door that must have sailed right by him.
"Listen, I've got to get you an ambulance," he said, stripping off his shirt for a pressure bandage.
"And while I'm gone you're going to have to keep some weight on this." She nodded listlessly. She's gonna fucking die right here, Frank thought as he wrapped his shirt tightly around the hemorrhaging wound. She's gonna bleed to death right here before I even get to the fucking car to call for help.
"I think I'm okay," she slurred. "It doesn't hurt that bad. I think I can walk."
"Shut up, Linda," he said, tying the sleeves of the shirt, finishing the bandage. "If you don't sit still and keep pressure on this leg you're not gonna have to walk anywhere ever again. You'll have angels to carry you wherever you want to go."
She looked at him, blinked, and smiled, a stupid junkie kind of smile. Then she was pulling something off her finger, pressing it into his blood-smeared right palm.
"Please, Frank," she said, "tell Judy I'm sorry, okay? Tell her I still love her. You'll do that, right?"
He stared down at the ring, a simple white gold ring, trying to understand what she was saying to him.
"If something happens... if I don't make it. . . you tell Judy I said I was sorry." Linda folded his fingers closed around the wedding band.
Frank took a deep breath, knowing there was no time for his surprise or the pampering of his own fears. The bandage was already soaked through. He put both her hands on it and pressed down hard, and she almost passed out. He slapped her cheeks until she was conscious enough to keep her own hands over the shotgun wound.
"You keep your hands right there, Linda, and you're gonna be just fine. Ain't nothing gonna happen to you if you do what I say. Do you understand me?"
"Yeah," she said, sounding very faint and far away from him. "Yeah, I know what you mean, Frank."
"I'll be right back, I swear. I'm only going as far as the patrol car, okay?"
"Yeah," she said, and he left her there and descended the steps to the crowd of people still milling about in front of the building. The fat woman with the green curlers looked at him and grinned, showing a bright silver tooth right up front.
"You leave anyone alive up there, young man?" she asked him as he stepped between their bodies. He didn't reply, ignored them all. It had started to rain again while he and Linda were upstairs and he felt the drops cold against his skin, washing him clean. He gripped the ring in his hand and walked toward the car, praying to no God he believed in that he could at least reach it before he puked, praying that he could get help before she died alone up there.
As he reached the curb there was the sound of thunder off toward the river, a rumble like muffled shotgun fire, and the urgent wail of approaching sirens.
Linda Getty didn't die, but she almost lost her leg and would walk with a limp for the rest of her life. Frank visited her only once in the hospital, when he returned the white gold ring to her. Linda accepted it as if she were taking back a confession. She was in fact doing something very much like that, Frank knew. Linda resigned from the force while she was still struggling through physical therapy, and Frank moved effortlessly up to homicide.
But not before he learned that there had been at least two squad cars within minutes of their location in the Iberville projects that afternoon. Both had reported engine trouble to dispatch when the call for assistance had come in over their radios. And when Frank got back to the station that day, he found that someone had spray- painted dyke in fat red letters across the front of Linda's locker and taped used and
bloody tampons to the locker's door.
He stood looking at it for a while, his old familiar fear of discovery wrestling an outrage he'd never felt before, not in all those times when he'd gone along with the idiot queer jokes or turned the other way when someone was roughing up a fag, all those times he'd played along for
"Listen, I've got to get you an ambulance," he said, stripping off his shirt for a pressure bandage.
"And while I'm gone you're going to have to keep some weight on this." She nodded listlessly. She's gonna fucking die right here, Frank thought as he wrapped his shirt tightly around the hemorrhaging wound. She's gonna bleed to death right here before I even get to the fucking car to call for help.
"I think I'm okay," she slurred. "It doesn't hurt that bad. I think I can walk."
"Shut up, Linda," he said, tying the sleeves of the shirt, finishing the bandage. "If you don't sit still and keep pressure on this leg you're not gonna have to walk anywhere ever again. You'll have angels to carry you wherever you want to go."
She looked at him, blinked, and smiled, a stupid junkie kind of smile. Then she was pulling something off her finger, pressing it into his blood-smeared right palm.
"Please, Frank," she said, "tell Judy I'm sorry, okay? Tell her I still love her. You'll do that, right?"
He stared down at the ring, a simple white gold ring, trying to understand what she was saying to him.
"If something happens... if I don't make it. . . you tell Judy I said I was sorry." Linda folded his fingers closed around the wedding band.
Frank took a deep breath, knowing there was no time for his surprise or the pampering of his own fears. The bandage was already soaked through. He put both her hands on it and pressed down hard, and she almost passed out. He slapped her cheeks until she was conscious enough to keep her own hands over the shotgun wound.
"You keep your hands right there, Linda, and you're gonna be just fine. Ain't nothing gonna happen to you if you do what I say. Do you understand me?"
"Yeah," she said, sounding very faint and far away from him. "Yeah, I know what you mean, Frank."
"I'll be right back, I swear. I'm only going as far as the patrol car, okay?"
"Yeah," she said, and he left her there and descended the steps to the crowd of people still milling about in front of the building. The fat woman with the green curlers looked at him and grinned, showing a bright silver tooth right up front.
"You leave anyone alive up there, young man?" she asked him as he stepped between their bodies. He didn't reply, ignored them all. It had started to rain again while he and Linda were upstairs and he felt the drops cold against his skin, washing him clean. He gripped the ring in his hand and walked toward the car, praying to no God he believed in that he could at least reach it before he puked, praying that he could get help before she died alone up there.
As he reached the curb there was the sound of thunder off toward the river, a rumble like muffled shotgun fire, and the urgent wail of approaching sirens.
Linda Getty didn't die, but she almost lost her leg and would walk with a limp for the rest of her life. Frank visited her only once in the hospital, when he returned the white gold ring to her. Linda accepted it as if she were taking back a confession. She was in fact doing something very much like that, Frank knew. Linda resigned from the force while she was still struggling through physical therapy, and Frank moved effortlessly up to homicide.
But not before he learned that there had been at least two squad cars within minutes of their location in the Iberville projects that afternoon. Both had reported engine trouble to dispatch when the call for assistance had come in over their radios. And when Frank got back to the station that day, he found that someone had spray- painted dyke in fat red letters across the front of Linda's locker and taped used and
bloody tampons to the locker's door.
He stood looking at it for a while, his old familiar fear of discovery wrestling an outrage he'd never felt before, not in all those times when he'd gone along with the idiot queer jokes or turned the other way when someone was roughing up a fag, all those times he'd played along for
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