Hardcore Twenty-Four (Stephanie Plum 24)

“Well, that’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Lula said. “We’ve all been there.”

Johnny was in a white-faced cold sweat. “Am I going to die?” he asked.

“Eventually, but not today,” I told him. “You shot yourself in the foot. That’s not usually fatal.”

Ten minutes later the street was filled with first, second, and third responders. Johnny was strapped onto an EMT stretcher and rolled into the ambulance for the three-minute drive to St. Francis Medical Center. I rode with Johnny, and Lula took my car back to the office.

Johnny was admitted through the ER, and whisked away to prep for surgery, such as it was. If there were a lot of bones involved they might take him upstairs. Otherwise, the bullet would be removed down here, he’d get a shot of antibiotic, his foot would get bundled, and he’d get turned over to me. You wouldn’t want to have brain surgery done at St. Francis, but you were in good hands with a gunshot. Emergency had lots of experience removing bullets.

It was actually a good time of day to get shot. Not a lot was going on in emergency, so the wait time for attention wasn’t bad. If he’d gotten shot at eleven at night he’d have to take a ticket and get in line.

After a half hour, I went back to check on Johnny. He was on an ER bed in one of the little draped cubicles. His shoe had been removed and his pants leg cut off at the knee. His foot was elevated and packed in ice.

“What’s going on?” I asked him.

“I’m waiting for X-rays.”

An ER doctor showed up and looked at the foot.

“Doesn’t look terrible,” he said.

“How long before he’s discharged?” I asked.

“Are you his wife?”

“I’m a bail bonds apprehension agent, and he’s a fugitive. When you’re done with him he’ll either be transferred upstairs to the lockup, or I’ll take him downtown to the police station.”

“I doubt he’ll need to be hospitalized. His vitals are all okay, and I should be able to do this procedure under local anesthesia. With luck, he’ll be out of here in a couple hours.”

I returned to the waiting room and read all the magazines. I read my email. I spent time on Facebook. I got candy out of the vending machine and told myself it was lunch.

It was almost one o’clock when Johnny got rolled out of the back in a wheelchair. He was holding crutches and his discharge papers. He had a massive bandage around his foot, and he looked exhausted.

There was no way I could turn him in to the police. He looked pathetic.

“Is there someplace you can go for the night?” I asked him. “Your parents’ house? One of your brothers’?”

“I thought I was going to jail.”

“I can’t take you in like this. They’ll take your pain pills away, and you can’t walk. I’ll give you a couple nights to recover, but you have to promise not to leave the Burg.”

“I promise. I guess I could stay with my parents.”

“Great.”

I called Lula and told her I needed a ride. Five minutes later she drove her red Firebird into the pick-up area just outside the ER. I helped Johnny into the back seat, handed him his crutches, and turned the wheelchair over to an aide.

“Are we going to the police station?” Lula asked.

“No,” I said. “I’m going to let him stay with his parents for a couple nights.”

Lula looked back at Johnny. “That’s probably not smart, but it’s nice. He looks done in.”

She drove to the elder Chuccis’ house, I helped Johnny to the door, and his mom took him in. She didn’t look happy. Couldn’t blame her.

“Where are we going now?” Lula asked.

“I should be looking for Slick, but I don’t know where to begin.”