The shooter, an obsessive psychopath, was dead, sparing everyone the nuisance of a trial. Milo had dismissed his own injuries as “a stupid goddamn flesh wound.” I’d seen the X-rays. Some of the pellets had missed his heart and lung by millimeters. One chunk of deer shot was too deep to remove without causing serious muscle injury, hence the winces and twitches.

Despite all that, only a three-day hospitalization had been projected. On the second day, a staph infection set in and he ended up on antibiotic drips for nearly a month. Sequestered on the VIP floor because he lived with Dr. Rick Silverman, director of the E.R.

Bigger rooms and better food didn’t help where it counted. His fever ran high and at one point his kidney function didn’t look good. Eventually, he pushed through and started griping about the accommodations and the twenty-one-year-old actress in the corner suite up the hall. Her official diagnosis was “Exhaustion.” The hospital’s detox director had virtually moved in.

Two paparazzi had managed to breach security, only to be tossed unceremoniously by one of the starlet’s private security guards.

I said, “They don’t get her, maybe they’ll settle for you.”

“Oh, sure, People and Us can’t survive a circulation war without close-ups of the vast polar tundra that is my VIP ass.”

He worked his way out of the bed, stomped out into the hall, and glared at the rent-a-cop hovering near his door. The guy moved on.

“Intrusive asshole.”

Definitely on the mend.

After discharge, he pretended everything was fine. Rick and Robin and I and everyone else who knew him pretended not to notice the stiffness and the loss of energy. The department physician insisted he take some downtime and his captain wouldn’t debate the issue.

Milo and Rick had been talking about a tropical vacation for months but when the time came, Milo’s mood suggested an impending prison sentence.

He sent me a single postcard: gargantuan Samoan sumo wrestlers tussling on white sand.

A:

Having a great blah blah blah yawn yawn yawn. These are the locals. A few more luaus and there goes my modeling contract.

Primitively yours,
M.

Now he finished his second beer and said, “What are you smirking about?”

“Didn’t know I was.”

“I’m a trained observer. You were.”

I shrugged.

“It’s the shirt, right?”

“The shirt’s great.”

“Lucky for you there’s no polygraph around. What, you don’t dig authentic island couture?”

“Elephants in Oahu?”

“Dr. Literal.” He rolled rayon between sausage fingers. “I’da found one with Freud analyzing a mahimahi I’da brought it back for you.”

“The macadamia nuts were fine.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He brushed black hair off his forehead, called for another beer, finished it fast. Bright green eyes took in the view of the highway below. His eyelids half lowered.

“You okay?”