Page 106 of The Suit

I picked up a signed ball from the 2009 World Series and looked around. It was only the Yankees displays that had been decimated. Everything else was still intact, including his precious Jupiter Reeves glove he’d managed to con him out of last year over a drunken game of poker. And unless it was a hardcore Yankees’ fan doing some opportunisitic thieving then my money was on something else doing the damage.

Or someone.

“I don’t think this is a robbery.” I pointed to the wall where the framed Yankees team uniforms from the decades were hanging. Each one looked like a ball had been launched at it at high speed from the way the glass was crushed in the center, before fracturing out to the edges.

“What the fuck’s he done?”

We left the games room and headed back in the direction we’d entered; along the corridor to the kitchen and through the entrance vestibule, then up the stairs. We found him in his bedroom; at least I assumed that he was there seeing as it would be weird for Kit to be sitting in his bedroom, on the side of his bed, if he wasn’t.

And just like the rest of his apartment, the room was almost pitch black, at ten a.m.

“Pennington?” I bent and picked up an empty vodka bottle, though given the amount of empty bottles we’d found downstairs, there was a chance he might not even be alive.

“He’s alive,” Kit replied, using her feminine witchcraft to read my mind, and I made a mental note to not think so loudly round her in future. Hopefully she didn’t hear that too, though I wasn’t sure as she got up and hugged Murray.

I took her place on the bed.

“Penn?” I prodded him but got nothing, so I tried again.

I was momentarily blinded by the sun as Kit opened the drapes. His room was almost as bad the kitchen had been, and I was briefly impressed he’d made it into bed seeing as we hadn’t the other night. And this was muchmuchworse.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Murray cried, and whipped off the comforter. “Pennington, wake up!”

“Um, I’m going to make coffee for everyone,” Kit announced before she got more than her current eyeful of Penn’s naked ass cheek.

That got a reaction, though not any one we were hoping for as Penn grunted then snatched back the comforter and threw it over his head.

“Penn,” I tried again. “Buddy, what’s going on? Why does downstairs look like a drunken store robbery gone wrong?”

There was silence followed by a low garbled wail, that was more wounded animal than foghorn.

“Jesus,” Murray whispered to me, “Maybe we need to call the doctor. Should we call Lauren?”

“Don’t you fucking dare call my family. If you’re going to call the doctor, tell them I only need them to put me out of my misery and that’s all,” came Penn’s muffled voice from under the covers, which didn’t do anything to lessen the dramatics.

I shrugged at Murray’s expression. “Penn, what the fuck’s going on? You need to tell us so we can help.”

“There’s nothing you can do to help with this,” he sniffed.

“Is he crying?” Murray mouthed to me with wide eyes.

In nearly fifteen years of friendship the three of us had been through a lot together, up to and including Bell’s delivery to Murray’s doorstep, any incident involving Beulah, Penn failing his midterms, and the anniversary of his father’s death to name a few. But nothing had ever resulted in this behavior – which looked like he’d been on a drinking binge long enough to take down a Fleet Week’s worth of naval officers. Even the last time the Yankees had lost the World Series hadn’t elicited anything quite so dramatic.

“Try us,” I replied.

There was another groan followed by a shuffling, followed by the emergence of a man formally known as Pennington Cabot James Shepherd the Third. I say formally because I thought I’d seen Penn in all manner of hangovers. I hadn’t ever seen him inthismanner, however.

Beyond the bloodshot eyes, still puffy from drinking - and crying, evidently - there was a large gash on his head, covered in dried blood. Imprinted into his face was the stitching of a baseball – the one, no doubt, missing from the cabinets below that was now in the resting place of the pillow where he’d been laying - and made him look like a bareknuckle thug from the nineteen twenties who’d gone down to a back-alley surgery for a quick fix by Doctor Frankenstein.

“Holy fuck,” I reached out to touch the cut. I didn’t think it was quite as deep as first impressions let on, “Penn, who did this?”

“Nancy and Gramps,” he grunted with a wince.

“WHAT?” yelled Murray, making Penn wince again, though I wasn’t sure if it was the volume, or the fact he was struggling to sit up.

“Penn, what happened?” I propped him against the headboard, surrounded by pillows, and tried again, suddenly flooded with guilt that we hadn’t been here with him. “How long have you been like this? Did this happen on Wednesday?”

He sniffed, then rubbed his hands through his now thick beard, and dropped his head back. “What day is it?”

---