Tower: A Novel by Ken Bruen, Reed Farrel Coleman

began fluffing the pillows. They learn that in nursing school. When in doubt, fluff the freaking pillows. I snapped
    “They’re fine.”
    She gave me that tolerant smile you give precocious kids, said
    “Bit cranky are we?”
    And was gone. Just like my mother.
    Ortiz gave some form of laugh, more a snigger then said
    “You’re one of Boyle’s crew?”
    I stared at him then said
    “So?”
    He flipped a page of his pad. How many pages did he have on me?
    Then
    “You lie down with scumbags, you’re gonna get flak.”
    I tried to act like this was priceless information and made mmm noises. Mainly as I know how fucking irritating it is. He fixed his eyes on me, the cop special, asked
    “Any idea who’d want to take you out?”
    I shrugged and he added
    “Next time you might not be so lucky.”
    He stood up, then
    “Lemme give you a bit of advice, sonny.”
    I drank some water, noisily, and he said
    “Because of your old man, we’re cutting you some slack but don’t depend on it. You’re a punk and when we find your sorry ass in an alley, you think we’re gonna shed any tears?”
    He headed for the door and I said
    “Forgot anything?”
    Got to him and he frowned. I said
    “Where’s the bit about not leaving town?”
    He put his pad in his jacket, wiped at his mouth and said
    “You have a mouth on you, you know that? But if I had a nickel for every two-bit shithead with an attitude, I’d be rich.”
    I’d have fucking killed for a double espresso and a line of coke. Or a clean shot of Bourbon. Jesus wept, I was in pain. The doctor swept in with a retinue of cowered nurses, interns or what the fuck ever those trainee doctors are. I said to myself
    “Incoming.”
    I’d been on a diet of Nam movies: Apocalypse Now, Go Tell the Spartans … not Platoon though, that was like Nam lite. I had me an obsession with Coppola. Knew the dude did forty cups of espresso a day. How fucked is that? Made me like him even more, cos I dug it. He fitted in with my whole world view: fucked.
    The doctor checked my chart, without turning to the horde huddled behind him, said
    “Gunshot wound, above the heart.”
    I cut through the shit, asked
    “What happened to ‘Good morning and how are we today?’ What happened to that gig?”
    One of the followers gave a suppressed laugh and the doctor whirled, shouted
    “That funny, you think a gunshot is funny?”
    Jeez, talk about a heavy number. He moved toward me, examined the wound, made mmm sounds which told me absolutely nothing other than that I was in deep shit. He stood back, said
    “You can leave today. The dressing will need to be changed daily. Come back for a check up in five days.”
    Then he turned and walked out, the posse scuttling behind. I wanted to shout
    “God bless.”
    After the nurse changed the dressing, and I attempted the breakfast, I asked for my clothes.
    She indicated a wardrobe, said
    “Your shirt had to be thrown out but your jeans and jacket are there. Your friend, the one who got you this private room, he left you a clean T-shirt.”
    Her tone hinted that she was not fond of people who got special treatment. I opened the closet and in all its red glory, was the T with, you guessed it, The Red Sox. I turned it inside out, preferred to look stupid than Boston, which might amount to the same thing. I was pulling my boots on, groaning, when Shannon walked in. She looked tired, circles under her eyes and her hair like she couldn’t find a brush. I’d have finger combed it for her. She appraised me, said
    “You look shot.”
    I stood up and felt a slight wave of dizziness but that might have been down to her. I asked
    “How’d you know I was here?”
    “It was on the news.”
    I didn’t know, was she angry, sympathetic, what? Her words had an edge but then, they usually did. I asked
    “Want to walk me off the premises?”
    I signed the release forms and she stood at my side, then
    “Why are you wearing your T-shirt inside out?”
    Before I could