Doc Goldenberg discharged me about three days later. The bandages were off my eyes, and, except for some residual swelling around the lids, I could see okay. I still had bandages on my head, stitches in my face, and casts on my arm and leg.
On my way from the bed to the pink lady’s wheelchair, I took a look in the mirror. I looked like the goalee in a javelin contest. Victor Frankenstein would have been proud.
Amanda drove me to her house. I wanted to go to my apartment, but she wouldn’t have it. She was enjoying the caregiver role. I was not enjoying the caretaker role.
She set me up in Rodney’s room.
“You’ll sleep here,” she said. “He can sleep on the couch.” The room was an experience. Vampire and punk rock posters, lava lamps, a desk loaded with computer equipment, shelves of stereo gear, and laundry and junk everywhere.
“It’s like living on the set of The Rocky Horror Picture Show,” I said.
“You want him to clean it?”
“No. I don’t want to know what might be living under all this grunge.”
Amanda dug out Dad’s old crutches, and I was able to get around with them, but I wouldn’t be able to drive. The casts on my leg and arm would get in the way, and besides, the drugs were too good.
“Don’t worry, Stanley, Rodney can take you wherever you want to go,” Amanda said.
“Terrific. Where is he now?”
“He goes into the office every day. He’s talking about becoming a full partner in the detective agency.”
“Fat chance. When do I get to go back to work?”
“When you’re better. Rodney will drive you.”
“I don’t think I want to ride in that heap of his,” I said. “Besides, there isn’t room for me with all the trash he has in there.”
“He’s been driving your car. Says it looks more professional.”
“Oh, great. With his pants down around his knees, I hope he doesn’t leave any wedgies on the upholstery.”
“Wait ‘til you see him,” she said.
I got to see Rodney that evening when he came home. I barely recognized him. He was wearing a white shirt, suit and tie, and a new trench coat. His hair was cut, combed, and back to its natural color. He had shaved. I had forgotten what a good-looking young man Rodney could be.
“What the hell happened to you?” I asked.
“Hi, Uncle Stanley. I remembered what you said about cleaning up to work with clients. This is the new me. I kind of like it.”
“What will your friends say? The ones who still recognize you.”
“Friends? Maybe you never noticed, but I don’t have friends.”
“Maybe you will now. What’s this about clients? You have clients?”
“Not yet. I’ve been waiting for you to get back. Mom said I’m to be your chauffer now until the casts come off. You want to go anywhere?”
Amanda called from the kitchen, “Not yet, Rodney. Uncle Stanley isn’t ready to go anywhere just yet, dear.”
Each day I got better. I still needed the crutches and couldn’t drive, but I was getting around the little house on my own. Willa came by each morning. The pretense was that we could keep the business going, which involved answering the office phone, which she had redirected to her cell, and putting off all potential clients until I got better. Rodney did the same thing at the office for walk-ins. That was the pretense. The real reason she was there was to look after me so Amanda could go to work. She left each evening when Amanda got home.
I have to say I was eating better. Those ladies could cook.
When I was able I tried to help out around the house, washing dishes and doing laundry with my crutches holding me up as I leaned on the sink or clothes washer. Those tasks didn’t often last long, though. I’d tire after a few minutes and have to go lie on the couch for a while.
One evening I was sitting in the living room trying to make my way through the latest cop TV show. How come those guys are always young hunks that get to work with gorgeous babes? I’m a middle aged hump, and all I get to work with is Willa. The best-looking woman I know is my sister. Life ain’t fair.
Rodney was standing at the window looking out and probably wishing he could drive me somewhere.
He said, “Uncle Stanley. Guess who’s here. The Captain.”
Damn. I hadn’t asked Rodney to bring Roscoe home from the office, mainly because I didn’t want him to know where I kept it stashed. And he’d have needed the combination to the safe. Not a good idea.
Then I remembered the shotgun.
“Get me Grandpa’s shotgun from the closet.”
Rodney got the shotgun, and I stood with my crutches propped under my arms and opened the breech. The shotgun was loaded. I closed the breech and got up against the wall beside the door. The doorbell rang.
“Open it,” I whispered to Rodney.
He opened the door. Jeremy said from the stoop, “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m Rodney. Go away.”
He started to close the door. Jeremy pushed it open again.
“I didn’t recognize you in drag. Get your mother, kid. I want to talk to her.”
“She doesn’t want to talk to you,” Rodney said.
“Get her anyway. Or I will.”
“Who is it, Rodney?” Amanda called from the kitchen.
“It’s your asshole ex-boyfriend,” Rodney answered.
“You little shit,” Jeremy said. He was still on the stoop out of my sight.
“Step back,” I whispered to Rodney.
Rodney stepped back and Jeremy began to come through the door, his eyes on Rodney. I swung the shotgun with full force and hit him across the bridge of his nose with the barrel. Thump! Must have been a bit of a surprise. He fell back out of sight. I hobbled into the doorway. He was sprawled on the sidewalk just beyond the stoop, holding his face with both hands, blood streaming out of his nose and down his chin. I pointed the shotgun directly at him.
“You have a short memory, Captain. I told you to leave my sister alone.”
He rolled over and got up on his hands and knees. A shiner was forming around both eyes. Not as pretty as mine, but he’d have it for a while as a reminder. He pulled out a handkerchief and wiped his face.
“Now get the fuck out of here,” I said. “The next time you come back, me and this shotgun will decorate the sidewalk with your insides. At the first sign of you, I shoot. No questions asked. No explanations offered. None accepted. Just a big bang. Leave. Now. While you still can.”
I looked out at his car. The windows and headlight had been replaced, but the dent was still in the door.
“You don’t learn too easy yourself, Bentworth. Do you need another session with my boys?”
“Thanks, stupid. My sister and nephew just heard you confess to putting them onto me. That might come in handy when I take your ass to court. Oh, by the way. Did I say leave?”
I pulled the hammers back on the old shotgun. I wondered whether it would even fire. Maybe blow up in my face.
He stood up and backed slowly towards his car, keeping an eye on me and the shotgun. About that time a police cruiser pulled up.
“I called them, Stanley.” Amanda was standing behind me now.
“I can handle this, Mandy.”
“You’re not a hundred percent yet. A little help can’t hurt.”
“I think Uncle Stanley did just fine, Mom.” He seemed proud of the old man.
Two uniforms got out of the cruiser.
“Wait right there,” one of them said to Jeremy.
He stood with Jeremy and the car while the other uniform came to the door.
“Everything under control, Detective, I mean, Mr. Bentworth?”
“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Thanks for stopping by.”
“Sergent Penrod spread the word at the precinct. When the call came in, we knew it was you. Anything we can do to help, we will.”
He walked back to Jeremy’s car.
“Looks like we have a couple of violations here, Fred,” he said to his partner.
He took his nightstick off his belt, went in front of the Beamer, and busted a headlight and parking light lens. Then he took out his citation pad, wrote on it, tore off the page, and handed it to Jeremy, who wisely accepted it and kept his mouth shut.
“Get away from these people’s house and do not bother them again,” the other uniform said to Jeremy. “Otherwise, you’d be surprised at how many of your days can be ruined.”
Everyone drove away. But I was more than certain that I hadn’t seen the last of Captain Jeremy Pugh.
My cell phone rang, and I horsed it out of my pocket. Buford again.
“How’s everything going? You back to work yet?”
“Not yet, but soon, maybe tomorrow. I’ll call you from the office and we can get together.”
“Any more problems with that Army guy?”
“Funny you should ask.”
I told him about what had just gone down.
“Sounds like you and the cops have a handle on it.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think I’ve heard the last of him.”
“Why’s that?”
“He made it clear. I’ll probably get another visit from the two goons.”