The Recoil Of The Mind

Chapter 7: All Hail The King

El Caravaggio was an old friend of DeShawn, loyal only to him and no one else. Rickard had not come across him in the files assigned to him, but Marlon had told him about the man once they were inside his home. El Caravaggio had been a mob doctor from New Orleans, back when it had been profitable to be involved with the Italian mafia. But when the new boss came into power, everyone loyal to the old bosses had been scrapped off the list. DeShawn had been young and impulsive at the time, just like his brother, but saving El Caravaggio's life was a wise choice. One which seemed of much importance even more now.

Rickard sat on the old worn out leather couch, together with Marlon and Bo. They were in a dimly lit room, cluttered with brown paper, the kind that you'd wrap fresh produce with, while Caravaggio fixed DeShawn up in an adjacent room. A single light shone over both of them, unlike the one DeShawn had been carried into. The air smelled of sterility, alcohol and burnt things. El Caravaggio lived in a spacious suburban house, but it looked nothing like it.

"Marlon", Rickard said, trying to alleviate the tension. "It's going to be alright."

Marlon didn't even look at him. Slowly, words came out of his mouth, almost robotic. "Rickard. I know you mean well. But I think silence would be better."

Rickard couldn't take it anymore. He wanted to go home again, and just sleep. He got up and began pacing the room. Yeah, DeShawn will survive. I don't know if I will.

Suddenly El Caravaggio came out of the adjacent room. He wore a doctor's scrubs, bloodied around the edges. Underneath, was a blue linen shirt, with gloves coverered up to his wrists, ending at the plastic tips of the scrubs around his wrists. He removed both his gloves in a methodical way, then took off his mask with the little finger of his left hand. Rickard swore he saw a glint of gold up his sleeve. All of them stood up to listen to what he had to say.

"Well, well. He's going to be okay. His ribs are broken, multiple lacerations to the torso and liver's damaged as hell. The bullets must remain inside, there's no infection. Whoever drove him here did a good job."

Marlon and Bo looked at each other, then Marlon let out a chuckle. "I knew about the liver. Motherfucker had more alcohol in his veins than blood." Marlon looked like a burden was lifted off of him.

"How much, doctor?", Bo decided to cut to the chase.

"Don't worry about it, Rimes and I have a special kind of deal between us."

"And how much time till he gets back on his feet?", Rickard asked.

"About a month till he's fully healed. But he'll be back up in, say, three days", the doctor said as he went towards the room where DeShawn was and opened the door. "But I think you'll find him just okay for now."

The three of them went inside. Rickard smelt singed hair in the room. Cauterization, no doubt about it. DeShawn lay on a sturdy metal platform, wearing nothing but a yellow plastic wrap around his waist, his bloodied rags tossed in a dirty bin in a corner of the room. The smell of alcohol was on him, the kind you drunk, and also the kind you used to sterilize raw flesh.

"Holy shit, y'all okay?", DeShawn was, surprisingly, conscious after that ordeal.

"We?", Marlon said, "Oh no, no, no. We're okay. But I don't think so about the dumbass who just got shot while he was chilling in the car."

DeShawn chuckled. Marlon did the same. Rickard went over to the other side to take a closer look at his wounds.

"Man, don't worry about me", DeShawn said when he caught Rickard looking at his wounds. "Stop staring at a homie while he laying near naked." Bo was trying to stifle a laugh. DeShawn turned to look at him. "That's what Bo does." Bo's expression turned into a poker face.