“Three shots, three kills,” I said.

“Yeah, I know. Whoever was back there knew how to use a gun. Had steady hands, too.”

“Are you about to ask me if I was the shooter?”

McGuire gave me a thin smile. “Don’t need to. Your weapon hadn’t been fired.”

“Good to know.”

“Besides,” he said, “the clip in your Beretta was your usual load of silver, alternating with cold iron – I know, because I checked.”

“So…?”

“So while I was waiting for you to come to, I got an email on my phone from Homer Jordan at the Coroner’s Office. Must be a slow day, because he’s finished the autopsy on one of the Philly boys already. The slug that killed the bastard was lead.”

“Which explains why you started out talking about my guardian angel.”

“Somebody nailed those three goons before they could kill you. At least, I’m assuming that was their plan. Can’t see them coming all the way up here from Philly just to lift your wallet – although one of them did that anyway. We found it in his coat pocket, along with your watch.”

“They wanted it to look like a mugging,” I said. “I vaguely remember one of them saying that. They were gonna shoot me with my own gun, too – make it look spontaneous, I guess.”

“You heard them talking?”

“Yeah – they must’ve assumed I was out cold. Or maybe they figured it didn’t matter what I heard, since they were about to put a bullet in my head.”

“Instead, somebody put a bullet in their heads,” McGuire said. “You see anything, hear anything, that’ll give us a lead on the shooter?”

I shook my head – another painful mistake. “All I remember is the sound of the shots and wondering why I wasn’t dead – the second time that’s happened to me recently.”

“You’re thinking about those vamps who were trying to kill Calabrese the other night – especially the one who got behind you.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Somebody got that guy in the head, too.”

“We’ll compare the slug from the vamp with the ones they dig out of today’s casualties,” McGuire said. “Although the first time, the shooter used silver – for obvious reasons.”

“Won’t matter,” I said. “The striations will still be identical – assuming it was the same gun, both times.”

“And if there’s no match, what does that prove? Diddly-fuck. Your guardian angel could have more than one gun. Maybe he carries one with lead, and another one loaded with silver. That way, he’s ready for everything – or she is.”

“Question is, who’s doing this – and why? Not that I’m complaining, you understand.”

“If we had the ‘who’, we’d have the ‘why’,” he said. “Or if we figured out the ‘why’, it’d probably give us the ‘who’.”

“Stop,” I said. “You’re making my head hurt worse than it already does, and that’s saying something.”

“Don’t complain,” McGuire said. “If it weren’t for whoever’s been watching your back, you wouldn’t be feeling anything right about now.”

They decided to keep me overnight, “for observation.” What they wanted to observe wasn’t exactly clear. Maybe they were afraid I’d develop subdural hematoma – a term I picked up from doctor shows on TV.

McGuire made it very clear that he didn’t want me going all TV-detective-hero on him and checking myself out of the hospital prematurely because the Forces of Evil were on the march, and only I could stop them.

“The Forces of fucking Evil are always on the march,” he said. “They’ll still be there, day after tomorrow. In the meantime, you’re gonna stay here until the docs are sure you’re not about to fucking die on me. Got it?”

McGuire’s the only guy I know who can make compassion sound like he’s threatening your life. He went on. “I’ll ask the Captain to put a uniform on the door to your room, once they get you settled.”

“You figure the Delatassos have a ‘B’ team waiting in the wings?”

“Could be,” he said. “If not, he can at least keep the reporters away – unless you’ve decided you like giving interviews to the media?”

“Fuck that shit,” I said.

“That’s kinda what I figured.”

While I was waiting for the people in Admissions to process my paperwork and assign me a room, I called Christine. It was just past 2 in the afternoon, and I knew that she was still resting. But I wanted to leave a message on her voicemail so she wouldn’t panic when she came upstairs at sunset and found that I’d never made it home from work.

Hi, honey – this is your old man. Listen, do not freak over what I’m about to tell you, OK? I’m in Mercy Hospital, but only for observation. I’ll be out tomorrow. I ran into a little trouble and got whacked upside the head. But you know what a thick Polack skull I have – there’s been no damage, apart from a lump that feels like it’s the size of a billiard ball. No skull fracture, no concussion, no subdural hematoma. In other words: nothing to worry about. But apparently it’s SOP to keep head injury cases for twenty-four hours, and that’s what they’re doing with me.

So, listen, on your way to work tonight, could you drop off my toilet kit? It’s in the big suitcase in my closet. And bring a change of clothes, too, will you? Nothing too dashing – I’ll have to go to work in them.

I appreciate it, kiddo. I’ll see you sometime tonight. Love ya. Bye.

I don’t think I own an article of clothing that anybody would call “dashing”, but I wanted her to understand that I needed work clothes, not jeans and a T-shirt.

Before the orderly wheeled me upstairs – I told him that I could walk OK, but apparently the wheelchair was SOP, too – I stopped at the hospital gift shop and picked up a paperback book, along with a copy of the Times-Tribune. When the lady in Admissions had told me the cost of getting TV service in my room, and that insurance wouldn’t cover it, I decided that reading would pass the time just as well, and cheaper.

Fifteen minutes later, I was in a private room, sitting up in bed and wearing one of those idiotic hospital gowns that are cleverly designed to rob you of any dignity you might have left after getting poked and prodded downstairs.

McGuire had said that the ER nurse in charge of Intake had taken my gun when I’d first arrived and given it so someone for safekeeping. He’d found out who had it, and waved his badge around until they gave my Beretta to him. He’d slipped it to me when no one was looking, just before the orderly came to wheel me up to my room. “You never know,” he’d said. “You might get a visitor who isn’t the friendly type.”

My clothes were now hung up in the little locker they have in each room, but the Beretta was under the sheet next to my right leg. Just in case.

The book I’d bought was Sematary Danse, the new exposé of the funeral industry by that true-crime writer, Stephen King. I’d been wanting to read it for a while, but I decided to look at the paper first, in case anything important had gone down while I’d getting beaten up by hired thugs.

There was no story about all the excitement that had taken place behind Jerry’s Diner, and I hadn’t expected one in this issue. The Times-Tribune is a morning paper.

But it would be front-page news tomorrow unless a war broke out, and my luck never runs that good. Three Dead in Attack on Police Officer, the headline would read. And the local networks would have the story for their evening broadcasts.

I was glad that McGuire was going to have somebody on the door to keep the media jackals away. The last thing I needed right now was some asshole with a hundred-dollar haircut sticking a microphone in my face.

The Patriot Party had a full-page ad on page three, reminding me that the election was about a month away. The tone hadn’t mellowed any since I’d last seen their advertising. They were still attacking Mayor D’Agostino without mercy, although it looked like they’d found a new horse to ride: crime in the streets.