Charlie Nichols was in that book and Charlie just might know what the hell was going on here. If this were a War Movie, which with all this shooting it was beginning to resemble a lot, he’d have told the Chinese girl guiding him through enemy lines to go on without him, he was hurt too bad and he wasn’t going to make it. Or if this were a Show Biz Movie, he’d have told his Chinese dancing partner to accept the job Ziegfeld had offered because he himself was only a second-rate hoofer who didn’t want to stand in her way. But this wasn’t a movie at all, this was real life, and so he clung to Connie’s hand as if he were hanging outside a tenth-story window with nothing but her support between him and the pavement below. Behind him, he heard Nelson yelling like a fucking Cong Jap, “We don’t wanna hurt you, Barnes,” although he’d already hurt Michael pretty badly.
They had almost reached the sidewalk now.
“Police!” someone yelled. “Freeze!”
They both stopped dead in their tracks.
A green-and-white car was at the curb.
The lettering on it read SIXTH PRECINCT.
Two uniformed cops in what looked like padded blue parkas with fake-fur collars were running toward them.
“Freeze!” one of them shouted again.
“Police!” the other one shouted.
Still running toward them.
“Drop those guns!” one of them yelled.
What? Michael thought.
And then he realized that these nice police officers had heard gunfire, and had pulled their car to the curb and had seen a bleeding man and a nice Chinese woman running out of this nice little Welsh lane here, and chasing them were a menacing tall guy and an equally menacing short guy in bowling jackets, both of them screaming, and each of them with a gun in his hand.
Michael wondered if Nelson and Leibowitz would turn to flash the yellow SEVENTH PRECINCT BOWLING TEAM lettering on their jackets.
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. Michael 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.”