“As senior partner of this dynamic duo, I defer to you, Reed.”
Pete Malloy stepped back from the narrow opening and waved his young partner
forward.
Jim Reed took off his uniform hat and stared at the black opening with distaste.
“Thanks a lot, Pete,” he muttered, getting down on his hands
and knees. “Gimme the flashlight.”
Malloy slapped the flashlight in Jim's outstretched hand. “Be careful
in there.”
Jim shone the light into the crawlspace, seeing again the dim reflections
of what looked like a fairly complete arsenal of guns and ammo crates. They'd
responded to a complaint of indigents in the area and found a wild-eyed,
disheveled thirty-year-old male squatting in the abandoned house. The guy
had gone berserk when Jim had approached him to tell him to move on. He'd
kicked Jim hard in the shin, then yanked out a handgun and tried to use it
to whack Jim in the head as he screamed something about establishment Nazi
storm troopers never getting their arsenal. The gun missed Jim's skull,
but his shoulder still ached from the bruise the gun barrel left behind.
“Pete, I dunno, I think maybe he broke my collarbone–”
“Just get in there, Reed,” Malloy interrupted.
Jim pulled a face at his partner, then squirmed through the hole, trying
not to think about all the eight-legged creatures sure to be lurking in the
shadows. The crawlspace was only about two feet high, so Jim had to scuttle
on his belly across the dirt and gravel surface. Cobwebs grabbed at his
face and hands. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed not to cringe
and scoot right back out the way he came. He finally pushed himself over
to the stash of boxes, then started shoving them behind him and through the
opening. In about fifteen minutes, all the boxes and crates were out of
the crawlspace. Jim rolled over on his side, reversed directions and shuffled
back out, ignoring the punishment the sharp gravel inflicted on his hands,
knees, elbows and shins.
Pete gave him a hand up, then watched his partner dance around brushing
dirt and cobwebs off his uniform. “I'll radio this in, get Mac out
here with his wagon to haul this to the station. Hey, hold still!”
Pete suddenly reached down and swatted at something crawling on Jim's pant
leg.
“What was it?”
“I dunno. Coulda been a spider. Did you feel anything bite you?”
“I don't think so,” he said doubtfully, but now his skin itched
all over as he imagined hundreds of spiders crawling under his clothes.
“Pete, I better get out of this uniform.”
“Yeah, you ripped the pants.”
“Actually, that happened when I got kicked.” He fingered the
L-shaped rip below his left knee. “Hey, I'm bleeding.” He winced
as he gently explored a large scrape and bruise on his shin.
Pete bent down for a closer look. “Well, I think you'll live until
Mac gets here, but we'll head back to the station and let you get cleaned
up. I got an image to uphold, and hanging out with a partner who looks like
he was dragged through a knothole backward won't help me.”
“Gee, thanks, Pete. You're all heart.”
###
Nearly thirty minutes later, Jim practically dove out of the patrol car
as soon as Pete had it parked. Leaving Pete to handle the suspect, he made
tracks for the locker room, weaving and darting around officers in the hallway
until he finally made it to his locker. He kicked off his shoes without
untying them, then unzipped his pants and practically jumped out of them.
Officer Ed Wells sauntered into the locker room. “What's the matter,
Reed? Got ants in your pants?”
“No. Spiders. Had to crawl under a house.” He shuddered, then
hurriedly shrugged out of his shirt.
Wells kept his distance. “So why'd you bring 'em here, Reed! Jeez!”
He turned and hurried out the door.
Reed checked his legs and arms but didn't see anything that looked like
a spider bite. Besides the large bruise and scrape on his shin, his knees
and elbows were a little scraped up, but nothing worse than the bumps he
used to get racing motorcycles. He pulled on a new uniform, then gingerly
poked at his dirty shirt. Nothing jumped out of it, so he unpinned his badge
and transferred it, his name plate, sharpshooter medal and notebook to the
clean shirt. He shook out the ripped pants, and when nothing disgusting
crawled out, retrieved his wallet and keys. He fingered the rip, decided
the pants couldn't be saved, and dumped them in the trash. Pete came in
as he was cleaning up the scrape on his shin.
“Any bugs?”
“Don't think so.” He winced as he dabbed an alcohol pad over
the gently oozing road rash. “Ouch.”
Pete crossed his arms and leaned against the sink, watching his partner
with mild concern. “Think we'll have to amputate, doctor?”
Jim grinned. “Nah. Not this time. Gimme three more minutes and I'll
meet you at the car.”
###
Pete watched his partner limp across the parking lot. “Thought you
said you wouldn't have to amputate?”
Jim winced. “He musta kicked me harder than I thought. It keeps
cramping up on me. It'll be all right, though.” Jim climbed in his
side of the car and keyed the mic. “1-Adam-12 clear.”
“1-Adam-12 clear and a call. 415 unknown, Acme Grocery, 3200 South
Peterson. Respond code 2.”
“1-Adam-12, roger,” Jim muttered, then sighed. “I
hope this grocery store doesn't have a crawlspace.”
Pete grinned. “Or a freaked-out squatter in aisle nine.”
###
The 415 turned out to be an elderly woman berating a teenage bag boy for
breaking her eggs. Malloy applied some of his Irish charm to both sides
and got the lady calmed down enough to cease and desist whacking the kid
with her umbrella and accept the manager's apology and another carton of
eggs. Malloy also managed to keep the kid from filing assault charges against
his own grandmother.
“Another potentially deadly confrontation defused by the brilliant
work of Patrol Officer Malloy,” Jim grinned as he cleared them.
“All right, that's enough from the peanut gallery.”
“Aw, c'mon, Pete. I'm just giving you a little encouragement. Pat
on the back for a job well done.”
Pete just grunted and kept his eyes on his driving.
Jim hauled out his report folder and started scribbling notes. “Tell
you what, I'll get the report started for you. What was that lady's name?”
“Hilda Lockenheimer.”
“You're kidding.”
“Would I make up a name like that?”
“Well, how's it spelled?”
Pete pulled his small notebook out and tossed it at Jim. It bounced off
Jim's chest and tumbled to the floor. Jim bent down to pick it up, then
suddenly grunted as a sharp pain stabbed his leg.
“What's the matter?”
Jim straightened up with a frown. “Oh, it's just my leg. Still hurts.”
He flexed his foot until the cramp eased, then continued trying to decipher
his partner's tiny scrawl. “What's this? It looks like 'soup walled
bug bomb'.”
“What?”
“Hey, don't yell at me. You're the one that wrote it.” He
held the notebook up so Pete could glance at it.
“That's 'suspect whacked bag boy'.”
“You're kidding.”
“No, I am not kidding. That's what the lady did.”
“I know that, Pete, but I can't believe 'soup walled bug bomb' is
supposed to be 'suspect whacked bag boy'. Where'd you learn to write?”
“In good old St. Ignatius Grammar School, and don't you dare disparage
my teacher. She was a saint.”
“Okay, so what's this? 'Wanker otter G legos'?”
“Reed!”
“Malloy!” Jim countered in the same aggrieved tone. “Look,
I'm just trying to help.”
Pete frowned. “All right, all right, hold it up.” He flicked
his eyes back and forth between the road and the notebook. “Okay,
that says 'manager offered Grandma eggs.'”
“Grandma being Hilda Lockenheimer.”
“Did you see any other grandmothers there?” Pete snapped.
Jim grinned. “Nope.” He managed to decipher the rest of Pete's
notes on his own, until a last scrawl stumped him. “Okay, how about
'buggy bog O'hara to tick comp'–oh, guess that's 'complaint'. But
what's 'buggy bog O'hara to tick'?”
“Bag boy declined to file complaint,” Pete said with a long
suffering sigh.
Jim stared at him. “You're kidding!”
“Look, when I write in my notebook, I'm not intending for the whole
world to read it!”
“Yeah, but how the heck do you read it?”
“Brilliant police work by Patrol Officer Malloy.”
Jim chuckled and shook his head. “You're something else, Pete.”
###
Three hours later, Jim was in some serious pain. He tried to surreptitiously
rub his leg, which was now aching all the way up to his hip, but Pete's eagle
eye caught his movement. “What's the matter?”
Jim gave up trying to hide. “Oh, my leg still hurts, that's all.”
“Do you think that John Doe might have cracked your shin bone with
that kick?”
“Nah, he didn't kick me that hard.” But Jim heard the doubt
in his own voice.
“Why don't I run you over to Central Receiving and get it checked?”
“Look, it's only another hour until the end of the shift. If it's
not better, then I'll go.”
“If you're sure.”
“Yeah, I'm sure.”
###
“1-Adam-12, meet 1-L-20, Tac 2.”
Jim grabbed the mic. “1-Adam-12, roger.” He flipped the
dial. “1-L-20, go.”
“Jim, your wife called. Her cousin's gone into premature labor.
She told me to let you know that she's taking Jimmy and going to spend a
couple of days with her. She wants you to call the sitter.”
Jim blew out his breath. The mild headache he'd been fighting the last
half hour drilled deeper behind his eyes. “Nuts,” he muttered,
then keyed the mic. “Roger, Sarge. Thanks.” He reclipped the
mic and flipped the radio back to Tac 1.
“Where's this cousin?”
“Bakersfield. She's expecting twins and the doctor said she might
go early. Jean had promised if she did, that she'd go up there and lend
a hand.”
Pete tried to cheer up his glum partner. “Hey, cheer up. She's not
going to the dark side of the moon.”
“We were going to go out on a real date tonight, first one since the
baby came. Had the sitter lined up and everything.” He pinched the
bridge of his nose, blinked a few times, but it didn't help.
“Well, how about coming over to my place and watching the Lakers game?
I know it's not a romantic evening with your wife, but it beats rattling
around an empty house.”
“You come to my house instead and it's a deal.”
“Why can't we go to my place?”
Jim ticked the reasons off on his fingers. “We have a bigger TV.
We have a color TV. We have more comfortable furniture. I live in
a real house where you can't hear the neighbors fighting through my living
room wall.” And I have a huge bottle of aspirin in the medicine
cabinet.
“All right, all right. You've made your point.”
“What kind of pizza?”
“Pepperoni. I'll bring the beer.”
“You're on.”
###
“Hey, Jim, look at that.”
“Huh?”
Malloy gave his partner an irritated glance. “This is just a suggestion,
but since we are still on patrol, you might want to pay a little attention
to what's going on out there.”
“Sorry. Got a headache.” He squinted at the pink car ahead
of them. It didn't look suspicious. “What gives? So it's a pink
Ford Mustang.”
“You didn't see her as she turned from Fremont back there, did you?”
“No, I didn't. Look, are you gonna play twenty questions or tell
me what's going on?”
“All right, all right. I hate it when you get a headache, Reed.
You're grouchy enough when you're feeling good.”
“Pete!”
“She's got a dog the size of a small cow sitting on her lap,”
Pete finally said, flipping the lights on and beeping his horn. “Plus,
she rolled through the boulevard stop back there.” Pete got out of
the car after he parked behind the pink Mustang.
Jim grabbed the mic. “1-Adam-12 requesting wants, warrants and DMV
on Paul-George-Ida 772.”
Jim cautiously flexed his leg as he waited for the dispatcher to return.
He couldn't imagine what was wrong with it. No kick from a half-stoned
vagrant had ever hurt this much before.
“1-Adam-12, no wants, no warrants. 1966 Ford Mustang registered
to Nora Evelyn Schmidt, 2419 East Talavera.”
“1-Adam-12, roger.” Jim sighed, then pulled himself up
out of the car and gingerly tested his leg. It held up under his weight
and after a few steps loosened up a bit. He leaned against the fender and
watched Pete give the blonde driver a ticket and a stern warning about driving
with a dog in her lap. The lady gave Pete a pouty look, then drove off.
“Don't you just love some of these women?” Pete asked as he
strolled back. “Told me that unless Pookie rode in her lap, he'd get
sick all over the car.”
“Why doesn't Pookie just stay at home, then?”
“Oh, because Pookie had to have his nails done.”
Jim grinned despite the various aching body parts. “You're joking.”
“Nope. He had powder-pink toenails, same color as the car and the
lady's dress. Oh, and here, she gave me this brochure. Maybe Jean would
be interested.” He handed Jim a pink pamphlet advertising Mary Sue
cosmetics.
“No, thanks. I'm not giving this to Jean and then watching my entire
house turn powderpuff pink.” He crumpled up the brochure and tossed
it toward a nearby trash can, missed, and hobbled over to retrieve it. As
he straightened back up, a sudden pain in his stomach made him suck in a
quick breath.
“Reed, you okay?”
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Trash can just smells to high heaven.”
“Well, c'mon away from there then. Shift's about over and we got
a date with a pizza and a ball game.”
Jim slamdunked the brochure into the waste can, forgetting about the pain
in his stomach. “You got it, partner.”
###
Jim may have forgotten about the stomach pain momentarily, but he was feeling
really lousy by the time Pete showed up on his front porch with beer in one
hand and a cake box in another. “What's in the box?” he asked
dully as he took the beer.
“I picked up a chocolate cake. Are you all right?”
Jim rubbed his stomach. “I dunno. I think maybe I'm coming down
with something. My stomach really hurts. Still got that headache, too.”
“You take anything?”
“Some aspirin. Not helping.”
“You want me to take off?”
“Nah. Somebody's gotta eat the pizza that just came.” Jim
limped to the kitchen, heavily favoring his left leg. Once he'd gotten home,
he'd crawled out of his uniform and into the most comfortable clothes he
could scrounge up, which ended up being an old sweatshirt, a pair of running
shorts, and a pair of baggy white socks that sagged around his ankles. He
hadn't worked up the energy to put on shoes.
He opened the fridge and put the six-pack inside, then felt Pete's hand
suddenly clamp around his arm after he closed the door. “Reed, hold
up there. What's wrong with your leg?”
Jim gave it a disinterested glance. The way his stomach was hurting, the
bump on his leg seemed less than significant. “That's where that John
Doe kicked me. It's just a little swollen.”
Pete let out a low whistle. “That's more than just a scrape, Reed.
Sit down, lemme look.”
Jim sat on one of the dining room chairs and didn't argue as Pete bent down
for a closer look. “Jim, it looks like something bit you.
Look at that.” He pointed to two red bumps, almost obscured by the
surrounding bruise and broken skin.
“Huh,” Jim said, really not interested in his leg at all, even
as much as it was hurting. I wonder if I have appendicitis. His
abdomen hurt. His back ached. His head throbbed. He felt sicker than he'd
ever felt in his entire life.
“Jim!” Pete's voice broke through the stupor.
“I don't feel . . . so good. . .” A cramp rifled through his
abdomen, worse than any of the others. He groaned and doubled over and would
have fallen to the floor if Pete hadn't caught him. “Pete . . .”
“Easy, partner. I got you. Let's get you to the couch, then I'll
call for an ambulance.”
###
Pete found himself in the rare position of not knowing what to do. Jim
had curled up in a sweating, shaking ball on the couch. Pete wanted to call
Jean, but he had no idea what her cousin's name was or how to get hold of
her, and Jim was in no condition to help. Pete paced back to the front door
and opened it, looking in vain for the ambulance. He glanced at his watch.
It had been two minutes since he called. Felt more like two hours.
“Pete . . . gonna be . . . sick!” Jim croaked. Pete grabbed
the closest thing at hand–the umbrella stand by the door. He held
it as Jim was miserably sick. When he finished, Pete held the umbrella stand
as far away from him as he could, wondering what to do with it.
“What's the matter, Pete? Don't you wanna clean it up?” Jim
said with a weak laugh.
“If it's all the same to you, no.”
Jim's smile faded. “Just . . . ouch . . . throw it away in the garbage
can out back.”
Pete carried the offensive brass container to the back porch and dumped
it in a trash can he found there, then hurried back to the living room.
“Jim, you think you might have appendicitis?”
“How should I know?” he snapped, then groaned. “Call
an ambulance, would you?”
“I did already,” Pete soothed. “Now just take it easy.”
Jim squeezed his eyes shut, then asked in a pitiful voice, “Pete,
did you shoot me?”
Pete rolled his eyes. “No, I didn't shoot you! Now take it easy.”
“Feels like somebody shot me . . .”
“Jim, nobody shot you. Do you know how to get hold of Jean?”
“Address book on the desk,” he ground out, then rolled onto
his back and pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead. His other
hand knotted his sweatshirt in a bunch. “Cousin's name is Georgia
Kincaid.” He drew his right leg up, then angrily kicked it several
times against the sofa cushion. He let out a wordless bellow.
“Take it easy, partner. Getting mad won't help.” Pete kept
one eye on Jim as he dialed the phone. He let it ring fourteen times, then
put the receiver down. “No answer. I'll try again later. And I'll
leave a note, just in case Jean's already on her way back or something.”
“Won't do any good . . . .” He winced and rolled back on his
side.
“It might.”
“She'll never read your handwriting. She'll probably think it says
. . . I left her . . . for Miss America . . . ouch.”
“You watch it or I'll call and cancel that ambulance, partner.”
“You're all heart, Pete,” Jim grumbled, then groaned again.
###
The blonde nurse shut the ER exam room door on Pete's face. Jim almost
wished they'd let Pete stay, but at least now he didn't have to keep up appearances
anymore.
“Mr. Reed, I'm Dr. Brackett.”
Jim pried open his eyes long enough to look at the dark-haired man looking
down at him. “Uh . . hi,” he mumbled.
Another voice from behind him announced that his blood pressure was 140
over 90 and his pulse was 100. Jim wasn't sure if that was good or bad.
He wasn't sure he cared.
“Mr. Reed, have you ever had any abdominal pain like this before?”
“No.”
“Have you ever had your appendix removed?”
Jim shook his head. “Is that what's wrong? Appendicitis?”
“We don't know that yet, but yes, it could be. I'm going to press
on your abdomen. Tell me if it hurts.”
The doctor pulled back Jim's sweatshirt and began gently pressing on Jim's
stomach with his open hand. “Does that hurt?”
“No,” Jim said, a little surprised.
Brackett frowned, then pressed again, this time concentrating on the right
side. “No pain there?”
“Not really. It just kinda . . hurts all over.”
Brackett glanced at the nurse. “He's got some rigidity. Draw blood
for a CBC and let's do an abdominal series. Did you take his temperature?”
“98.7.”
“Mr. Reed, does your back hurt?”
Jim nodded. “Yeah . . it kinda aches.”
“Where else?”
“My left leg . . . it's been aching and cramping.” Jim wished
they'd get done with their questions and give him something that would take
away the pain.
The doctor poked at the bruise on his shin and Jim couldn't stop yelping.
“Sorry,” the doctor muttered, then bent closer. “How
long ago did the leg cramps start?”
“Must've been, I don't know, maybe three, four hours ago?”
“What happened to your leg?”
“Got kicked by a junkie.”
“Anything else unusual happen?”
Jim frowned. The lights over the table hurt his eyes. “Uh, I had
to crawl under a house.”
He opened his eyes when he heard Brackett grunt. “What?”
“Did you happen to notice any spiders underneath the house?”
Jim's eyes widened. “You mean I got . . . Pete said he thought he
saw something on my leg, but he knocked it off. And I never felt anything
bite me. . . .” He tried to sit up.
Brackett pushed him back down. “Now, take it easy, Mr. Reed. I think
you may have been bitten by a black widow spider.”
Jim felt cold all over. “A black widow?”
“But they're rarely fatal, so relax. I'm just going to take a look
at your legs to see where–”
Jim struggled to sit up, pointing at his leg. “Pete said . . . Pete
said he saw a bite on my shin.” He collapsed back.
Brackett moved an examination light closer to Jim's leg. “And he was
right--there they are. Dix, I think we've got a possible grade 3 black widow
envenomation. I don't want to take any chances with multiple bites–prepare
an antivenin skin test, would you? Let's skip the abdominal series.”
“Sure, Kel,” the woman said, then Jim heard the sounds of drawers
opening and closing and bottles rattling.
“Mr. Reed, do you still feel nauseated?”
“Not now. Was earlier. Now just hurts.”
“Are you allergic to morphine or any other drugs?”
“Huh-uh.”
“Okay,” Brackett smiled and squeezed Jim's arm. “We'll
get you fixed up in no time, Mr. Reed.” He turned to the nurse--Dix,
Jim thought her name was, and mumbled a whole string of mumbo-jumbo at her.
Jim recognized the word morphine, but the rest was lost in a jumble of words
like titer and calcium-something and a big long drug that sounded like diphenhydro-something.
“And then do the skin test. Let's get that wound on his leg cleaned
and dressed and get an ice pack on it. He doesn't need an infection on top
of everything else.” The doctor turned back to Jim. “If you're
not allergic to the antivenin, you'll be feeling a whole lot better in just
a little while. Have you ever been bitten by a spider before?”
Jim shook his head.
“Okay. You just sit tight.” He patted Jim's arm again, then
left the nurse do her thing.
Jim watched as she injected something into the IV tubing running into his
arm. “Morphine?” he asked.
“Yep. In just a couple of minutes you should be feeling some relief.”
“Good. What was all that stuff the doctor said?”
“Oh, mostly drugs to help you feel better. Calcium gluconate, an
antihistamine, morphine. Say, I saw someone out in the hall who looked pretty
worried about you. He your friend?”
“My partner, Pete Malloy. We're both officers with LAPD.”
Dixie looked up from where she was swabbing his arm with an alcohol pad.
“I thought I recognized your friend out there. He's been in a time
or two. But I don't think I've ever met you.”
“I've been his partner for about ten months.” The morphine
started to make inroads against the pain. Jim sighed and felt himself relaxing.
“Pain getting better?” Dixie asked with a smile.
“Yeah. Thanks.”
There was a small prick on his upper right arm. “Okay, all done.
We'll wait about 20 minutes and if there's no reaction, we'll give you the
antivenin. Would you like me to go get your partner?”
Jim nodded. Either the morphine or just the absence of pain was making
him sleepy. Probably both. He let himself drift until another nurse came
in and started messing with his leg. The morphine didn't completely dull
the sharp sting of antiseptic.
Pete came in just as Jim flinched at the nurse's particularly ham-fisted
application of the bandage. “Whoa, Jim, don't kick her!”
“Not gonna kick her,” Jim growled, but he glared at her and
moved his leg out of her reach as soon as she applied the last strip of adhesive
tape. The nurse rolled her eyes at him, muttered something about all men
being babies, then left.
Pete looked him up and down several times. “Well, I've seen you look
better,” he finally said.
“Is that the best you can do?”
“Ah, still your lovable grouchy self.”
“You just come here to make fun of me?”
“Would you quit snapping at me?” Malloy protested. “I
know you're unhappy that I made you crawl under that house, but gimme a break.
Didn't I hold the bucket while you lost everything you've eaten since last
week?”
Jim's eyes drifted shut, then reopened. “You get hold of Jean?”
“Nope. Not yet.” He read the label on the IV bag. “So
what are they pumping into you?”
“Uh . . . oh, morphine. Then anti-something . . . antivenin, I think
he said.” Things were starting to go fuzzy around the edges. And
the spot on his arm where the nurse had pricked him itched. Jim craned his
neck and found what looked like a large mosquito bite.
“Hey, don't scratch that!” Pete said, pulling Jim's hand away.
“It itches,” he mumbled, but was suddenly too sleepy to move
his hand back up to scratch.
“I can see that, but don't scratch. It'll get infected. Did you
get bit there too?”
“No, that's the skin test to see if I'm allergic to the anti- . .
. antiven- . . . anti-whatever.” He opened his eyes wide, then gave
up and let them shut. Pete's voice sounded far away.
“Well, I'm no doctor, but it looks like maybe you are allergic. What'll
they do then?”
“I dunno. They didn't say.” He was vaguely aware that Pete
had pulled up a stool and sat down, but then he drifted off altogether.
###
Pete hurriedly stood up when Doctor Brackett and a nurse came back in.
“Hey, doc. I think he fell asleep.”
One corner of Kelly's mouth twitched up. “Hi, Pete. Sorry I didn't
recognize you and Jim earlier. I'm not used to seeing you two out of uniform.
Now let's see how he's reacting to the antivenin.” He pulled a light
over and turned Jim's arm so he could see the test patch. He winced. “He's
showing a positive reaction.”
Pete didn't like the look on Brackett's face.“What does that mean?”
“It means no antivenin for Jim. We'll have to treat the symptoms
until they wear off, which will probably take a couple of days.”
“But he'll be okay?”
“Oh, yeah, he'll be fine. Black widow spider bites are rarely fatal,
unless you're elderly or a small child. But since he's had multiple bites,
I want to keep him overnight. We'll give him morphine for the pain, and
a drug called lorazepam, which is a sedative. Basically, we'll just keep
an eye on him while he sleeps it off.”
Pete let out his breath. “We both figured it was appendicitis.”
“An easy mistake, but your partner's lucky this time.”
Pete glanced at Jim's haggard face, pain-etched even in sleep. “Depends
on how you define luck, doc.”
###
“How would I have known he'd been bitten by a spider!” Pete
yelled. “He didn't even know it himself!”
“Well, for cryin' out loud, Pete, you sent him under a house that
was crawling with them! You could have made an educated guess!” Mac
roared back just as loudly. The nurse at the reception desk glared at the
two men and raised a finger to her lips.
“Sorry,” Malloy muttered, then went on in a quieter voice.
“Mac, Jim didn't say anything bit him. And the spider bit him right
where that guy kicked him. Even the doc said it would have been just about
impossible to see the bite unless you knew it was there. Look, I feel awful
about it, but it was just one of those things, all right?”
Mac scowled fiercely, but had to concede the point. “I'm sorry, Pete.
You're right. It's just got me a little upset. Three of my men bitten
by black widows is not my idea of a well-run shift.”
Pete winced. “Three?”
“Yeah, three. Reed, Parker and Marrero. Apparently there were at
least two spiders that came in on Jim's uniform . . .”
“And they crawled into the lockers next to Jim's,” Pete finished
for him. Parker and Marrero's lockers were the next two down from Jim's.
“Yeah.”
“Well, how are they?”
“They're both fine, sleeping it off at home. Guess they didn't get
bitten more than once like Jim. How is he?”
“Oh, he's a lot better than he was last night. I'm just waiting on
the doc to release him so I can take him home.”
“He's going home already?”
“Yeah, the doc said you recover pretty quick from those kind of spider
bites. I sure wouldn't have thought so, the way he looked last night.”
Pete punched the elevator button.
Mac grabbed Pete's arm as the doors swished open. “Look, don't tell
him about Parker and Marrero, all right? Wait'll he feels better.”
“All right, Mac. See you later.”
###
“You look awful,” Pete announced after a careful perusal of
his partner's disheveled hair, swollen eyes and pale complexion. Jim was
sitting on the edge of his hospital bed, obviously ready to go home, and
obviously irritated at Pete's assessment.
“When I want your opinion, I'll ask.”
Pete grinned. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I went ten rounds with Cassius Clay.”
“You mean Mohammad Ali.”
“Whoever,” Jim snapped irritably, then sighed as he hugged an
arm across his stomach. “Sorry. I'm just tired and sore.”
Pete nodded. “I understand. Has the doctor released you?”
“Yeah. He just told me to stay off my leg as much as possible in
the next couple days, until the swelling goes down. He also gave me a prescription.
Do you mind running to the drug store and getting it filled?”
“No, not at all. Look, why don't I just plan on staying at your place
for the next couple of days, at least until Jean gets back.”
“'Kay.” Jim made no move to get up.
“Well, are we going or not?”
“The nurse said I have to wait for a wheelchair.”
“Oh.” Pete wandered out into the hallway just in time to spy
a young candy-striper pushing an empty wheelchair toward Jim's room. “Oh,
taxi!” he called, then grinned at the way the girl blushed. Sheesh,
she's probably all of fourteen.
The girl's blush deepened as soon as she spotted Jim. Pete crossed his
arms and leaned in the doorway, smirking at Reed's ignorance of the reaction
he was stirring in the little teeny-bopper. Jim settled into the chair with
a grunt.
“You look a little out of it, Reed.”
“I don't know what they gave me, but my arms and legs feel like they
weigh a ton each, and my head's floating somewhere up by the ceiling.”
“But your stomach doesn't hurt any more?”
“I don't know where my stomach is. I barely know where my feet are.”
Jim did look pretty glassy-eyed. Pete laughed. “Well, guess that's
why the doc wants me to babysit you for the next day.”
Jim blinked owlishly as the candy-striper started pushing him down the hall.
“Pete?”
“What?”
“Did you call Jean?”
“I did. Her cousin's the proud mother of twins.”
“Wow. You tell her what happened to me?”
“No, it slipped my mind.”
That put a spark back in Jim's eye. “You mean you didn't tell her?”
“Of course I told her.”
“Was she upset?”
“Not once I explained to her that you were going to live.”
“Good.” Jim leaned his head on his hand and shut his eyes.
“Don't let him fall out of the chair,” Pete whispered to the
girl.
“No, sir.
###
One week later
Jim walked into the locker room and stopped. Parker and Marrero stood
shoulder-to-shoulder in front of his locker. Jim smiled uncertainly. “Hey,
what gives?”
They exchanged a glance, then Marrero elected himself spokesperson. “We
heard you were the one that brought spiders back to the station.”
Jim looked from one set of angry eyes to the other. Parker was a lot shorter
than Jim, but he had a black belt in karate. Marrero towered over Jim by
several inches. But surely neither of them was that upset. He tried
another smile. “Hey, it was an accident. Look, I was the one that
ended up in the hospital.”
“And we both ended up in the Emergency Room instead of at the Friday
night fights, which we both had tickets for, I might add,” Parker growled.
Marrero simply nodded and folded his massive arms across his chest. Jim
knew he could hold his own against Marrero, but it would hurt.
Jim sighed. “You're not gonna let me in my locker until I pay you
for those tickets, are you?”
A smile broke across Marrero's broad face. “Parker, this kid may
be relatively new to the force, but he catches on okay enough. There might
be hope for him yet.”
As Jim reached for his wallet, Pete strode whistling through the locker
room door. When he saw Parker and Marrero lined up against his partner,
the whistle trailed off. “Something going on I should know about?”
Marrero shrugged. “Nah, just chatting with your junior partner here.
Settling a debt.”
Pete's eyes narrowed. “What debt? Jim, are they trying to stiff
you for those boxing tickets?”
Jim felt his face flush. “Don't worry about it, Pete.”
“Reed, you still got a lot to learn. Marrero, Parker, beat it. Reed's
got a wife and a brand new baby and all you two're out is twenty bucks and
a couple sore arms. Next time I catch you trying to extort money from my
partner, I'm gonna take it out of your hides.”
Parker grinned and struck a karate pose. “Like to see you try, Malloy.”
Pete slapped at Parker's outstretched hands. “Beat it, shorty.”
Parker feinted, then dropped his hands and laughed. “Aw, we're just
funnin' with your partner, Pete. We didn't mean it.” They both laughed
and left for roll call. Jim opened his locker without saying anything.
“What's wrong now?” Pete demanded.
“I would've paid them for the tickets,” Jim muttered.
“I know. You're a real prince of a guy.”
“I would have!” Jim protested.
“I know you would have, Reed. That's precisely my point. You're
too nice. You offer to pay for their tickets. You offer to start my reports.
You don't argue enough when I send you into spider-infested ratholes. Time
you started growing a spine, junior.”
Jim grinned. “Okay, okay. I see your point.”
“Good. Now hurry up or we'll be late for roll call.”
They finished dressing in silence, then sat through roll call. Jim took
his usual detailed notes, then slapped his notebook shut when Mac dismissed
them. “Gimme the keys, Pete.”
Malloy stopped in his tracks. “What?”
“The keys, Pete. To the car.” Jim gazed up at him with guileless
blue eyes.
“Why do you want the keys?”
“I wanna drive. So give 'em to me.”
Pete narrowed his eyes. “Now is not the time to grow a spine, Reed.”
Jim's face fell. “No?”
“No.”
“But you said–”
“Reed,” Malloy growled dangerously.
Jim sighed. “I'll go get the shotgun.”
Author's notes: Thanks to Continuity Police Officers Lisa & Karen
for spotting my gaffs before they hit the big screen. Thanks also to Dawn
V. for medical advice–if I've screwed up what really happens to someone
bit by a black widow spider, blame me, not her. I've never been bit, don't
want to be bit and can't really imagine why I decided to put poor Jimbo through
being bit, but there you go–the Let's Torture Johnny Gage Syndrome
is spilling over onto Adam-12! Bwa ha ha ha . . . .
