I checked for Jenny before I answered. “Some asshole in a SUV didn’t want to share the road.”
“No way.”
“Way. I’m headed over to the emergency room.”
“Are you hurt?”
“Add insult to injury, College. Ask me another stupid question.”
“Geez, how bad? You need a hand?”
I slumped lower against the kitchen cabinet, closed my eyes and pictured my choices of worst-case scenarios: totaling the Subaru as I lost consciousness and spun out of control, versus Ainsley holding me down for stitches in the emergency room.
“No thanks. I’ve got it under control,” I told him.
“This stuff might help.” Jenny appeared carrying her mother’s Rubbermaid tub of all-purpose medical repair. My sister had been an emergency-room nurse. If anyone was prepared for trouble, it was her. “Worst case scenario, first case scenario,” I used to tease.
Too bad, I was right.
“Where’d you find that?”
“The little one stays in the linen closet. The big one was in the garage. Mom kept it in the car for emergencies.”
Hunkered down beside me, Jenny started digging through the tubs, passing right by the latex gloves, bottles of pain relief and piles of unlabeled foil-blister packets. I tried to keep my voice nonchalant as the supplies appeared: one box of princess band-aids, rubbing alcohol, three ace bandages, a stethoscope and a rubber tourniquet.
“Make sure we have an engineer tonight, College.” I spoke very deliberately into the phone. “And I’ve got a new list of pick-ups we should go after. I want to go back to Jost’s apartment and try his partner Pat again. See if we can catch him off-duty.”
“You got it, boss.” I could hear him fluffing his pillow in preparation for another few hours of sleep. “I’m yours to command.”
Jenny took a rubber strap between both hands.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“This will stop the bleeding by cutting off your circulation.”
“Anything else?” Ainsley asked.
“These are for pain.” Jenny held out the giant bottle of acetaminophen and a foil-blister pack. “Or maybe it’s these?”
The only words stamped on the back read: SAMPLE NOT FOR RESALE.
“I’ll stick with the usual.” I tossed the packet back into the bucket. Jenny shook out two tablets. “Get me some water would you, kiddo?”
“I’ll meet you at the station tonight,” Ainsley said. “What time?”
“I need you earlier, but don’t panic. It involves food. How’d you like to go picnic with the sheriff today?”
“Uh…”
“Great. Pick us up at noon.”
1:02:59 p.m.
Socializing at a garden party after stitches in the emergency room is like eating brussels sprouts after army-issue MRE’s. Some improvements aren’t worth the wait. Unfortunately, the Curzon family picnic wasn’t a meal I could skip.
It took forever to haul ourselves less than ten miles through small-town traffic to the old neighborhood where the Curzon family manse was located. We got caught behind two freight trains going opposite directions. The old Subaru wagon I’d inherited had a cassette prey-er, no tape ever ejected with its guts still intact, so Ainsley and Jenny sang to the radio Top 40 countdown. I was safely insulated by the meds they’d given me for the stitches.
According to Ainsley, the houses in Curzon’s neighborhood were built back in the days when middle-class families hired architects who would build-to-suit. We passed cottages and castles, Tudor beside Victorian, and the occasional practical brick bungalow, all on lots big enough to require gardeners. From what I’d heard, the area was mostly interchangeable old-money Protestants and new-money Republicans. Broad lawns and narrow minds, as the saying goes.
Ainsley parked the wagon at the back of a line of cars half a block away. The house was a big faux-French cottage built of yellow midwest limestone. Tall windows. Iron fence. A string of Curzon for Sheriff signs across the yard. And a cement duck dressed in a pumpkin costume.
Jenny took my hand as we wandered toward the front door. As we came around the cubist shrubbery, I could see the garage door and hear the sounds of battle. The Curzon men were engaged in our local blood-sport: man-on-man driveway hoop.
Worth watching.
The sheriff’s face was dripping sweat. The younger guy-I knew he must be related, same coloring-wasn’t as sweaty but blood marked his face, from nose to cheek. In Chicago Land, backyard basketball is nothing like the long-court ballet of the NBA. Whether it’s cement playgrounds with chain nets or blacktop driveways with acrylic backboards, the game is played rough and up under the net-hustle, push, hip-check. Make that elbow connect! Whip the ball around your opponent, bounce once, shoot, grab, twist-do it again. No blood, no foul.
Jenny, Ainsley and I stood there admiring the action for a while.
An older guy with a face that made you think basset hound was watching from the raised bluestone patio that surrounded the house. Waving a crystal highball glass in one hand, he leaned out over the wall to shout at the players, “Come on, you old fart. Can’t you do better than that? That’s it! Ooh, Nicky, you gonna take that?”
The sideline razz didn’t seem to bother the guys too much. Nicky might have youthful speed working for him, but Curzon had experience and attitude. He played like a son of a bitch.
The last shot went into the air and Nicky jumped to block half a second too late. The ball tipped the rim and dunked. Nicky cursed.
“Hey-watch your mouth, you. There’re ladies around,” the old guy snapped.
“Sorry,” Nicky replied automatically. He dropped his hands to his knees, bent over to suck in air.
Curzon looked around, saw Jenny and me, gave Nicky a friendly smack upside the head, and hustled over.
“You’re here,” he said, a little surprised. “You met my father?”
“No. Not yet.”
The old guy stood up and leaned over the wall to shake hands. He had gold wire-rim glasses so thick they magnified those tabby-cat Curzon eyes to new dimensions. His scalp was as ruddy as his droopy face and he wore a short sleeve button-down and ironed shorts. We got through introductions and Nicky went off to clean his bloody nose. Curzon Senior called one of the younger females, just old enough to be equally dazzling to Jenny and Ainsley.
“Tria, sweetheart, show these two where they can get a Coke and a hamburger, eh?”
“Sure, Grandpa.” The girl wore a Notre Dame sweater and a neat French braid. She held out her hand and smiled at Jenny, and it shocked me how easily the kid went for it. “We’re all gonna play touch football as soon as my brother’s done with his food. You want to play?”
“Sure.” Jenny tried hard to sound casual.
Ainsley gave a modest shrug of agreement, and as soon as Tria looked away he shot me a fox-in-the-henhouse eyebrow.
Just like that, I was deserted.
“So, now, tell me about yourself,” Senior said, as he waved a cheerful goodbye to my chaperones. “Jack tells me you make television shows.” It didn’t take me long to realize he thought I was there for non-professional reasons. If I’d have been a guy, he’d have asked what my intentions were regarding the sheriff.
A little crowd congregated around us. Most everyone else at the party was family. Sisters, uncles, cousins, even the grandma was there. Donna, Curzon’s mother, introduced herself. Grandma didn’t bother.
“This the girl you invited, Jack?” White-haired, hawk-nosed and wearing a velour pantsuit, Curzon’s grandma was sharp-of dress, of mind and of tongue. I liked her.
“This is the one, Nana.”
“She’s not as skinny as the other one.” Sounded like that was the nicest thing she could think to say. “Get me an ashtray, would you, Jack? Your father thinks I’m gonna flick my ashes on the patio like a tramp.”
Curzon went inside to find Nana an ashtray.
“You like my Jack?” she asked.