Liberty City knew as White Flight looked vaguely happy, a smile playing on the small part of his face not covered by bandages. He was on some good painkiller dope, propped up on pillows, plugged into saline and blood drips and hooked into a monitor.
‘He may fall to sleep when you talk to him. Don’t worry. It’s nothing personal. It’s the painkillers,’ the nurse said. Twenty-something Latina called Zulay Garcia. Petite, dark hair, dark eyes. Married or engaged, judging from the tan line around her ring finger.
Max was merely noticing, not lining up. She was way too young for him – like almost every great-looking woman in Miami.
‘Mr Flight? This is a policeman. He wants to talk about what happen to you. I give you paper and pencil. You just write what you can, OK?’
White Flight nodded slowly, his good eye on Max, twinkling.
Max hadn’t identified himself as a cop. He’d just acted the part from the moment he turned up at Jackson Memorial and asked to see the victim. It hadn’t exactly been a stretch. He still had the bearing, the imperious swagger, the stare that overstayed, the procedural, box-ticking diction and the officious, inflexible tone. He was so good at being his old self he didn’t need a badge or a gun to gain leverage.
Nurse Garcia sat next to White Flight holding the pencil in his hand and resting it on the pad.
‘Did you see the person who shot you?’
White Flight gurgled and gasped, his eye straining in its socket, the smile, though, still eerily plastered there.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ the nurse implored him gently but firmly. ‘Write down.’
Max watched as White Flight slowly scratched a single, shaky letter on the page, each element of the letter taking an eternity to form.
A big capital Y.
‘Male or female?’
The heart monitor began beeping a little faster as the patient started gurgling again and thrashed his legs.
‘Please.’ Nurse Garcia laid a hand on White Flight’s chest. ‘No get angry. Help this man so he help you.’
White Flight snorted derisively before he resumed his slow, scraping writing.
M.
‘Was he black or white?’
B, written like half a figure 8, the back missing.
‘Anything else you can tell me about him? Did you see his face?’
White Flight wrote N.
‘What about the car he was driving? Do you remember the colour?’
B R.
‘Brown?’
He circled the Y.
‘Do you know the make of the car?’
The N was circled this time.
‘Did the man who shot you get out of the car?’
N ringed again.
‘How many people in the car?’
The patient wrote 2.
‘Two? Are you sure?’
He looped the Y.
The shooter had an accomplice.
‘Was the man who shot you driving the car?’
N.
‘Did you see the driver?’
Y.
‘Male or female?’
?
‘You don’t know?’
White Flight circled the question mark, then wrote Y.
‘Was the driver black or white?’
W.
‘Anything else you remember about the man who shot you? Did you see his face?’
White Flight wrote two words.
HAREMOUTH.
‘He had a moustache?’
A third ring around N, and another around HARE.
‘He had a hare lip?’
Y.
A solid lead.
But White Flight hadn’t finished writing.
Max waited.
The heart monitor’s beeping quickened again as the pencil scraped across the paper.
Two more words.
BIRDSHIRT.
‘The gunman had birds on his shirt?’
White Flight nodded.
‘Thank you very much, sir. You’ve been very helpful. I wish you a speedy recovery.’
White Flight snorted again.
Nurse Garcia walked Max out of the room and down the corridor.
‘What’s going to happen to him when he gets out?’ Max asked her.
‘No insurance. No family. No social security number. What you think?’ she said. ‘When he can walk, they put him back out on the street. That’s the way it is in this country. You no interested in people who fall through the cracks.’
‘Where are you from, originally?’
‘Cuba.’
‘I see,’ said Max. ‘And people don’t fall through the
‘He may fall to sleep when you talk to him. Don’t worry. It’s nothing personal. It’s the painkillers,’ the nurse said. Twenty-something Latina called Zulay Garcia. Petite, dark hair, dark eyes. Married or engaged, judging from the tan line around her ring finger.
Max was merely noticing, not lining up. She was way too young for him – like almost every great-looking woman in Miami.
‘Mr Flight? This is a policeman. He wants to talk about what happen to you. I give you paper and pencil. You just write what you can, OK?’
White Flight nodded slowly, his good eye on Max, twinkling.
Max hadn’t identified himself as a cop. He’d just acted the part from the moment he turned up at Jackson Memorial and asked to see the victim. It hadn’t exactly been a stretch. He still had the bearing, the imperious swagger, the stare that overstayed, the procedural, box-ticking diction and the officious, inflexible tone. He was so good at being his old self he didn’t need a badge or a gun to gain leverage.
Nurse Garcia sat next to White Flight holding the pencil in his hand and resting it on the pad.
‘Did you see the person who shot you?’
White Flight gurgled and gasped, his eye straining in its socket, the smile, though, still eerily plastered there.
‘Don’t try to talk,’ the nurse implored him gently but firmly. ‘Write down.’
Max watched as White Flight slowly scratched a single, shaky letter on the page, each element of the letter taking an eternity to form.
A big capital Y.
‘Male or female?’
The heart monitor began beeping a little faster as the patient started gurgling again and thrashed his legs.
‘Please.’ Nurse Garcia laid a hand on White Flight’s chest. ‘No get angry. Help this man so he help you.’
White Flight snorted derisively before he resumed his slow, scraping writing.
M.
‘Was he black or white?’
B, written like half a figure 8, the back missing.
‘Anything else you can tell me about him? Did you see his face?’
White Flight wrote N.
‘What about the car he was driving? Do you remember the colour?’
B R.
‘Brown?’
He circled the Y.
‘Do you know the make of the car?’
The N was circled this time.
‘Did the man who shot you get out of the car?’
N ringed again.
‘How many people in the car?’
The patient wrote 2.
‘Two? Are you sure?’
He looped the Y.
The shooter had an accomplice.
‘Was the man who shot you driving the car?’
N.
‘Did you see the driver?’
Y.
‘Male or female?’
?
‘You don’t know?’
White Flight circled the question mark, then wrote Y.
‘Was the driver black or white?’
W.
‘Anything else you remember about the man who shot you? Did you see his face?’
White Flight wrote two words.
HAREMOUTH.
‘He had a moustache?’
A third ring around N, and another around HARE.
‘He had a hare lip?’
Y.
A solid lead.
But White Flight hadn’t finished writing.
Max waited.
The heart monitor’s beeping quickened again as the pencil scraped across the paper.
Two more words.
BIRDSHIRT.
‘The gunman had birds on his shirt?’
White Flight nodded.
‘Thank you very much, sir. You’ve been very helpful. I wish you a speedy recovery.’
White Flight snorted again.
Nurse Garcia walked Max out of the room and down the corridor.
‘What’s going to happen to him when he gets out?’ Max asked her.
‘No insurance. No family. No social security number. What you think?’ she said. ‘When he can walk, they put him back out on the street. That’s the way it is in this country. You no interested in people who fall through the cracks.’
‘Where are you from, originally?’
‘Cuba.’
‘I see,’ said Max. ‘And people don’t fall through the
Similar Books
