Burn this City by Aleksandr Voinov
18
The “doc”, or Marty Russo for everybody else, was only half-Italian if you rounded up. Sal himself didn’t rate that requirement too highly; much more important to have the family connections and be aware of the culture, but overall ability counted for a lot in his book. From what Sal understood, Russo had largely joined the Army as a “fuck you” to his family, which hadn’t guaranteed he’d thrive in that environment. Evidently, he hadn’t. And regarding that discharge, Sal had an inkling it had to do with Russo’s at times disturbing interest in and talent regarding pharmaceuticals.
More importantly, the doc had been the friend of a soldier who’d caught a belly full of lead during the War. Said soldier had been lucky since Sal didn’t mind breaking every rule of the road when a guy was bleeding out next to him. It’d been a hellish night anyway, so bad that Sal had simply shut his emotions down. Fortunately, the doc had agreed to meet them minutes later at Sal’s place and did what he could to save that poor bastard’s life. Sal had learned to respect the doc’s coldness under pressure, how his hands never shook while cutting into a writhing body, and how at dawn he’d unwound with a bowl of homemade carbonara right after chasing bullets through what had looked like a hell of a lot of intestine.
Sal waited in the car outside the unassuming house. He’d quartered the doc here in one of his own properties, not far away from the town center so that no landlord would come calling about muffled screams or blood, though of course they’d always tried to keep medical procedures off site.
The door opened and the doc emerged, backpack on one shoulder, a large medic-type bag in one hand. To Sal it looked like a messenger bag with multiple extra pockets. With his paunchy wrestler’s build and muddy brown hair well past his shoulders, the doc looked like a somewhat older student, maybe even faculty, or your average gamer nerd who’d also once upon a time spent a lot of time lifting weights and then given up in favor of a lifestyle involving more weed and chilling.
Sal leaned over and opened the passenger door for him.
“Nice ride!” the doc said. “New?”
“Borrowed.”
He dropped the backpack on the seat behind them, but kept the medic bag between his feet after he’d fallen heavily into the seat, noticeably rocking the car. “You going to give it back?”
“Maybe.” Sal grinned. “Thanks for making time, doc.”
“No problem. Enzo already said you have a tricky customer on your hands.”
“Yep. If there are any issues with your Hippocratic Oath, we’ll pick up a coffee at the drive-through, and I’ll let you out again.”
“Enzo said ‘enhanced interrogation’.”
“That about nails it. Though it’s me who’ll do the interrogation, or, fuck it, call it torture. I gotta break a guy because what’s in his head can save lives.”
The doc didn’t blink at the term. “You’re worried I thought I’d have to get my hands dirty?”
“I don’t know you well enough to know what your lines are. Just saying it’s necessary and I have my reasons, and I need you to keep him alive or bring him back.” Sal had both hands on the wheel, but let the car idle. “Mostly because he can’t check out before I know what I need to know.”
The doc grinned briefly but sobered. “Thanks for checking.”
“Yeah, well.” Sal opened his hands on the wheel and dropped them. “That’s what’s going on.”
“Any conditions I should know about? How hurt is he?”
“He’s not. At least not yet.”
The doc clicked the seat belt in place. “I got all the gear I need. Let’s go.”
They spent the drive back up into the hills with bursts of small talk that didn’t feel forced or awkward. The doc wasn’t the kind of person to chatter away, but was perfectly happy to express an opinion about anything, and ask about how Sal had been doing.
As far as the doc was concerned, a war like this seemed to be mostly a logistical exercise—where to bring the wounded, if any, where he should be when things kicked off, that sort of thing. Overall, he seemed to regard the future with the same mix of anticipation and readiness as if he would watch the progress bar while downloading a game he was keen on playing.
Sal envied him that; as the man who would send the troops into battle, he was much more directly responsible for those who’d end up with the doc’s hands on them, digging for bullets or trying to staunch the bleeding.
Enzo opened the door, looking relaxed.
“Did anything happen?” Sal stepped to the side to let the doc walk past him.
Enzo shook his head. “I didn’t talk to him. He didn’t seem in the mood, either. Any success?”
“Plenty. I found his friend.”
“And?”
“She’s nice.” Sal shrugged with a fair amount of irony. “We had waffles.”
Enzo looked quizzically at him, but Sal left him with that. He’d tell Enzo the whole story when they had the peace and quiet for it. “Let’s get the patient ready.”