Rough Justice Read Free Page A

him under.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œMoving around.”
    â€œJesus.”
    â€œAnd they were all laughing. One of em said … I remember, he said, ‘We’re gonna have to use a compactor. Keep the concrete from sagging when he rots.’ They were laughing.” Now the coughing burst from him. It was damp and deep. He lifted his head off the pillow. His face went purple. The phlegm boiled in his chest.
    â€œYou all right?” I said.
    He kept coughing.
    I got up from the bed. “Frank?”
    D’ Angelo rolled over onto his side. His hand went out toward the call button.
    I rushed to the door. Pushed out into the hall. The nurse’s station was only a few steps away. Several people in white were milling behind the counter.
    â€œHey, we need help here!” I said.
    At once, two people ran around the counter. A nurse in white, a young man—an intern—in blue. I could hear Frank hacking and gasping behind me. The nurse and the intern ran past me. They went to him.
    When I turned back into the room, they were hovering over him.
    â€œYou’ll have to go,” the intern said. He didn’t look up.
    I nodded. I started to turn.
    A hand shot out between the intern and the nurse. A skeletal hand, stretched out toward me. I stopped.
    â€œYou’ll have to go!” the intern ordered.
    But I didn’t go. I walked over and stood beside them. The nurse was holding a mask over Frank’s face. The doctor was giving him some kind of shot. Frank was taking deep, shuddering breaths. His eyes stared and stared at me over the mask.
    He reached up toward me with one hand. With the other, he knocked at the mask weakly.
    â€œWe have to take him downstairs,” the intern said. He looked scared. He must have been twenty-five.
    â€œHe wants to say something,” I said.
    â€œGet out of here,” he said to me. Then he said to the nurse: “Get the resident. We’re gonna have to take him downstairs. Get out of here!” he said to me again.
    The nurse rushed out of the room. The mask was strapped to Frank’s face.
    â€œYou’re going to be okay,” the intern said.
    Frank reached up and took the mask off. His face was slack, his bright eyes dimming.
    â€œPartner …” he said.
    The intern grabbed the mask.
    â€œYeah,” I said. “Yeah. Who was your partner?”
    The intern moved frantically to put the mask back over the dying man’s face. Just before he did, though, Frank D’ Angelo whispered: “Tom Watts.”

2

    At nine sharp the next morning, I walked into the Star’s city room whistling a jolly tune.
    Rafferty, the city editor, raised his grizzled, bullet-shaped head from his computer terminal.
    â€œNice day,” I said.
    Various editors around the long desk froze. They looked up at me.
    I stopped just inside the glass doors. “What?” I said.
    Rafferty’s imperturbable voice squeezed out between his unmoving lips. “Nice day?”
    â€œYeah.” The editors stared at me. “You know: blue skies, singing birds.”
    â€œYou actually heard these birds?”
    â€œWell, no, but—it’s spring. There must be birds.” I stared back at them. “I mean, it’s May. New York is at its best in May.”
    â€œParis is at its best in May,” muttered Jones, a wire editor. “It’s Autumn in New York.”
    â€œHas all the thrill of first nighting,” Rafferty said.
    â€œOh. Yeah. Well, anyway …” I stuck a cigarette between my teeth. Lit it. I jogged my eyebrows over the smoke. “It’s still a nice day.”
    â€œAll right,” Rafferty muttered. “All right, what have you got? In a word or less.”
    â€œIn a word or less? Watts,” I said.
    The editors standing around the desk permitted themselves a soft murmur.
    Even Rafferty almost reacted. “You got Watts?” he said.
    â€œI got lots of Watts. I got