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Aces and Eights
by Harvey Smith
Though at the time I thought I knew him fairly well, it was not until after graduation that I found out that there was more to my friend than devilish charm and a fondness for rugged environs.
I had accepted a job offer from a State Park in Texas and was in the process of packing my personal belongings, sending back my rental furniture, et cetera, when I heard a quasi-knock on my front door. It was not a healthy, hearty knock, but rather a sort of a dull thump. At the door, I peeped through the little glass tube installed there. And saw nothing. Curious (and a hell of a lot less cautious than I would be today), I opened the door.
Lying on my welcome mat, doubled over, was Luke, bleeding from many separate wounds; abrasions, punctures, lacerations�you name it, he had it. I leaned down, trying to recall everything I knew about first aid.
Luke looked up at me, his face twisted with pain. "Inside," he said through clenched teeth. I started to say something along the lines of, �You should probably keep still,� but then he gave me a look that was frightening in its intensity.
"Now," he hissed. It sounded strangely like an order.
Shaken, confused and concerned, I took hold of him under his arms and dragged him backwards into my apartment. I left him in the middle of the living room and began searching throughout the cluttered room for my cordless phone.
"The door," he called out hoarsely. "�close it."
Suddenly, I realized that whoever had ventilated Luke might still be outside, looking for him, hoping to finish the job. Once this idea took hold of my thoughts, his demanding tone made more sense. I crossed the room, looked outside and, for good measure, flipped the bloody mat upside down. Then I closed and locked the door. After that, I located the phone and was about to use it, when Luke made another strange request.
"No hospital, no doctors," he said.
I was about to call anyway, chalking up Luke's weird behavior to delirium, when I saw that he gripped a small, semi-automatic pistol in his left hand.
"Dammit, Nigel; no doctors!"
"Put that thing away." I gestured toward the gun, irritated that he would pull such a stunt. "Why won't you let me call an ambulance?" I asked. "You obviously need help."
"No," he said, weaker this time, "I have reasons. Damned good ones." His head drooped slightly. "Just try to bandage me up�stop the bleeding. I'll live." He looked up at me, locking onto my gaze and holding it for a second. Then he laid the pistol down on the coffee table.
Without pause, I dashed into the bathroom, thankful that I had put it at the bottom of the packing list. I gathered up a bundle of towels, a first aid kit and a half empty bottle of aspirin, then headed back into the living room. Luke was lying stretched out, apparently unconscious. I glanced momentarily at the phone, but pushed the thought aside and knelt down. Removing his jacket and ripping away his shirt, I began patching holes.
* * * * *
Luke was out for just about twelve hours. When he awoke, his condition seemed to have improved. He even redressed his wounds, far better than I had. It seemed that he had some familiarity with the practice. He spent the following day lying around my apartment, recovering, and asking me repeatedly to check the windows for any would-be intruders. There were none, and when he seemed strong enough to talk without passing out, I felt that it was time for my enlightenment.
"Okay, Luke," I said on the second day of his recuperation, "How about an explanation? I think this case warrants one."
He said nothing, filling the space with several mouthfuls of tuna fish sandwich.
"Don't tell me you expect the silence routine to work. You know me better than that."
He put his sandwich down and looked at me, considering. Though he was in less than perfect shape, there was a sparkle in his eyes. "Would you believe that I was mugged?"
"No," I said, "because, for starters, you're a big guy and most muggers pick easy targets. Secondly, you were armed. You even had an extra clip in your jacket pocket. Then there's the fact that your wallet wasn't missing; I checked when I stripped you and put you in bed. Also, you had slash marks over about sixty percent of your body, not the calling card of your typical take-the-money-and-run mugger. So, in answer to your question, no, I wouldn't believe that you were mugged."
He sighed�an uncommon mannerism for Luke�and said, "I didn't think so. Well, this could get complicated, but�"
Suddenly, the phone rang.
Aces and Eights 3