Snow Job

By Kate Kulig

January is typically a quiet time for Bloody Murder bookstore. That quiet stretch of time between Twelfth Night and Mardi Gras where a lot of people in New Orleans kick back and relax. Those were Zofia Smith''s plans that Sunday. Until a man collapsed, bleeding, on her floor.

A call to 911, an attempt at CPR, a fainting spell, and unknown minutes later, Zo found herself in a heap on her floor, with no sign of the man, dead or alive. The paramedics weren't amused, her boyfriend was worried and as Zo tries to put the pieces together, she keeps getting told she's losing her mind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kate Kulig
• Release date: Nov 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311600196

Kate Kulig

Kate Kulig was born in Saugus, Massachusetts and denies all responsibility for the hospital burning down at a later date. After growing up in both Wilmington and Andover, MA, she graduated from Hofstra University with a BA in Communications with a minor in English. Five states (one of them twice), several moves and more than a few careers later, including time spent as a disc jockey, stage manger, delivery driver, bookseller and a memorable temp job counting arrows, she found herself happily in New York City. When not working at her day job as a project manager, reading, or writing, she can be found prowling Manhattan's ramen shops, traveling to New Orleans, bicycling in Central Park, dabbling in photography, experimenting in the kitchen, playing an assortment of role-playing games, and watching way too many crime shows.

Book preview

Call me an ambulance.

Okay, you’re an ambulance. I didn’t say it out loud, even though I find it hard to resist a straight line, a habit I’ve had as long as I can remember. I turned around at the sound of the bell when the door to Bloody Murder opened and was hit in the face with a blast of chill January air that reached to the middle of the shop where I had been dusting paperbacks. The figure in the doorway started to buckle about the knees without saying anything else.

This was not the typical reaction of a person when he or she first walked into my bookstore . . . not by a long shot. Usually, customers inhaled the smell of fresh Café du Monde coffee and smiled. If it were morning, they’d gravitate towards the freshly baked muffins, sometimes grabbing a book or two on their way. I sprinted the short distance from the shelves over to the doorway and managed to catch the figure under one bony elbow, placing another hand at the back and had to brace myself. My visitor was definitely male. I guessed he was anywhere between thirty and forty, now that I was close enough to see his face. He had about five inches on my 5’10". Preventing him from falling turned into an all-consuming effort. For a slender guy, he had some weight on him. I tried to get him to his feet.

What happened to you? Why did you choose my store to collapse in?

He didn’t answer, but instead slid out of my arms and hit the floor with a serious thump, nearly taking me with him. I poked my head out the half-open door. It was a Sunday evening in the French Quarter; Royal Street was quiet. I didn’t see anyone on the street and only a few lights in my neighbors’ shops and homes. Much of the action the Big Easy was famous for was a block away on Bourbon, especially if it involved alcohol or sex. There would be plenty of time for both later. Right now, I needed to get the stranger all the way inside and get him some help.

After I dragged tall, dark, and unconscious all the way inside and closed the door, I knelt down beside him, trying to remember the last time I’d taken a CPR class. First thing, get someone to call 911. Right. Where was the store phone? Damn cordless. I could have left the handset anywhere. My cell phone was upstairs in my purse. I’d left it there when I changed clothes in anticipation of tonight’s date.

It was in the back on the coffee table by the fireplace. That was where I had left the handset, together with a fresh cup of coffee heavily laced with some Jameson’s Irish whiskey. The plan was to have a warm treat at the end of a cool night. I dashed for the phone, dialed 811, realized what I’d done, then dialed 911 while I rushed back to the man on my floor.

I was put on hold. I stared at the phone in stunned silence for minute before a disturbingly calm tenor voice came on the line. Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?

My name is Zofia Smith, I said, slowing down to make sure I enunciated. I need an ambulance. Royal Street and Saint Philip. It’s a business address, Bloody Murder bookstore. I don’t know what’s wrong. A man walked into my store and collapsed. He’s unconscious. I passed a hand over his nose and mouth and didn’t feel anything. He’s not breathing. Hurry! After a reiteration of my name and address, I was told an ambulance was on the way.

What the hell was I supposed to do next? I wracked my brains, reaching into dim recesses of memory. Get him on his back, open the airway. His skin was still warm but it was also the color parchment faded to in the days before acid-free paper. I tilted his head back gently, put my ear next to his lips. Still no signs of breathing. Where was the ambulance? I was seriously out of my league here.

Two quick breaths? Three? Damn, I should have kept 911 on the phone. I made a mental note to call the Red Cross or the YMCA to get recertified and hoped this guy wouldn’t sue me if he caught the flu I was getting over. I chose two quick breaths. No response. I slid my fingers to where I thought the carotid artery should be—over a tattoo that looked like a stick figure with circles at the joints--and didn’t find a pulse. No pulse, start chest compressions. I remembered that much. John Doe’s leather jacket was partially zipped, his shirt a deep burgundy. I unzipped the jacket and when I pulled it aside, smelled something akin to old pennies that made my nose twitch.

The bottom of the sternum was much easier to find on the manikins we’d used last time I tried this, I mused. I guesstimated, lay three fingers down, placed the heel of my right hand on his breastbone, whispered a quick prayer, closed my eyes and pressed down hard. One. No cracking sound, so at least I didn’t break any bones. Something warm and wet leaked over my hand and my stomach leapt into my throat and did a one-and-a-half gainer. I forced it back where it belonged. I suspected what it was and kept my eyes shut. If I saw it, I was going to faint and the ambulance would find two people unconscious.

Two. My stomach clenched, the coppery smell was getting stronger. I wasn’t sure I was going to stay with it long enough for another couple of chest compressions, never mind a full set of fifteen, but I had to keep going. Three. I could do this. I was not going to let someone die because of a weakness I couldn’t control. I opened my eyes, which was a mistake. My vision began to tunnel, and I heard a ringing in my ears. Or maybe that was the ambulance? Four. Blackness encroaching. I looked down and saw my hands covered with blood that was spreading on my hands from just below his clavicle. Five. I can stand this just a little longer. Six. Just until someone can get here with paddles. Seven. Blood was rushing from my head. I felt myself falling over the guy. I hoped the ambulance made it before it was too late to revive him. I really didn’t want to have to explain this to the cops.

2

Zo? Zo! Talk to me! An urgent baritone penetrated what had been a comfortable fog around my brain. My head hurt, my face hurt and when I opened my eyes, the flash of a red bubble light atop an ambulance from outside was disorienting. I winced, and then looked into the warm brown eyes of my boyfriend, Michael Woo. I’d been expecting him this evening, but not quite like this. It was supposed to have been a romantic evening that involved nobody bleeding. While part of the evening might feature me on my back, I did want dinner first.

Hey. I managed a crooked smile. Is he okay? I asked.

Michael looked confused, which didn’t happen often. He was one of the smartest people I knew. Is who okay?

They guy I called the ambulance for. I looked around. I didn’t see anybody in the store besides the two of us.

I called the ambulance, Michael said. You were passed out on the floor in a puddle of blood. I thought you’d given yourself another concussion.

Another concussion? This came from a stocky, khaki-uniformed woman with a nasal voice. I hadn’t seen her behind Michael. I assumed her to be a paramedic. The patch on her sleeve confirmed my suspicions when she came closer. Her eyes were also brown, but not warm; they were more like frozen earth. Above the eyes, thin eyebrows were penciled on in the same shade. Her matching wavy hair was pulled back in a ponytail so tight I wondered if it hurt. If you’ve got a history of falls with head injuries, you should go to the hospital.

What, I’m Gerald Ford now? I don’t fall down that often. It’s not something I would call a habit. I sat up slowly, leaning back and resting my weight on my hands It’s only happened once and that was almost year ago.

And the first time I met you, you were nursing a sprained ankle and another whack on the head. Michael reminded me.

Don’t help, darling. It’s not every day I trip over a dead body. I tried not to think about that and looked at the paramedic. I don’t need a hospital, and what do you mean there was no guy? Whose blood do I have all over me? And one of my favorite silk blouses. My face felt unpleasantly sticky and I felt a little foggy. I put my head between my knees and took a deep breath. When the muzzy feeling in my head went away, I looked back up.

Yours, ma’am, the paramedic said with the patience of a nun. A cranky nun, mind you. She reminded me of Sister Mary Joshua who had had a fast hand with a ruler. We were never actually hit on the knuckles with rulers at Sacred Heart. Corporal punishment went out long before I enrolled in school. However, nothing gets your attention like a loud whack on your desk just centimeters from your fingertips. Unless it’s the three weeks of detention you get for wrenching the ruler out of the sister’s fist. I’d done that in another class. I focused on the cranky paramedic who said, You gave yourself a bloody nose when you fell. She handed me some gauze. My nose did hurt when I touched it gently, but blood was not, thankfully, flowing. I didn’t feel any lumps that shouldn’t be there. But it’s not broken, she continued. And there’s nobody here but the three of us. Fill out the top section. Press hard. She thrust a small clipboard at me. On it waited a form that demanded I fill out name, rank and serial number. I ignored it.

No, I insisted, talking to Michael and not the medic. He was listening. I had just closed the store and was cleaning up a little bit--dusting the rack of new paperbacks. I was planning to dust for a few minutes and then have a drink by the fireplace while I waited for you so we could go to dinner. Not atypical Sunday night behavior. My appetite, however, had gone the way of the man who was no longer there. I heard the door open, and this strange guy staggered in. The only thing he said was call him an ambulance. After that he collapsed on my floor. My blood-covered floor. Crap. I’d need ammonia to get the stain out.

And you called 911? The paramedic looked skeptical. She could also have been feeling put out, or perhaps it was a bit of both. I couldn’t say I blamed her. I knew my story sounded odd and I’d been there. I filled out part of the paperwork with the pen that was chained to the clipboard before I replied.

Yes, I said after a moment. I called 911. From the store phone. I looked around for the cordless handset. Logic would dictate it was on the floor near where I’d fallen. It wasn’t. I stood up shakily, shrugging off any help. My dignity was at stake. The handset was back in the phone by the register. I looked at Michael. What phone did you use to call 911?

My cell. He produced the latest Smartphone from his pocket.

The woman interrupted. Look ma’am, are you going to come to the hospital? You’re going to get billed for this, whether you use us or not.

I gave her what I hoped was a withering look. I was pretty sure my health insurance was not going to cover an unused ambulance. I wasn’t sure it covered a used ambulance, but I’d deal with that later. I’m not going with you. I don’t need the hospital and I definitely don’t need an ambulance. I gave Michael a mock glare. Somebody over-reacted.

Her vitals are fine, the paramedic said to Michael. I hate being talked about in the third person when I’m in the room. I cleared my throat to say something and she tugged on the clipboard, Are you done with this? I signed Z.T. Smith and handed it back. She inched toward the door, and paused one more time. Are you sure, ma’am?

I’m sure, I said. Go. I promise not to sue you. She stalked off, obviously peeved. I didn’t apologize. I didn’t call her, after all.

3

I leaned on the counter as the door slammed shut, proud that I was reasonably steady on my feet. Michael’s face was concerned, and his body was tense. I wish you’d gotten checked out at the hospital, he said.

I shook my head and felt the lobes of my brain switch places. I’d never had a nosebleed make me lightheaded. Could I have lost that much blood? Landing on my nose also didn’t make sense, when I thought about it further. Maybe Michael was right and I should have been looked at by a doctor, but the point was now moot. The ambulance rattled away on the uneven pavement and it was just me and my boyfriend, who pulled me into his arms. I relaxed against his chest and held onto him for a moment before saying, I really don’t feel like going out to dinner.

I don’t blame you. What do you feel like doing?

Drinking the Irish coffee I was looking forward to, first off. Despite what I’d lost via my nose, there was still way too much blood in my caffeine level. I went behind the coffee bar that took up part of one wall of the bookstore and started a fresh pot. Then, I’d really like to find out what happened to that guy. He was bleeding, Michael, I think from the shoulder. I tried to give him CPR, I saw he was bleeding and fainted. I tried not to blush and failed. After thirty-five years, you’d think I’d quit trying, but I had a stubborn streak.

Michael had moved over to the fireplace and thrown on another log. The cheery blaze beckoned to something primal in my still-sloshing brain. Or maybe that was just lust. After over a year seeing the man, I still didn’t tire of looking at his body or thinking of pleasant things to do to it and vice versa. You’ve got coffee over here that you haven’t touched.

It’s gone cold.

You drink iced coffee all summer long.

That’s iced coffee, I said with a patient grin. It’s supposed to be cold. He handed me the mug I’d poured earlier and I dumped the offending liquid down the sink. I did not drink cold coffee or warm beer as a matter of principle. I washed the mug, my face, and my hands until the water ran clear. My hands felt sticky even after that, so I washed them a second time. I looked at my nails; there was a little bit of blood under a couple of them. I’d take a brush to them later. Dried blood didn’t bother me.

The sight of fresh blood, on the other hand, has always made me faint. The official term was blood-injury phobia and I couldn’t remember a time it didn’t affect me. There was one theory that said select primitive people had evolved with this fainting gene so they would appear to be dead on the battlefield during tribal wars. I’d had some therapy for the condition several years ago, but it hadn’t took, as they might say down here in Dixie.

I was starting on a third round of soap to dab the stain out of my blouse when Michael pulled me over to the loveseat by the fireplace. Tell me about this guy you found. His body still felt tense. I kissed him softly, then with a little more fervor.

I’m okay, Michael. Really. I let my hands rest on his shoulders.

He put his arms around me. I worry, Zo. I know you’ve been living in New Orleans for a long time, but the French Quarter isn’t getting any safer.

That was quite true. New Orleans rivals or even exceeds New York City in crime statistics. I’d been peripherally involved in adding to them, thanks to some erstwhile family members--one of mine and one of my business partner’s. Nothing happened to me except I fainted. And fell on my nose. Who falls on their nose? That was just plain weird. I played with the collar on Michael’s shirt. What worries me is John Doe. The guy literally fell into the store, and passed out. Maybe he got away from a mugger. I was struggling for an explanation and I knew it.

That would explain him being in lousy shape, I suppose. He sounded doubtful. Thing is, there’s only blood on the floor where we found you, and not much of that.

None? I looked down at my ruined blouse. Cream silk, now splattered with stains slowly drying to the color of raw liver. I looked like an advertisement for Bloody Murder, but this wasn’t the kind of publicity I liked for my shop. I prefer to leave the bleeding to the pages of fiction, where I can be enthralled at a safe distance. Or sell said thrall to people all too willing to escape into mystery book pages. That’s . . . unexpected. Well, maybe not, now that I think on it a little more. He had a heavy leather jacket on, that might have caught it. But first, I called 911.

Easy enough to check that. He walked over to the phone. I used to have one of these. The phone wasn’t that old, but Michael tended to buy new gadgets the day they hit the market. It’s got a memory function. It should be able to tell me the last five numbers you dialed. He pressed a few buttons. No 911, Zo. There is an 811, called about six-thirty.

Yes, I accidentally dialed that before I dialed 911.

But there’s no 911 here.

That makes no sense. I was getting repetitive and annoyed with myself because of it. I now understood what bewildered felt like. Up close and personal. Not that my story had much in common with that of Jessica Savitch, besides both of us being blonde and working in journalism once upon a time. Well, I worked in journalism—for the Chicago Sun-Times. She had worked in TV news. There was a difference. She’d probably say something similar. Those of us in the media were all protective our respective specializations.

Getting back to the present. Someone has to have deleted that number, I said with a touch of impatience. I remember exactly what happened. I called 911. I tried to help him with what I remembered of CPR. He bled all over my hands. I fainted. When I woke up, I saw you. I like the latter part a lot, but I really prefer making love first.

He laughed and the tension left his shoulders. Nice neck. Suitable for nibbling. Maybe later. If you’re cracking wise, he continued. I know you’re all right, or close to it. But doesn’t it make sense that the guy wasn’t as badly off as you thought and simply got up and left?

There was no simply about this as far as I was concerned. With no pulse?

Maybe you just couldn’t find it. Michael’s voice was perfectly reasonable.

If I’d been checking his wrist, I might have