“Baby choking. Priority one. Hamilton Street. First floor. 461 acknowledge.”
“Hamilton Street,” I said. I hit the lights on.
Baby choking was a common call that usually turned out to be nothing more than a coughing fit or the baby getting a little too much milk and spitting it up. And like clockwork, thirty-seconds later we were updated. “Baby’s breathing okay, but continue. Slow it down to a two.”
The house on Hamilton was a triple-decker. We arrived to find a party in progress -- young men drinking beer and smoking on the front porch. Spanish music played on a boom box. A banner over the door said “Welcome Home Hector.”
Victor gave me a heads up nod. Even I recognized the tattoos and beaded necklaces that most of them wore.
"What are you doing here? Everything’s fine,” a young man in a red do-rag said to the police officer who had responded with us. “We didn’t ask for cops, just the ambulance man.”
“Hey, hey,” another man said, coming out of the front door. “Everything is okay. No problem, officer.”
The others seemed to defer to this man, who had to be six four, powerfully built with ripped muscles on his extensively tattooed arms. He had deep brown eyes and an engaging confident smile. A gold crucifix hung around his neck on a chain.
The man saw Victor. “Baby bull,” he said.
“Hector.”
“Andry has the boy. He choked on the milk. She just wants you to check him, see that he’s okay. They’re inside.”
This young man led us in through the door and into the kitchen, where a pretty petite young woman with long black hair held a two-year old boy over her shoulder, patting its back. The woman had round brown eyes that looked up faithfully at the young man. She had been crying.
By the stove I saw an old man in a wheelchair with a small child on his lap. The old man also nodded to Victor. Victor called him “Papi.” It was Papi Ruiz.
Hector took the boy from the mother, but the boy immediately began screaming.
Hector laughed. “He is afraid of the tattoo.” On his right arm was a large tattoo of a helmeted skeleton with a raised sword that seemed to have startled the little boy.
“It’s good that he’s crying,” Victor said. Victor took the baby from Hector and made a couple funny faces at the boy, who laughed now. I looked about. On the table and kitchen counters there were cakes and trays of chicken and ribs and rice and beans, and Spanish pastries.
“He’s all right,” Victor said. “Just be careful what you feed him. He may be hungry, but he’s still a little boy.”
The mother smiled, and nodded. Another woman offered her a tissue, but she took the boy back from Victor and kissed him, and hugged him, whispering in his ear.
“Thank you for coming,” Hector said.
By the way people looked at him, and the way he carried himself, he was everything Victor had told me about. He had a self-assurance that this was where he belonged. We were guests he had invited, not threatening trespassers. I could see one of the bigger tattoos on his arm: There was a picture of a young girl. “Remember Maria,” read the inscription.
“How’s your family?” he said to Victor.
“Good, I will tell them you asked about them.”
“Give a kiss to your mother.”
“I will.”
“That’s Victor,” the old man said to the boy on his knee. “Maybe he will show you the ambulance.”
“I’d be happy too, Papi,” Victor said.
“Another time,” Hector said.
Hector escorted us out, but he stopped in the hallway when we were alone and said to Victor, “You took care of my brother?”
“I did.”
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
“The other paramedic, he still work for you?”
“Which one?”
“The one with the Yankee hat.”
“There’s more than one.”
“The tall one.”
“He’s on military leave.”
“Military leave?”
“He was just doing his job.”
“He kept my brother from a murder rap, I wanted to thank him.”
“I’ll see he gets the message.”
Hector laughed and hit him on the back. “Good to see you.”
When we reached the porch, the friendliness was gone. There was no goodbye between either of them.
“Hector Ruiz?” I said when we were back in the ambulance.
“That’s right. Back on the street.”
“Are we going to see more violence?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
“What was that he was asking about the medic with the Yankees hat?”
“About six months ago, Troy and Linda were driving down Afflect Street when they heard a gun go off. Troy saw a man fall and another man – just a blur – run past the ambulance. They called it in, got out and started working on the victim. Then Linda screams – she sees a gun barrel out of the corner of her eye. Troy looks up to see the shooter standing over them. Before the guy can pull the trigger to shoot the victim again, Troy grabs the gun and pops the release, yanking off the barrel. A spring flies out. The guy is standing there looking at half a gun in his hand. His bad luck – Troy was Special Forces in the Army. Troy decks him. Knocks him out cold. Loads his patient and goes. I was the second ambulance in. I see a pool of blood and a guy lying nearby unconscious with a swollen face. I don’t know what’s going on. It’s not till I get to the hospital I get the full story. Turns out my patient is Hector’s little brother Felipe. I didn’t recognize him his face was so swollen. The victim lives. Felipe comes too with his jaw wired shut. What a hubbub it all caused. Ben Seurat tries to get Troy suspended for leaving a patient on the scene. The cops are pissed he took the gun with him. But the newspaper gets a hold of the story and Troy in his Yankee cap are all over the papers and nightly news casts. The cops ended up giving him a medal.”
“What happened to Felipe?” I asked.
“He’s awaiting trial on attempted murder. I guess Hector was grateful Troy saved him from murder one.”
“Why did you tell him Troy was on military duty?”
“It just seemed like the right thing to say.”
