Ed McBain - Downtown

But Connie was rushing him away from the alley.

This was some city, this city.

Here was a man bleeding from a bullet wound in his left arm, the blood staining the sleeve of his overcoat — though admittedly the coat was a dark blue and the blood merely showed on it as a darker purplish stain — being rushed into a taxi by a gorgeous Chinese girl, and nobody on the street batted an eyelash. Michael found this amazing, In Sarasota, if you belched in public, you got a standing ovation.

The cab driver said, “What is that there? Is that blood there?”

“Yes, my husband just got shot,” Connie said.

“Sure, ha-ha,” the cabbie said.

Michael realized she had called him her husband.

He tried the name for size: Mrs. Michael Barnes.

Constance Barnes.

Connie Barnes.

“So what really happened?” the cabbie wanted to know.

“We were walking down the street minding our own business,” Connie said, “when this man came along from the opposite direction with a tiger on a leash.”

“Boy oh boy,” the cabbie said, shaking his head, watching her in the rearview mirror.

“So my husband told him he thought that was against the law, having a tiger on a leash...”

Again.

She’d said it again.

“... and the man said, ‘Sic him!’ ”

“To the tiger?”

“Yes.”

“Sheeesh,” the cabbie said. “What a city, huh?”

“You said it,” Connie said.

“So what’d the tiger do? This musta been a trained tiger, huh?”

“Oh, yes. He jumped on my husband.”

“An attack tiger, huh?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Mauled him, I’ll bet. Your husband.”

“Exactly what happened.”

“Sheeesh,” the cabbie said again. “What was his name?”

“I don’t know. He was a tall, dark man wearing...”

“No, I mean the tiger.”

“Why do I have to know the tiger’s name?”

“So you can report this to the police.”

“I don’t think I heard his name.”

“Then how you gonna identify him? All tigers look alike, you know.”

“I know, but...”

“So you have to know his name, If the police should ask you his name.”

“Well, why would they do that? I mean, I don’t think there are too many tigers on leashes in this city, do you?”

“Who knows? There could be.”

“I mean, have you ever seen a tiger on a leash in this city?”

“I’m just now hearing about one, ain’t I?” the cabbie said.

“His name was Stripe,” Connie said.

Michael was thinking that everybody in this city was crazy.

“That’s a good name for a tiger,” the cabbie said. “So what’s this address on Pell Street? A doctor?”

“No, it’s where I live,” Connie said.

“ ’Cause don’t you think you ought to see a doctor?”

“I want to look at it first.”

“Are you perhaps a doctor, lady?”

“No, but...”

“Then what good is it gonna do, you looking at it?”

“Because if it looks bad, then I can call a doctor.”

“On Christmas Day? This is Christmas Day, lady.”

“I’ll call a Chinese doctor.”

“Do they work on Christmas Day?”

“Yes, if they’re Buddhists.”

“Look, suit yourself, lady,” the cabbie said. “You want a Buddhist doctor, go get a Buddhist doctor.”

He was silent for the rest of the trip to her apartment. Mi-chael guessed he was offended. When they got to Connie’s building, he pocketed the fare and her generous tip, and then said, “Also, they got rabies, you know. Them attack tigers.” Michael himself was beginning to believe he’d really been attacked by a tiger. As he got out of the cab, he looked up and down the street in both directions, to make sure there weren’t any more of them around. He also looked up toward the roof to make sure one of them wasn’t going to jump down into the street from up there. He got a little dizzy looking up. He swayed against Connie, suddenly feeling very weak. But he did not pass out until they were safe inside the apartment.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the doctor said.

He looked like Fu Manchu.

A scarecrow of a man with a long, straggly beard and little rimless eyeglasses. He wasn’t wearing silken robes or anything, he was in fact wearing a dark suit and a white shirt and a tie with mustard stains on it, but there was something about his manner that seemed dynastic. He was bent over Michael, his stethoscope to Michael’s heart. Michael’s shirt was open. He had bled through the bandage Connie had put on his arm before calling the doctor. The sheet under him was stained with blood. The doctor moved the stethoscope. He listened to Michael’s lungs.

“Very good,” he said.

“Yes?” Connie said.

“Yes, the bullet did not go through his lungs.”

“Perhaps because he was shot in the arm,” Connie said respectfully.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the doctor said.

His name was Ling.

He took the bandage off Michael’s arm.

“Mmm, mmm, mmm,” he said.

“Is it bad?” Connie asked.

“Someone shot him in the arm,” Ling said.

“Is the bullet still in there?” Connie asked.

“No, no,” Ling said, “it’s a nice clean wound.”

Good, Michael thought.

“Good,” Connie said.

“You’ll be able to play tennis in a week or so,” Ling said, and chuckled. “Are you left-handed?”

“No.”

“Then you’ll be able to play tennis tomorrow,” he said, and chuckled again.

Michael watched as Ling worked on his arm. He was wondering if he planned on reporting this to the police. He felt certain that reporting gunshot wounds was mandatory.

“How did this happen?” Ling asked.

He was sprinkling what Michael guessed was some kind of sulfa drug on the wound, In the field, you stripped a sulfapak and slapped it on the wound immediately, In the field, people were spitting blood on you while you worked, In the field, everyone got to be a doctor. You lost a lot of patients in the field.

“We were walking down the street minding our own business,” Connie said, “when this man came along from the opposite direction with a gun in his hand.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ling said.

“So Michael said to the man...”

“Excuse me, but is this your husband?” Ling asked.

“Not yet,” Michael said.

Connie looked at him.

Ling looked at them both.

“You must be cautious,” Ling said. “There are many problems in East-West marriages.”

“Like what?” Michael asked.

“Like food, for example,” Ling said.

“But I like Chinese food,” Michael said.

“Exactly,” Ling said.

“I see,” Michael said.

“So what did you say to this man?”

“Which man?”

“The one who shot you.”

“Oh.”

“What he said,” Connie said, “is that he thought it was against the law to be walking down the street with a gun in your hand.”

Not in Florida. Michael thought.

Florida was the Wild West these days.

Though not as much as New York seemed to be.

“So the man shot him,” Connie said.

“Tch, tch, tch,” Ling said.

“Are you going to report this?” Connie asked flatly.

Ling looked at her.

“Are we both Chinese?” he asked.

“I’m only walking wounded,” Michael said. “And walking wounded are allowed to walk.”

Dr. Ling had bandaged his arm neatly and tightly, and it was no longer bleeding and certainly in no danger of becoming infected unless Michael went rolling around in the dirt someplace. Moreover, it hardly hurt at all now, so what he wanted to do...

“No,” Connie said. “What we’re going to do is I’ll go down for some food and we’ll eat here in the apartment and I’ll call Charlie Wong and tell him I’m not feeling good and won’t be able to work tonight. Then you’ll go to bed and get some...”