed his jacket and stepped over to Allison. “Thank you again. I’m glad my nephew’s got someone in his life who cares.”
    “So am I,” Allison said and kissed my uncle on the cheek. “Thank you.”
    Uncle Ray turned to me. “Keep your head down, Nephew.”
    “I will, Uncle Ray.”
    “Any symptoms,” he said, “right to the ER and call me.”
    “Absolutely.”
    He pulled me into one of his manly hugs and then eased up out of fear of hurting me. His hugs could do that even when I didn’t have a concussion.
    “Call your mother.”
    “As soon as you leave.”
    He looked at Allison and winked. “You better. I don’t want you getting yourself all distracted and leaving it ’til the morning.”
    “I won’t.” I walked him to the door. “You and I will talk soon, I guess.”
    “Soon,” he said and exited my apartment.
    When I got back into the living room, Allison was coming out of the kitchen with a new beer. She raised it to me. “You can have one sip. Then call your mom.”
    “And then…?”
    She handed me the beer with one hand and reached around and squeezed my ass with the other. “Call your mother, tough guy.”
    *   *   *
    I woke up in a cold sweat hearing gunfire and the sound of metal creaking. Allison and I were on top of my comforter—we’d never made it under the covers—and she was wearing my Brooklyn Pilsner T-shirt and little else. My mind kept flashing back to twenty-four hours ago: Ricky’s face in the steering wheel, the sound and smell of his cab being shot up, the lights of the emergency room. There was no way I was getting back to anything resembling sleep tonight.
    I rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom. I popped three more ibuprofens and chased them down with some cold tap water. My throat hurt, so I went to the freezer and treated myself to a couple of spoonfuls