The Djinn (27 page)

What he was
doing in New York City, I had no idea. And how he’d landed himself in a
hospital suite was an even bigger mystery. Standing an easy six and a half feet
tall and build like the Colossus of Rhodes, he’d make even the meanest of
street gang punk think twice before attempting something stupid against him.
But in this city, it was the only thing I could think of.

His text
message had been cryptic to say the least: IN NYC-PRESB HOSPITAL. NEED YOUR
HELP. It’s all it said.
Leaving my over-active imagination to
concoct a whole diorama of possible scenarios.
Seeing as how
NYC-Presbyterian was a teaching hospital, housing one of the finest trauma
units in the country, I had quickly dismissed any notion that he was here for a
more “mundane” reason.

I grasped the
door handle and prepared for the worst. Turning it, I took a breath, and
stepped into the room.

Though it was
semi-private, the only bed that was occupied contained the obviously battered
form of my childhood friend. He’d definitely seen better days. The lumps,
bruises, and lacerations covering most of his body made my recent injuries look
like a playground brawl.

His right arm
was slung up in a harness hovering above his bed, encased in a stiff fiberglass
cast. Enough bandages to enshroud an Egyptian mummy adorned his head, left arm,
and both legs. His left hand clutched the TV remote control as he cycled through
channels like he’d forgotten to pay his cable bill and was waiting for them to
shut it off.

When he noticed
me standing in the room, he stopped his surfing and grinned brightly at me.

“Boomer!” he
said, using his old nickname for me—don’t ask where it came from. But anyone
who knew me long enough quickly learned that using my given name was anathema
to me.
 
My parents had thought they were
being very clever in naming me after Obadiah, one of their favorite of Old
Testament prophets. To a boy growing up in the wilds of Kentucky, the name
quickly became a sore subject. Most people just shortened my last name by
calling me Jack. Kenny had never been “most people”. “It’s good to see you,
man.” He tried to sit up in his reclining bed and looked over my shoulder
expectantly. “What? Randy’s not attached to your hip this time?” he chuckled.

“Nah.
Left him back home working on a project.” I smiled.
Back in the day, the three of us had been a force to be reckoned with. Though
truth be known,
neither Kenny or
Randy wouldn’t have
ever hung out together without me. They just didn’t have enough in common.
Got on each other’s nerves too much.
“And it’s good to see
you too, Kenny,” I said, moving over to his bedside and sitting down in a
chair. “You’ve seen better days though.
From the looks of
things.”

He eyed his
cast before turning to me, his smile broadening. “Nah, it
ain’t
any big deal, really.
Just me being stupid.
Looks like
you’ve gone three
rounds
lately yourself.” He nodded
at my face.

His avoidance
of the matter at hand was telling. He wasn’t comfortable yet explaining to me
what had happened,
nor
letting me know why he’d call
me.
Appalachian pride.
It was both admirable and
infuriating. But I knew he’d get around to telling me everything when he felt
right, so we spent the next twenty minutes in idle chit-chat.
Catching up on old times.
It felt good. It would have felt
even better if he didn’t wince every time he turned his head. The brick wall of
a black man was in unbearable pain.

And he never
once applied pressure to his morphine drip.
A testimony to
his pain threshold…or maybe, once again, that infernal pride.

“Kenny,” I
said, when I couldn’t take any more of beating around the bush. I’d never been
good with subtle small talk. Of course, he knew it and would expect nothing
less from me. “Let’s cut the bull. What’s going on? What happened?”

His eyes looked
away, gazing past the opened window to the majestic glass buildings surrounding
the hospital. It looked as though you could just reach and touch the one directly
across from us and I involuntarily imagined just how easily
Spidey
might actually be able to
webswing
around town.

I shook my head
of the image and leaned forward.

“Come on, Ken.
You called me here for a reason. If someone did this to you, I need to know
who.”

He looked back
over at me, drawing in a breath before shaking his head.

“Not
who
, Boomer.
What
.” I watched as an
involuntary shudder rippled down his traumatized body.
“Something
big.
Scary as all get out.”

For Kenny to
admit something was scary is saying a lot. Back in our early teens, I’d seen
him stand stock still as an enraged black bear charged him from fifty yards
away. He’d casually put a bullet between its eyes before it was able to pounce
on us.

“What was it?
Maybe I can help.”

His eyes
flickered down to his chest as his good hand scratched at the back of his head.
He was shaking.

“You’re not
going to believe me.”

“Try me.”

He took another
breath and looked up at me.

“Okay,” he
said.
“How ‘bout…the devil.”