Old Dave 4/4
When I pulled my car back around the block, maybe a minute later, Old Dave was dead. People were standing around, staring. I stopped in the street and leapt out of my car.
“What happened?” I shouted, my ears ringing.
“Sir,” I heard fuzzily. I turned, blinking, to see a middle-aged woman with a flat face gazing up at me eagerly. “I think he had a heart attack, sir.” She was pointing one pudgy finger towards Dave’s body, which was face down on the sidewalk, his wool coat puddled out around him. I moved past her as if through water, shoved people out of the way, dropped down on my knees beside his body and pulled him onto his back. His hands were clutching his chest and his blue eyes were open.
“What happened?” I asked again. The chatter of the gathering crowd had finally cut through the fog of shock. Noise crashed over me like a stormy ocean.
“Somebody shot him!”
“Nobody shot, that car backfired.”
“They shot him through the heart!”
“He had a heart attack, obviously.”
“Is there any blood?”
I backed away from the babble and the wide-eyed faces, reaching in my pocket automatically and pulling out my cell phone. Through the chatter I could hear a woman reading the street sign for dispatch, but I dialed 911 anyway. It was the least I could do