“Max?” I can hear the tears in her voice on just that one word.
“Girlie, I’m here. Where’s Logan? Is he okay? Are you okay?”
“He’s hurt. Rick went crazy and punched him in the head—” Her voice breaks and I nearly tear all my hair out. Logan was hit in the head with a fire extinguisher two months ago tracking down a drug dealer. Motherfucker nearly killed him. Things Logan doesn’t need is anyone punching him in the head.
“Where are you, Em?”
“East Fourteenth Urgent Care. They’re doing tests. I’ll call you when they release him. You’ll come to the house, right?”
“Yes, girlie, I’ll come. You tell me when and I’ll be there.”
“Okay. Thank you, Max.”
“You’re welcome. Emmy, are you sure you don’t want me to come now? It’s not far.”
“No, it’s okay. Jiro, Laurel, and DirtyGurl are here with me. I promise I’ll call as soon as they tell me we can go home.”
“Okay. Okay, sweets. Anything changes, you call me.”
She’s still crying but her voice is solid when she says goodbye. I don’t say goodbye, just wait for her to hang up.
When she does, I throw myself at the speed bag hanging from the lip of my loft and hammer it until I’m panting, sweating, and my knuckles are howling. I take a quick shower, dress, and pack enough stuff for an overnight into a backpack. Then I download everything I’ve found on Gloria Evonne Wilson onto a pen drive, put a laptop, tablet, a couple of my phones and chargers into my bag, and wait for Emily’s call.
By the time Emily sends me a text that they’re heading home, I’ve hacked into the medical records database for East Fourteenth Street’s Urgent Care clinic and am looking through Logan’s X-rays. Do I know what I’m looking at? No, but looking makes me feel better.
The admitting doctor’s already typed up his notes, indicating there’s no sign of concussion or further damage to Logan’s brain,but he ordered the X-rays, so he can’t have been that sanguine. The specialist the X-rays have been sent to hasn’t entered his notes yet, but he did give the all-clear for Logan to be released. Logan’s been treated for a superficial cut on his face, but I’m not worried about his face. I’m worried about more damage to his fucking brain.
I reply to Emily’s text to tell her I’m on my way and tap up an Uber. It’s not that far to Logan’s but I’m carrying a bunch of expensive gear and it’s already past midnight. I’m not roaming around the East Village carrying thirty grand of electronics in the middle of the night. It’s not a question of whether I can defend myself; I can. It’s a question of risk-taking, and I guess I’m too old now to take stupid risks. Particularly not for the sake of a couple bucks.
Logan’s given me keyless entry to his townhouse, and if he hadn’t, I could use the back door I built into his house security to pop the front door lock. But because the people inside the townhouse have already had a hell of a night, I ring the bell and wait for Emily to answer the door.
Her hazel eyes are huge and a little red when she opens the door but, otherwise, she looks okay. She’s wearing blue and white shortie pajamas and when she turns to lead me into the house after I take off my shoes, because Logan has a major thing about shoes in the house, I see the floppy ears and big eyes on the hood of her PJs. She’s wearing Stitch pajamas, and they’re so cute that I set down the bag I’m carrying to catch her up in a hug.
“I looked at the medical records. He’s going to be okay,” I tell her.
She gives me a hard hug back. “That’s what the doctor said but I’m so worried about him, Max. He can’t keep taking hits to the head like this.”
“I know. I won’t let him put himself on the line again.”
She steps back and looks up at me tearily. “How can you stop it? There’s no way anyone could have anticipated what happened tonight. I couldn’t believe it even after Rick took the first swing at him.”
“I’ve got some ideas. I’ll talk to him and see what we can come up with. Trust me, okay?”
She nods and gives me a less strained smile than when she opened the door.
I grab my bag and follow her. Logan’s old townhouse hasn’t been modernized except for knocking the living room into the dining room and kitchen to create a huge, L-shaped great room. The windows at the front look out onto East Second Street. The French doors at the back open into the small, walled backyard where Logan frequently holds barbeques. The furniture is minimal but not in a trendy way. It’s old and sturdy. There just isn’t much of it, probably because Logan became as adverse to clutter while living aboard ship as I did. Logan’s recently added some area rugs and I’ve seen first-hand that’s because Emily spends a lot of her time on her knees. There’s even a huge Berber rug under the dining room table that six people are sitting around and although I haven’t yet seen it, I’m guessing Emily sometimes kneels at Logan’s feet while they eat.
Heat flushes through me at the thought and I focus on my injured friend to keep from popping entirely-unwelcome wood.
Logan’s cheek is bandaged and heavy bruises decorate his jaw. He’s got the beginnings of a black eye. He still looks a hell of a lot better than he did when he first arrived home from San Diego with all that terrifying bandaging around his head and eyes so deeply bruised he looked like he was wearing a Day of the Dead mask. But these fresh injuries knot my gut. I hacked his medical records from his treatment at Scripps La Jolla; I know how close we came to losing him.
That makes my hug, when I put my bag down again and wrap my arms around him, extra hard and extra-long.
Logan hugs me back. He’s never been afraid to show affection. Before I finally release him, I say, “You gotta stop doing this, man. You’re gonna give me a coronary.”
Logan slaps me on the back. “Like I did it on purpose, you tosser. Sorry I ignored your calls.”
“I found Glory’s Ohio driver’s license from before her marriage and divorce. Gloria Griffiths was born Gloria Evonne Wilson,” I tell him. “Can’t be a coincidence.
