Nerve Damage by Peter Abrahams

he’d always done in doctors’ offices. They X-rayed his forearm, front, back, sideways. Not long after, the doctor appeared and told Roy he’d broken his ulna.
    â€œCommon nightstick fracture,” the doctor said, holding up the film. “See?”
    Roy said he saw.
    â€œSnowboarding?” said the doctor.
    â€œHockey,” Roy said.
    â€œRough game. Slashing? High-sticking?”
    â€œIt wasn’t intentional,” Roy said.
    â€œJust above the glove,” the doctor said. “See it all the time.” He led Roy to the casting room. “Any special color?”
    Red, Roy thought: Delia’s favorite color. Where did that come from? He said: “No.”
    The doctor chose blue, wound Roy’s arm in a plaster cast that ended an inch below the elbow. “Clean break,” he said. “That’s the good news.”
    â€œAnd the bad news?” said Roy.
    The doctor blinked. “No bad news,” he said, “other than the fracture itself, which should heal nicely in six weeks. Come see me then.” Thedoctor saw some look on Roy’s face. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be back on the ice by spring.” He held out a vial. “These are for pain.”
    â€œNo thanks,” said Roy.
    Â 
    He stopped by the yard on his way home.
    â€œHey,” said Murph. “What’s with the cast?”
    â€œHockey,” Roy said. “Out six weeks.”
    â€œYou puckheads,” said Murph. “Never know when to quit.”
    â€œIs that bad?” Roy said.
    â€œHuh?” said Murph.
    Roy glanced around the office. “Skippy here? He said something came in from a nuclear plant.”
    â€œThat’s just my theory, the nuclear angle,” said Murph, pushing himself up from the desk. “But you can see for yourself.”
    â€œSkippy’s off today?”
    Murph snorted. “Fuckin’ moron. He’s off all right.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œThey got the little wiseass down at the station,” Murph said. “Picked him up last night on a DUI.”
    â€œIs he okay?”
    â€œHell, no. He’s driving his ma nuts. And then she drives me nuts.” They left the office, walked down the outside stairs, crossed the yard, frozen mud cracking under their boots. “She’s leaving him in the tank for a couple days,” Murph said, “maybe teach him a lesson.”
    â€œIs that a good idea?” Roy said.
    â€œYou got a better one? The kid’s a loser.”
    Roy followed Murph past a mound of rusty barbecue kettles, a wrecked Escalade lying on its side, head-high rows of brass cloth. Murph pointed. “Whaddya think?”
    â€œNo idea,” said Roy, gazing down at the thing: a highly polished silvery cone, about twenty feet long, topped by a much thinner cone, even shinier, that very gradually narrowed to a point. Roy read the word Candu, stenciled in red at the bottom. “How much for just that top part?” he said.
    Murph shrugged. “I don’t even know what the fuck it’s made of,” he said, running a horseshoe magnet over the metal.
    â€œA hundred bucks,” Roy said.
    â€œFor a hundred bucks I’ll throw in Betty Lou,” Murph said; Betty Lou was his wife.
    Roy crouched down, touched the tip of the upper cone: very sharp, icy cold.
    Â 
    He went home, the narrow cone in the bed of his pickup, his casted arm resting in his lap, still aching. Three messages on his machine, the first from Turk:
    â€œDidn’t see you at Waldo’s last night. Give me a call.”
    The second from Jen: “Hi, Roy. I dropped into the clinic today, just saying my good-byes. And I heard about your arm. You okay?”
    The third from Richard Gold: “Trying to confirm that name you cited, Delia’s—your former wife’s boss. Tom Parish? One r or two?”
    Roy listened to Jen’s message once more, maybe