Weecho: First Shots

Chapter 26 - Patchwork & Leverage

He had to get this hole in his shoulder plugged. Couldn’t pop into the nearest emergency room, gunshot wounds a magnet for cops. Not that there was an ER out here in the middle of the bay anyway. 

So back to Nina Galleon’s bungalow on stilts.  

He stood on shore with the puppy, where he’d stood with Juna before, checking the place out. Didn’t have to worry about being seen – everybody was on the other side of town, watching the Petoria fire. Flames glowing against the black sky over there – the whole place probably blazing by now, including the office with the fragmentation bomb, him hoping it wouldn’t blow and hurt somebody. Should’ve taken it with him, dump it in the water or use it for something else later. 

He knew Lynch had taken off in his Donzi, could see he hadn’t driven it here, wasn’t tied up under the deck. So now all he had to do was get inside the house. 

No climbing the roof with his shoulder like this. And it was high-tide, so no wading out to the floating dock (could just make out the Jet Ski tied up where he’d left it). 

He went out onto the plank walkway, puppy at his heels, stopped at the front door and looked around. Where would somebody hide a key? Managed to climb up and stand on the rail, steadying himself against the house. Reached up with his good hand and started poking around the shingles, feeling for a loose one when the door flew open. 

“What are you doing up there?” 

The puppy started barking, Weecho almost fell, caught himself with a yelp of pain. 

Juna came out and looked up at him, looked at the dog. 

“You gotta be kidding,” she said. “Why’d you have to come here?” 

Before he could say anything, his knees went rubbery. Vision tunneling, things starting to spin, about to black out from the wound. Juna grabbed his leg and pulled him back just when he was about to take a header. Second time tonight. 

“What the hell’s wrong?” she said, catching him as he collapsed. 

Then she saw the blood. 

“Jesus, get inside.”  

                                                #          #          # 

Juna had the touch of a saddle stitcher, or at least that’s how it felt. She’d found a sewing kit in Nina Galleon’s dresser, was drawing a needle through the torn skin on Weecho’s shoulder, closing the gunshot hole. This after she’d cleaned it out with peroxide, and then poured in most of a bottle of iodine, perking Weecho right up. 

“This should be looked at,” she said, “pass-through or not.” 

They were in the bungalow’s tight little living room, Juna perched on a corner of the coffee table, working by candlelight and the light from the fish tank. Weecho, shirt off, was slumped on the edge of the sofa. The puppy was next to him, watching it all. 

“You’re doing fine,” Weecho said, jerked when she took another stitch. 

The bullet had gone all the way through the fleshy part of his shoulder. 

“Have a drink,” Juna said. 

He reached for the bottle of tequila she’d found in the kitchen, poured himself half a glass. Tossed back most of it, felt his throat burn, eyes water, coughed most of it back up.     

“Hold still,” Juna said. 

He took a couple of breaths, raspy.    

“So why are you here?” he said.