Page 69 of Que Será, Syrah

“I do,” the amateur videographer tells me. “It’s Charlie.”

Charlie? Yeah, I don’t think so. “Last name?”

“Rogers,” Allegra supplies.

I do a double take, but she seems serious. Mr. Rogers? Ohh-kay. I think that’s even worse. “Charles? This is Deputy Romero. You’ve had a slight accident. If you understand what I’m saying, squeeze my hand.” A slight frown creases the man’s forehead, but his eyes remain closed. And even though I’m sure he can hear me, his hand remains lax.

“No,” my informant corrects me. “Not Charles. Good heavens, you’ll never get him to answer to that. I told you; it’s Charlie.”

I mentally shake my head. Charlie Rogers? And I thought I had it bad. Bruh, your parents hated you, didn’t they?

“Ma’am? What’s your relationship to…to Mr. Rogers?”

A thread of startled laughter weaves its way through the crowd of bikers. “She’s his neighbor,” someone shouts.

The woman in question scowls. “No, I’m not. I’m his sister.”

“Okay, well, do you want to come over here and try talking to your brother? He might respond more readily to a familiar voice.”

She shuffles a few steps closer, reluctantly. She prods his ankle with her foot and says, “Charlie? Cut it out. You’re making a scene.” When there’s (shockingly) still no reply she turns to me. “What now?”

“Try again,” I instruct. “Just talk to him as you normally would.”

“Get up, you old coot,” she says, prodding his ankle once again. If she prods any harder, I’ll have to call it a kick—and book her for assault. “You’re making us late. We’re gonna miss the whole tour.”

The surrounding crowd murmurs menacingly at the reminder. Charlie groans theatrically and blinks his eyes open. “Elaine? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” his sister replies. “Who else would it be?”

“Where am I?”

“Flat on your back in the middle of the road,” Elaine tells him.

“Holding the rest of us up,” someone else calls out.

“Sir?” I say, trying again. “You fell off your bicycle. How are you feeling now? Does anything hurt?”

“My arm,” he replies instantly, lifting said limb, and holding it out for my inspection. “I think it’s broken.”

Considering the ease with which he’s moving it, I very much doubt that his arm is broken. But I check it out all the same. “I think it’s just bruised,” I finally say.

“Like my ego,” Charlie intones mournfully.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Elaine grumbles. “You’re not hurt. Get up!”

“Actually,” I tell her. “Since the ambulance is already on its way, I think it’s best if he stays where he is for now.”

Elaine’s mouth drops open. “An ambulance! Who called for that?”

“And how long is it gonna take to get here?” someone else inquires.

“Should be no more than twenty minutes,” I reply in an effort to pacify the crowd, but they continue to grumble all the same. “And I called for it.”

“But that’s… Grr!” Elaine growls and kicks her brother’s foot again. “Damn it, Charlie. Now look what you’ve done.”

“Ma’am,” I say sharply. “Please stop that.”

“You’re a terrible sister,” Charlie says tearfully, as he rocks his head from side to side. “All you care about is getting drunk. I’m nothing but a mule to you, aren’t I?”

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