Chapter 17 Chapter Fourteen

Ed "Coffin Bucket" was in a rage, caught in a helpless self-torture resentment, which made his slightly deformed face exude an indescribably dangerous atmosphere. "These fucking mean bastards," he said through gritted teeth. "These sons of a bitch whores, venereal bitch drug addicts sneak up on an unarmed man with the barrel of their rigged guns. Want to play hard, huh, they haven't really seen it yet .” He was talking to himself. On the wall at the end of the hospital's glaring white corridor, there is an electronic clock.It shows 2:26.He thought bitterly: Well, they suspended us for beating up a fucking drug dealer, and within three hours, some druggie hitman was out on "Gravedigger" Johns.

Tears oozed from the corners of his eyes and settled into the thin furrows on his skin-grafted face, as if every inch of his skin was crying. The nurses and interns who shuttled through the corridor all kept away from him. To make matters worse, he felt guilty.If I hadn't been so fucking naive and listened to "Gravedigger" Jorns and just let it go and waited for the homicide guys to come, maybe "Gravedigger" Jorns wouldn't have been hurt, he thought. "Gravedigger" Jornes lay on the operating table behind the closed white door.He is at the point of life and death.He was in dire need of a blood transfusion, and medical staff had given him a full pint of the same type of plasma that the hospital had in stock.A police car, led by two motorcycles, is trying to break through heavily congested New York traffic and bring back plasma as quickly as possible.But time is running fast.

Ed "Coffin Bucket" has just been told that his blood type does not match the blood type required by "Gravedigger" Jorns. I can't even help him with little things now, thought Ed Coffin Bucket.But one thing is certain, should Gravedigger Jorns go down, he will not let his buddies go off alone. A swelling the size of a goose egg rose on his head behind his left ear, and a blinding pain near his temple made his head feel like it was about to burst.The doctor said that he had a concussion and asked him to lie on the hospital bed obediently.But he resisted violently and broke away from them as if out of control, so the doctors had to let him go.

This is a first-class hospital that is closest to the scene of the shooting and well-equipped; he also knows that if "Gravedigger" Johns has a chance to be rescued, then the hope is here.But even so, it did not lessen the anger of his strong self-blame. At the far end of the corridor, he saw his wife and the wife of "Gravedigger" Jorns climbing to the top of the stairs.He turned to the first exit to escape before finding himself in a minor surgery room.The operating room with the lights turned off is temporarily not in use. He couldn't face the wife of "Gravedigger" Johns, and he didn't want to see his own.His daughter is attending summer camp in the Catskill Mountains.There is no tie in sight.He silently thanked God for giving him this little favor.

The ladies were not allowed to enter the operating room, so they had to stand outside the corridor door, with two brown faces and serious expressions. "Gravedigger" Jones's wife kept dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.Both were silent. "Coffin Bucket" Ed looks for a way out.There was a passage door at one end of the room, but it was locked.He lifted up the lower half of the frosted glass window leading to the fire escape.He climbed out of the window.A group of medical students in the building next door stopped to watch him.But he turned a blind eye.He climbed down a flight of stairs and up the ladder -- the ladder that hung down onto the paved driveway leading to the rear emergency exit.

He walked up the street, toward the parking lot on Riverside Drive in the midst of the sun.The heat shone before his eyes, distorting his vision.He had a headache like he had rheumatic fever. Half an hour later, he pulled into the driveway of his home in Astoria, Long Island.How he got home, he will never know. The hospital prescribed a tranquilizer for him to take home.The bottle label reads: "Take a teaspoon every hour."He casually threw it into the trash can outside the kitchen door, and then went into the kitchen. He put the Celix coffee pot on the gas stove, poured some coffee and let it stir.While waiting for the coffee to boil, he took off his clothes and piled them on the chair next to the bed.He found a bottle of amphetamine lozenges in the bathroom medicine cabinet.He drank it twice with the water from the washbasin tap.After hearing the sound of the coffee machine boiling, he went into the kitchen and turned off the fire.

He then went to shower, turning the water as cold as he could stand.When the cold water jet pierced his skin like needles, he held his breath and his teeth chattered.He felt as though several bolts of lightning were about to explode in his head, but his limbs no longer felt languid. He dried himself off and went into the bedroom, where he put on underpants, nylon socks, black sneakers, and trousers to match his new dark gray summer suit, and a blue oxford shirt with a slip-on collar.He omitted the tie.He didn't want any hindrance as he reached for his gun. He removed the shoulder holster from the hook on the inside door of the wardrobe.In the holster was a special long-barreled, nickel-plated, .38 caliber revolver that had made a name for itself in Harlem.He took out the pistol and rotated the barrel, immediately ejected the five-piece brass-cased bullet, and then quickly cleaned and oiled the gun.Then he reloaded, put the American Taser round in the last loaded chamber, and left the chamber empty under the trigger, just in case something went wrong if he had to partly bang some guy in the head with the butt Accident.

He put the pistol on the bed and took off the holster.Then I took a can of seal oil off the shelf and slathered it on the inside of the holster.He wiped off the spilled oil with a clean handkerchief, then dropped the handkerchief into the covered laundry basket and strapped the holster to the shoulder strap.He tucked the pistol into his pocket, and fastened a horse watch on his left wrist. He picked out a superb rubber stick from a wardrobe drawer.This stick is made of cowhide, covered with a large banana-shaped piece of soft solder, and has a handle made of whalebone.He tucks it into a special hip pocket.

He stowed the Boy Scout knife into his left trousers pocket.After some more thought, he stuffed a thin-bladed hunting knife with a grooved rubber handle into the back pocket next to his back, and the soft pigskin sheath was pinned to his belt.He didn't think he'd need it, he just didn't want to leave out any vitals that might allow him to get the job done. If I knew where there was Undead Water, I would go get it and drink it, he thought sternly. Then he put on his coat.The suit was chosen because it was larger than his other clothes, and had been specially tailored to accommodate his shoulder straps.

He tossed a fresh box of ammunition into the left leather-lined pocket, then put a handful of Tasers in the right leather-lined pocket. He went into the kitchen and drank two cups of hot strong coffee.The coffee recoiled in his empty stomach like ice water off a hot stove, but it stayed there in the end.The amphetamines had ruined his appetite, leaving only a slightly dry, salty taste in his mouth.But he hardly notices. Just as he was about to leave the house, the phone rang.He struggled for a moment, wondering if he should ignore it, but then he walked back to the bedroom and picked up the phone.

"I'm Jonson," he said. "I'm Captain Bryce," said the voice on the other end of the microphone. "Major Crimes wants you to contact them—contact Vice-Captain Vash, and leave it alone. You stay home. Let the badged cops take care of it. If you drag it any further, then I'm afraid I can't protect you either." Then he paused and said, "No one can help you." "Yes, sir," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "Contact Vice Captain Vash." "They got the blood plasma from Brooklyn. I'm afraid you don't know about it, so I'll let you know." "Coffin Bucket" Ed clenched the receiver, but he didn't dare to ask further. "He's still struggling," Captain Bryce said, as if reading his mind. "Yes, sir," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. Just as the receiver was hung up, the phone rang again.He picked up the phone. "I'm Johnson." "Ed, I'm Vice Captain Anderson." "How's the situation, Lieutenant?" "I just called to ask you." "He's still fighting in the hospital," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "I'm going to rush over now," Anderson said. "I'm no use there. He's still in a coma and doesn't recognize anyone." "Okay. Then I'll wait for him to wake up." Then there was another cut-off. "You don't meddle in this matter, Ed. I know how you feel, but you don't mind this matter. You have no police power now, and everything you do will only make things worse." "Yes, sir." "What did you say?" Anderson was taken aback.He'd never heard Ed "Coffin Bucket" say "Yes, sir" to him. But Ed "Coffin Bucket" had hung up the phone. He called the Major Crimes office in the West End and asked for Deputy Captain Wash. "Who are you?" "Just tell him it's 'Coffin Bucket' Ed." Not long after, a calm and gentle voice sounded. "Jonson, I want to know your opinion on this matter." "I had no idea until the body of the African was found. We couldn't figure it out no matter what. Then when they got their hands on Jones the Gravedigger, it all changed. There should have been two— " "We know that," interrupted Vice-Captain Vash. "Two professional shooters. We knew they were looking for something. The security team scoured the entire place. Nothing was found, and they didn't even have an idea of ​​what they were looking for. What do you think it might be? If we If you know what it is, maybe you can know where to start." "I think it's probably heroin; a dumped batch of heroin." "We have also thought about this possibility. The anti-narcotics team is investigating. However, no matter how pure the ingredients are, if the amount of a batch of heroin is large enough to cause murder, then this batch of heroin may not be easy to hide. Besides, if you consider The package needed for a batch of extremely expensive goods would probably be the size of a football. If it was really that big, it would have been discovered by the investigation team by now." "It doesn't have to be a shipment. It could be a key." "A key. I hadn't thought of that; for I know nothing of those seekers. A key to a place. Well, you may be right, and I'll pass on the opinion. Anyhow , they will continue to trace until they are sure that there is really nothing there." "If it wasn't for that, then I'd have nothing to do with it." "That's true. By the way, what do you think happened to the administrator couple? Their names are Gus and Jeanne. And they have a helper called Pinky, who used to be a boxer." "Gus and Jenny should be sailing on the Queen Mary today, and Pinky is absconding." "It's true that they booked a boat for today, but they didn't board the boat. All three of them disappeared without a trace." "They can't hide forever." "However, it is possible if they sink to the bottom of the river." "Coffin Bucket" Ed waited for the next word.He had said all he had to say. "That's all for now, Jonson. Don't leave the house. We may need to get in touch with you. And, Jonson—" "Yes, sir." "Stay out of this. Let's deal with it. Got it?" "Yes, sir." Ed "Coffin Bucket" walked into the kitchen and drank a glass of water from the refrigerator.His throat felt terribly dry. He went to the garage and put a set of paint-stained overalls into a large canvas bag left by the painter who had worked at his house.After putting the bag in the back of the car, he got in the car and drove to the house of "Gravedigger" Jorns at the end of the street. He knew all the doors were supposed to be locked, so he went around the back and pried open the kitchen window.His body was slightly off balance, causing his reflexes to become extraordinarily sharp.He had to be careful, he warned himself, or he'd kill someone before he knew it. Two neighbor kids who had been playing in the adjoining yard—a boy and a girl—stopped playing and stared at him accusingly. "You're breaking into Mr. Johns' house," said the little boy at the top of his voice, and then he cried out, "Mother, a thief is breaking into Mr. Johns' house." A woman appeared from the back door of the next house, and Ed "Coffin Bucket" had one leg on the window ledge. He nodded at her, and she smiled back.They were all black people who lived on this street, and the adults knew each other, but the children rarely saw the two detectives, because they slept most of the day. "That's just Mr. Jorns' buddy," she told the children. "Mr. Johns is wounded." She thought that was enough of an explanation. Ed "Coffin Bucket" closed the window and locked it, then went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe.A long-barreled, nickel-plated .38 caliber revolver, exactly the same model as his, lay in a holster on a similar hook in the cabinet door.He drew the revolver, unscrewed the magazine to make sure it was loaded, and tucked the barrel down in his waistband, with the butt facing left. "Almost ready," he said aloud, feeling the tension in his cracking head. He walked into the living room, searched for the writing desk, and left a sloppy message on a piece of letter paper: "Stella, I took away Jorns's. Ed." Then he took the letter paper back to the bedroom and pressed it on the dressing table. on the desktop. Just as he was about to turn around and leave, a thought suddenly flashed through his mind.So he walked to the bedside table, picked up the phone and dialed the crime team again. After connecting with Deputy Captain Vash, he asked, "What happened to the administrator's dog?" "Ah, by the way, it was forwarded to the SPCA. What's the matter?" "I just remembered he was injured so I wondered if anyone was taking care of him." "I forgot to ask about that," said Vice Captain Vash. "Do you happen to know how it got that wound on its head?" "We saw the African take it to the river this morning, and came back without it. It was early this morning—early five o'clock. We had no reason to be suspicious, so we didn't question him. Etc When we went back to the house around one o'clock in the afternoon, it was lying in front of the side door with a hole in its head." "That's right," Vash said. "How is Johns doing?" "He was still breathing - last I heard that was." "Okay," Vash said. They both hung up the phone at the same time. Ed "Coffin Bucket" called the hospital.He identified himself. "I'm calling to inquire about Detective Johns." "He's seriously injured," replied the woman with an indifferent voice. "Coffin Bucket" Ed's head flashed with pain. "I know that," he said through gritted teeth, trying to control the inexplicable rage. "Has it gotten worse?" The indifferent female voice softened slightly. "He has been placed in an oxygen chamber and is in a coma. We are doing everything we can to treat him." "I see," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "Thank you." He hung up the phone, walked out the front door, locked the spring latch, and got into his Plymouth caravan.He stopped by the neighborhood pharmacy to buy four and a half pounds of lactose.The pharmacist only had half a pound of stock, so Ed "Coffin Bucket" told him to fill up the shortfall with quinine. The pharmacy owner stared at him with wide eyes, both suspicious and surprised. "It's for a prank," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. "I was just kidding my friend." "Oh," the boss grinned reassuringly. "Actually, this mixture works well for colds." Ed "Coffin Bucket" told him to wrap the thing tightly and seal all the seams with scotch tape. From there he drove into Brooklyn, stopping in front of a sports equipment store.He bought a square yard of strong silk cloth and used it to wrap the drug store package.The clerk assisted him in sealing the seams with glue. "Even if it sinks to the bottom of the sea, it won't get wet," said the clerk proudly. "Just what I needed," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said. He bought a small blue canvas utility bag to hold his packages in, a pair of dark green goggles, and a soft-fur Scottish beret big enough not to weigh on the swelling on his head . At first glance, he looks like a "Beatie" who escaped Greenwich Village.However, this impression was quickly dispelled by his bulging breast pocket and his viciously quivering muscles. "Good luck, sir," said the clerk suspiciously. "I'll need it," Ed "Coffin Bucket" said.