Chapter 28

August 6-11, 1996

The next week was a kaleidoscope of images and snippets as I was drugged into various states of semiconsciousness. Ronnie fighting his way into the emergency room, arguing with a nurse about the definition of family, a doctor trying to explain my injuries to me. John showing up and putting them into English: broken bones in my shoulder, mostly the ones that had been shattered years ago, I'd need surgery—old screws out, new screws in. Much less important, a sprained wrist, a badly bruised ankle and foot, general bruising and abrasions, a possible—probable concussion.

After hours in the ER, I was moved to a room. That first evening—or maybe the next, I have a sliver of a memory—Lydia showing up in a red satin evening dress, her hair swooped over one eye. The movie premiere she'd mentioned ages ago was that night. I never realized before, but she looked like Ava Gardner. I can't tell you if we talked about that or not. In fact, I don't remember anything we talked about. There was concern on her face, though. I remember that.

The surgery happened, early in the morning the second day I was in the hospital and things became even more disjointed. I spent a good portion of that day uncomfortably, lying face down. Eventually, back in my hospital room I was allowed to gingerly lie on my side. It wasn't much better.

Ronnie was there whenever I woke up. One time Junior was there too, with a gigantic bouquet that made me wonder how he afforded it. A uniformed police officer showed up, traffic, but I was too out of it to talk to him. They got me up the day after surgery and made me walk up and down the hallway.

I was still being given a lot of morphine on Thursday when two detectives from the Long Beach Police Department showed up. Old school White guys, older than me. One fat and one skinny, they both looked like they needed a cigarette just to get through a conversation. The fat one was Swanson and the skinny one Forsyth. I was struggling to understand why we'd gone from a traffic cop to detectives without my saying anything.

"We need a statement from you, as much as you can remember," Swanson said with over-practiced kindness.

I went with the obvious, "Sammy Blanchard tried to kill me."

"Yeah, that's what your boss says. Your coworker, Karen Addison saw the crash happen. She ran out and got the first two numbers off the plate."

"What do you remember?" Forsyth asked.

"I was on my cellular phone talking with my partner, and then she was coming at me."

"You saw her behind the wheel?"

"I did."

They looked at each other.

"Is she trying to say her car was stolen?" I asked.

A couple of nods, then Swanson said, "She reported it stolen about an hour later."

"We accused her of murder that morning. I'd say it's quite a coincidence that someone stole her car and then ran me down with it."

"How about you answer the questions and we'll draw the conclusions," Swanson said.

"Is there something else you need to know?"

"Why you?"

"She doesn't like me."

"And why would that be?"

"Because I figured out she killed someone twenty years ago. It tends to turn people against you."

"All right, thank you," Forsyth said.

They looked like they were about to leave. "Are you arresting her? Or do I have to look over my shoulder forever?"

"She's already in custody."

"Thank you."

Without another word, they left. Then it was time for another pill and I forgot about them altogether. I forgot about everything altogether.

Around dinner time, Ronnie showed up with The Press-Telegram. He set it on the moveable tray with my dinner. "You're a star."

"What? I'm in the newspaper?"

"‘Long Beach Man Mowed Down In Hit And Run.'"

"They don't use my name?"

"Not in the headline. The lede is, ‘An investigator for The Freedom Agenda, Dominick Reilly (44), was struck in a hit-and-run accident by a late model Chevrolet Camaro across the street from their offices. A suspect is in custody.'"

"Fuck," I said.

"It'll be fine," Ronnie said. But he had no idea. I didn't like the attention. I didn't want anyone looking too closely at Dominick Reilly. Yes, I had a story I told people about my life. What I didn't have was documentation. What little documentation there was only went back to around eighty-nine.

The real Dom Reilly disappeared in 1982. I imagine there was documentation on his life. Given that he was peripheral to organized crime in Detroit he might have an arrest record. All I had was a Michigan Certificate of Live Birth that gave me date of birth, the names of his parents and their ages.

I'd once gone there for a long weekend and learned a few things about him—me. The real Dom Reilly dropped out of Murray-Wright high school at sixteen. He worked as a dishwasher in an Italian restaurant called Louisa's, working his way up the ladder until he was running the place in the mid-seventies. Word on the street was there was gambling in the basement and money laundered through the till.

Given that I was trying to go unnoticed, I didn't ask too many questions about what it was he might have done wrong to get himself killed. Perhaps disappeared is a better word since he was never found.

Of course, I'd never explained any of that to Ronnie who was under the impression Nick Nowak was my fake identity and Dom Reilly my real one.

"You're right. It'll be fine," I said. It probably would be fine. Dom Reilly disappeared several years before Nick Nowak. Logically, I didn't think anyone was looking for either one of them. I was safe. I just had to make myself believe it.

On Friday, Edwin Karpinski showed up. Alone, which was not surprising. His brother didn't seem like the empathetic type. And it was a long drive.

We spent a nearly impolite amount of time talking about my health before he asked, "When do you think you'll be able to get back to work?"

"Soon," I said. The doctor had said I'd be recovering for six weeks, but I wasn't going to tell Karpinski—or anyone—that. And, in the scheme of things, six weeks was soon, right?

"Is your mother anxious?"

"Yes. That makes John anxious, which is more troublesome."

"Is anyone going to tell your mother that her brother is gay?"

"We don't have any plans to do that."

That struck me as odd, Sheila seemed reasonable enough. I didn't see what possible difference it could make at this point. But then, I had no idea what went on in the background. For all I really knew Sheila was a rabid homophobe addicted to talk radio.

"I'm going to need to see Patrick again. Without your mother."

"We can arrange that when you're better."

"I'm fairly certain that Vera had a girlfriend named Gigi who was married. I think it was Gigi's husband who killed her. It's possible Patrick might be able to tell us who Gigi was."

"I'll leave your name at the front desk at the home. You can go whenever you're ready."

He stood up, as though he was about to leave, so I said, "Oh, yeah… My partner is interested in purchasing Patrick's things you have in storage. He's offering ten thousand dollars."

Edwin stared at me a minute. He nodded, "I'll talk to my brother about that."

"Let me give you Ronnie's number. If you decide to do it, just call him directly."

If he called me after they'd given me a pill, I'd never remember. He felt through his pockets and found a pen and an old receipt. I gave him Ronnie's number. I imagined he must have a cellular phone somewhere. He must have forgotten it. Or maybe he still had a car phone.

Saturday morning they put me in a wheelchair, gave me a prescription for another three days of pain medication with the instruction to take Tylenol afterward, and wheeled me downstairs where Ronnie and Junior were waiting with the Legend. The orderly helped me get in. It was only a little painful. They had to hook the seatbelt up for me. I couldn't make that kind of move.

I was taking very focused, deep breaths. All we had to do was drive home, which would take about ten minutes, maybe fifteen, and once we got there all I had to do was limp into the house and then go straight to the couch.

"I'm going to be on the couch, right? I don't have to go upstairs, do I?" I asked once we'd closed all the doors.

"We'll start you on the couch," Ronnie said. "You'll need to go upstairs eventually. The bathroom's up there."

"Okay."

Junior was in the backseat. As we pulled out of the parking lot, he said, "I rented a stack of videos for you. You're going to be thoroughly entertained. There's nothing on television though… I can't wait until they start the new season of Melrose Place. Just a suggestion dear, but next time get run over in September."

"Premature attempted murder," I mumbled, loud enough for Ronnie to hear. He chuckled as he pulled into traffic.

Junior ignored us and kept chattering, "John had us get you prune juice and bran flakes."

"Am I ninety?"

"No darling," Junior said. "The pain medication you're on acts like a cork."

"I don't want to be having this conversation." I decided to change the subject. "What's going on in the world? What have I missed."

"Your newspapers are stacked by the front door. Nobody touched them. Today's headline said Dole picked his running mate, someone named Kemp. It's like Dull and Duller. Who wants to see that?"

"I'm glad you're taking an interest in politics."

"I like Clinton. A man who can't keep his dick in his pants is always fascinating."

"I doubt Hillary shares your enthusiasm."

"I have the feeling, while the cat's away the mice are running everything."

"Maybe you could get a job as a political commentator."

Before Junior could answer, Ronnie said, "I'm going to drop you off and go show a house. I'll be back by five and we'll walk around the block."

"Yeah, not today," I said. Somehow sitting there in the passenger's seat felt like too much exertion.

"Doctor's orders," Ronnie said.

"Doctor or John?"

"Same thing."

Sunday morning, Lydia came by with some fabulous donuts and a latte for me. I was cocooned on the sofa, and she sat in one of the orange chairs.

"I have news. Larry Wilkes will be out of prison by the end of the week."

"You finished your writ and got it filed?"

"No, I was a little distracted last week. There was a proffer. Sammy Blanchard has offered to confess to Pete Michaels murder in exchange for a lighter sentence."

"How light?"

"Manslaughter."

"What is that, ten years?"

"Yes."

"She'll be out in five."

"Probably."

"And the attempted murder… Which would be first degree by the way. She sat there for hours waiting for me to come out."

"She'll plead guilty to that as well." The way she said it I knew it wasn't as good as it sounded. "Sentence to be served concurrently."

"So, five years for two class A felonies."

"She was an abused teenager when she killed Pete Michaels. Nobody wants to put that in front of a jury."

"Do they have to be lumped together? Do I have anything to say about it?"

"You'll be able express an opinion."

"Which they won't listen to."

"Dom, it's not a bad thing if there's no trial. Is it? Do you want to testify? Do you want the scrutiny?"

That was the real issue; I knew it, and she knew it. Scrutiny was the last thing I wanted. Now I wondered if she had a hand in this. Was she protecting me?

"You're right," I said. "I don't want the scrutiny. They can do what they want as long we get Larry out of prison."

"It's a win for our side," she said. Though, honestly, it didn't feel that way.