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“Ow! Jesus, Lucy!”
“Oh, stop yer fuckin’ whinin’. It’s only a little cut.”
“Over a bullet wound.”
“Ya want it out or not?”
“You could at least use a little anesthetic, couldn’t you?”
“Waste that on yer pussy arse when there’s patients wot need it fer real surgery? Bullshite. Now stop yer bellyachin’ an’ hold still. It’s deep an’ I don’t wanna be playin’ ‘Operation’ all night on ya.”
Lamont forced his head further back in his chair and pressed hard against the cracked upholstery while he tightened his grip on the arm-rest. In spite of his best efforts, his face remained contorted into an expression of near-agony that the blonde above him couldn’t help but notice.
“Yer such a baby, Monty,” she teased. “C’mon an’ tell me wot happened.”
“Ugh… It was supposed to be simple,” he groaned. “Quick exchange. In and out. I’m already on my way to the car when I hear them shouting about getting shorted.”
“Didja short ‘em?”
He narrowed his eyes. “No! I guarantee you what happened was they found someone who’d pay a higher price and figured they could play getting stiffed, shoot me, keep the money -and- the cargo, and re-sell it.”
Lucy snorted. “That’s wot ya get fer doin’ business with shady fuckers. Must’a been a sight yer fat arse haulin’ outta there. Good they only popped ya the once.”
“Yeah. The once. I ought to be getting ready for dinner by now.”
“Oh! So it don’t really hurt. Yer jus’ cryin’ cos ya ain’t stuffin’ yer gob yet!” she cackled.
Lamont winced and ground his teeth when he felt her forceps dig into the muscle. “Nngh… It’s not like that. Gran set me up for dinner with someone. How’s it gonna look me showing up late: ‘Sorry. I got shot and had to take a detour’?”
The blonde’s sallow face tightened almost imperceptibly. “Who’s ‘potential wifey’ this time? I’m sure she’s a good lil Catholic, ain’t she? Oi! Stop fuckin’ flinchin’!”
He flinched regardless. “It’s a little hard not to when you’re yelling in my ear! Jesus! I told you, it hurts,” he snapped back. “And you’ve seen her. That brunette Gran has run errands for her sometimes. Elaine. She’s alright. Pretty enough...”
“Pft… Fer now.”
“What?”
“Wot?” she squawked back. “She’s pretty ‘nough fer now, but give her twenny years’a poppin’ out lil squallers. Her tits’re gonna sag, she’s gonna lose her shape, cunt’s gonna get loose, an’ ya ain’t gonna be able t’ tell who’s who ‘tween ya with yer shirts off fer the fuckin’ stretch marks.”
“Oh, come on, Lucy…”
“Jus’ ya wait. Wot’s she call ya? ‘La-Mont’, don’t she? An’ she’s known ya how long?”
“You said the last one had no business calling me anything but.”
“That’s cos she didn’t know ya from Adam. This one’s been under yer nose long enough t’ be familiar with ya, but she ain’t. No. I know this one’s type. She’ll keep it real formal. Trill yer full name like yer a goddamn saint...til yer married. An’ then she’ll spend the rest’a yer marriage screamin’ it at the top’a her lungs.”
“And you’re some sort of marriage guru, now?”
“I been through five, so I must know sommat,” she chuckled. The metal pan beside them clanged and the bullet rocked back and forth until it came to rest in a tiny puddle of blood. “At least I know how t’ stop yer whinin’. Hold still.”
Lamont pursed his lips as he watched her turn her back to rummage through the cabinets - likely attempting to retrieve something that would sting like Hell to pour into his gaping wound.
“So in five marriages, you were all these terrible girls, then? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Me? Nah… I were a fuckin’ good wifey. A fuckin’ fair one, at least. But when a bloke’s got ya knocked up bare-foot an’ preggers an’ keeps ya stuck holed up in a complex while he’s out doin’ God knows wot, ya see enough’a yer neighbors t’ know wot’s up.”
“So how’d you keep your...rack...in tact?”
She returned, and unceremoniously up-ended a brown bottle over the hole in his arm. “None’a my lil ankle-biters made it t’ term.”
“Shit!”
“Language, Mister Toucey,” she chided, flashing a jagged grin.
“You could’ve warned me!”
“Bloke tells ya he’s gonna smack yer teeth out an’ it still hurts when he does. Don’t make no difference.”
He sucked a sharp breath between his teeth when she pressed the gauze over it a little more roughly than necessary.
“Thought you’d be into that…” he muttered.
“Funny. So did he. Hold it up, now, an’ lemme wrap it. Mebbe ya won’t miss all’a dinner. Wouldn’t wanna keep ‘Virginia’ waitin’. Wot’s Gran makin’?”
He did as he was told; though, his expression had grown a little pale and sour. “Full meal. Fiori di Zucchine… Zuppa di Porcini… Probably chicken and those stuffed artichokes she always makes.”
“Sounds like a fuckin’ feast.”
“Yeah…”
“So wot’s that face fer?”
“I’m not much hungry…”
She scoffed. “You?! Not hungry? It’s a fuckin’ Christmas miracle, Charlie Brown! Big bad Mont ain’t gonna eat no one outta house an’ home t’night!”
He scowled, but didn’t retort, and her crowing laughter soon trickled to an end.
“So...ya really ain’t that hungry?”
“Yeah.”
“Well… If’n yer plannin’ on skippin’ out on dinner, how’s a lil Chinese? I were gonna get some rice an’ eggrolls from that place up the street.”
“They deliver?”
“Course they do. It’s fuckin’ Chinese food. C’mon… Yer all patched up, now, an’ since Doc Lucy ain’t got any lollipops, I reckon ya can have a beer~”
“Hehe… You’re so gross.”
“Ya wouldn’t love me s’much if’n I weren’t,” she snickered, thumping his good arm as he rose to his feet.
“I don’t know… If you cleaned up a little, maybe you wouldn’t have to squint to see how pretty you are.”
“Who’s squintin’? Me or yerself? Cos them Chinese people always squint.”
He laughed in spite of himself.