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He’s watching the main room, keeping an eye on the customers, when Ugarté comes barreling through the doors and does his best to block them temporarily, while scouting out an escape route. He sighs when the Italian’s eyes land on him and then turn back to the door as he pulls out a gun, and Rick almost turns and walks away.
But he’s too invested in his patrons, in the safety of his café-goers, to be distracted by the potential of a gunfight that involves him, so he stays and watches the happenings.
Ugarté darts away from the door, the officers inside the gambling room force it open, and in that moment there’s two— no, three — shots fired.
There’s screams, because of course, why wouldn’t the women scream, and Rick’s attention is drawn to the customers attempting to scatter. He briefly makes eye contact with Sam, who nods and continues playing music, doing his best to send the message of “All’s well, just a momentary disruption.”
He’s startled by footsteps and Rick spins back around to the chase happening ten yards away, where Ugarté is headed towards his particular column for shelter. The smaller man gets close enough and grabs him, pulling them both into the shadow of the post, his gun waving dangerously.
“Rick! Rick, help me!”
Rick studies his face for a moment, noting the desperation and sheen of sweat that cover Ugarté’s normally calm and swarthy complexion. Here’s a man that’s on the cusp of doing anything to be free for a little while longer. Rick elects to stay out of the mess and pulls his sleeves out of Ugarté’s grasp.
“Don’t be a fool. You can’t get away, Ugarté.”
“Rick, hide me. Do something! You must help me, Rick. Do something!”
It’s in the frantic gesturing that the gun goes off again, and for a moment Rick thinks it’s one of the officer’s weapons, given the proximity of it. But Ugarté is staring at him, struck dumb by the shock of accidentally discharging the pistol. Rick looks down and sees a stain on his white coat. A steadily growing stain, right under his ribcage, that’s knocked off his left button.
The pleas for help turn into pleas for forgiveness as the blackmailer is dragged away by the police, and Rick is reaching for the column, grasping for support and making eye contact with Sam once again, pleading for him to quiet the customers. Sam hears and understands the unspoken words, offering his own silent question of “Are you all right?” in return.
Rick nods but at the same time he’s turning with his back to the wall, thumping painfully against the column and sliding down into the chair next to it. He’s probably leaving a red stain on the white plaster, he thinks ruefully. He’ll have to get it cleaned up. He can feel the heat, even in the Casablanca humidity, of the blood trickling down his ribs. The shock isn’t letting up and Rick’s thankful for the lack of pain, until he tries to stand up, a hand pressed inside his jacket, and the lack of pain leaves him unprepared for the dizziness that assails him.
Somehow he gets up. He can hear Sam singing in the background, the customers singing along, and the lights have been dimmed in the café for ambiance.
He’s got to get somewhere where he can change and stop the bleeding. It’ll do no good for his customers to see blood, especially after the short scuffle. He makes his way, casually and slowly as to not alarm towards his office where he knows he’s got a darker jacket, and he snags an extra waiter’s towel for over his left arm, to hide the red on his jacket. He’s nearly to the stairs when Renault stops him.
“Oh, Rick?”
He turns, grimacing as the movement pulls on the injury, and heads over to the table, where Renault introduces him to “Major Heinrich Strasser of the Third Reich.”
They exchange pleasantries, and then horror of horrors, the French police captain asks Rick to sit down. He doesn’t want to sit down, knows if he sits down the odds of him getting back up again without assistance are slim, but he sits. Renault watches him like a hawk, not to mention the scrutinizing eyes of the Germans.
Rick does not feel like doing this dance, not right now, but the tension in the café necessitates it, so he grabs an invisible dance partner and jumps straight into a tango. He skirts around the mentions of his past, avoids confirming that he ever knew Laszlo, and totally ignores the questions about his love life. All the while, he can feel his resolve trickling down his side, the hand splayed against his ribs doing nothing to silence the drums beating in his head.
Finally the focus drifts to Laszlo and Rick seizes his chance to escape; nothing like a sudden influx of customers to really back his “You’ll excuse me, gentlemen. Your business is politics. Mine is running a saloon.”
Getting up is another matter all together, and by now, the stain on his jacket has grown enough to be noticeable, even under the dimmed lights. Renault gets up at the same time that Rick shoves off from the table, and in a well-meaning gesture, steadies his elbow with a questioning glance.
“Rick, are you well? There’s a little something on your front there.”
He looks to see that the towel has shifted, showing a little of his blood, but he shrugs the hand and the concern off. “Some fool spilled wine on me earlier while I was showing him out; it’s nothing. I do need to go change, though, so if you’ll excuse me…”
Renault lets him go, clearly unconvinced. “Very well, monsieur.”
And then Rick is free. Finally, after what seems like the worst ten minutes and the longest five yard walk of his life, he’s nearly to the stairs, but when he reaches out for the banister he stumbles on air. The ground is suddenly uneven, there’s a roaring in his ears, and for some reason, the stairs are breathing incredibly heavily.
Someone catches his shoulder before Rick passionately kisses the first step, and he vaguely registers Renault’s mustache quirked at a very worried angle. Then the roaring subsides and he’s leaning on the banister, the heavy breathing is his, and Renault is staring at him.
“Are you sure you did not spill the wine yourself, Rick? You are acting like the drunk you threw out earlier.”
Rick goes to reply but there’s a dull ache building in his side. Ah, the bullet hole. He takes a deep breath and immediately regrets it, the pain blossoming into a hideous flower, but he perseveres.
“I’m fine, Louis.” He is very much not fine, but with the Germans sitting so close, he has to save face, lest his café become the center of a much bigger drama than the one that played out earlier.
“Of course, of course. That’s why you’re white-knuckling the banister, no?”
Sure enough, Rick down to see his free hand has a death grip on the rail. He looks up to see that their little exchange on top of his earlier near-accident has garnered some concerned stares from patrons and staff alike. And since Renault has been distracted from his guests, the Germans are looking their way as well.
Just peachy, he thinks to himself, and then barely stifles a gasp when the French officer gently touches his side, moving the black towel aside. He risks losing his balance to swat at Renault’s exploratory hand, to keep it from getting blood on it, but it’s too late.
Renault peers closely at the dark substance on his fingertips, then swears quietly. “Rick, monsieur, this is not wine. You were a fool to say nothing.” A pained look flits over his face. “And I asked you to sit and talk with those pompous fools. Mon ami, I swear, I did not know. I am truly sorry.”
“No need to apologize, Louis. I just need to change —” there’s another spike of pain, this time taking his breath away — “I just need to change, and I’ll be fine. Go back to your pals over there; they’re worried about you.”
Renault glances briefly, sparing a smile and a quick wave before he claps a hand on Rick’s right shoulder, spinning him around from where his back was to the banister. It’s a motion clearly meant to imply that they’re simply going to have a conversation, maybe to scold Rick for his impudence while speaking to such a high ranking German official.
“They are ignorant fools, Rick. Come now, we must get the bleeding stopped.”
And then they’re going up the stairs, Renault carrying more of Rick’s weight than he’d ever admit as the ache grows, making it harder and harder to get a full breath in.
He’s thanking anyone that’s listening for Renault’s stubbornness by the time they make it to the top of the eleven stair climb; he knows full well that had he been by himself, he wouldn’t have made it. The office is dark, but Renault has been here more than enough times to know where the lamp is, and he leaves Rick leaning against the doorframe as he rushes over to turn it on.
Renault has become all military efficiency between the bottom and the top of the stairs; Rick is reminded that his French friend has seen actual action before becoming a superior officer.
“Rick, do you know if the bullet is still in you?”
Between sucking air in between his teeth to deal with the pain, Rick bites out, “Check the wall downstairs; I…ah…. I didn’t hear anything…. anything break.”
Renault stares at him like he’s grown another head. “And leave you here, to continue bleeding out. Oui, that sounds tres bien.”
When Renault is upset, Rick observes, the Frenchie in him slips out bit by bit.
“My “Frenchie” is not slipping out, idiot.”
Ah. Maybe he’s slipping, then.
“Oui, you are. Now, do you have any kind of medical kit in this hovel of an office? Bandages, gauze, anything?”
“There’s…mmph… a box in… in the desk… second… drawer on… on the left.” Rick gives up on his grip on the wall, assuming he had one to begin with, and he starts to stagger towards the little couch opposite his desk. Renault’s too busy digging through papers to find the first aid box that he only notices when Rick falls to the floor with a solid thump.
“Merde! So help me, Rick, if you die before you help me catch Laszlo, je serai énervé!” He grabs the café owner under the shoulders and hoists him up into a sitting position, legs splayed across the floor and back against the couch. This earns him a groan from Rick and he goes back to the desk where he finally finds the kit, which is fully stocked. “Dieu merci for your paranoia, Rick. This is a whole battle wound box.”
“Frenchie… if I die…”
“Non! We are not going there. You are not going to die, because I, Louis Renault, will save you. Now hush, and sit up so I can take off your jacket. I need to see if there is an exit wound.”
It’s awkward, the close quarters, but Rick has enough presence of mind to lean forward as Renault pulls his coat off. The café owner sucks a breath in as the officer tugs on the sleeves, leaving his right arm for last. It’s been putting pressure on the bleed since he was shot, and as soon as it’s moved, his shirt is doused with another rush of blood. It leaves Rick’s head spinning and he pitches forward in an instinctive move to keep his blood in his body.
There’s another muttered swear from Renault as he braces Rick with his free hand, tossing away the jacket. “There’s no blood on your back, Rick. The bullet is still in you, je suis désolé but I will have to take it out.”
“I’ll… hmmph… I’ll be fine…. Jus’ go…” He’s breathing shallow and quick now, desperate to get air in but fighting to keep the pain at bay, to remain at least semi-aware of his surroundings.
“You can barely speak, mon ami. I am not leaving you. Is there someone who can help us, who can hold you —”
It’s almost as if by saying the word help, Emil appears at the door, a question dying on his lips as he takes in the scene of a protective Renault pressing his hands into Rick’s blood covered side. He rushes over, shoving the officer to the side and pats Rick’s face, attempting to rouse his employer.
“Rick! Rick! Monsieur Rick, what happened to you?”
“Emil,” Rick coughs and groans again, but there’s no blood. “Emil, is… is the café… okay?”
Renault barks out a laugh. “Merde, Rick. You are bleeding out and you are worried about foolish things. Your café will be fine.” He turns to the croupier, “Emil, how are you with blood? Rick has been shot and we need to remove the bullet.”
“Monsieur I will not faint but my hands, they shake, I cannot hold…” Emil is quivering, his normally steady dealer hands hovering over the bloody site, and Renault can tell he is unsettled by the scene before him.
“That is fine, I will do it. You must hold him down, then. Help him lay flat while I prepare.”
That Emil can do, and he replaces Rick’s hand on his side with his own and slowly turns him so his back is away from the couch and he can lay out on the floor. As soon as the muscles in his injured abdomen start to tighten as he leans back, though, Rick curls up into the fetal position, tipping onto his right side and hitting the floor yet again. His harsh pants fill the air as Emil scrambles to keep pressure on the wound, and Renault rushes to sterilize the slender clamps that he’s found in the medical kit with alcohol.
“Open his shirt, quickly now. Put this in his mouth,” and Emil’s handed a roll of gauze, which he firmly wiggles in between Rick’s clenched teeth. “Monsieur, please. Open so you do not bite your tongue, s’il te plaît, Monsieur.”
Then he’s attacking Rick’s shirt buttons, undoing them as fast as he can with still-trembling hands, as Renault approaches with the extractors.
“Emil, he must be still. You must hold him still, else we risk injuring him further.”
The croupier’s blood drains from his face, but he nods resolutely and straddles Rick’s legs, forcing them flat, and puts the other half of his body weight onto Rick’s right arm, leaving Renault to deal with the left.
“Rick, I must warn you. This will hurt.” And then he’s pouring more alcohol over the bloody wound and Rick’s back arches off the floor, a tortured shout slipping through the gauze roll.
His wide eyes find Renault’s and the officer apologizes again. “Rick, deep breath in. Emil, brace.”
The extractor goes in and Rick stiffens again, but it’s only a second before his once-wide eyes roll back in his head and he goes limp. Emil, startled by the sudden change, looks to Renault, slipping into his native tongue. “Est-ce qu'il va bien?”
“Oui. Il vient de s'évanouir.”
There’s a moment of tense silence as Renault gently explores the wound, then he utters a triumphant “Ha!” and removes the clamps, which are now tightly gripping a crumpled bullet. “It must have glanced off his rib, because it was close to the skin on his side. Dieu merci. Now all I must do is bandage this tightly. Emil, hand me that gauze.”
Rick slowly wakes to muttering voices and a dull ache in his side, which flares sharply when he reaches to feel for the source.
When he hits a coarse bandage and his untucked shirt, the memories flood back and he sucks in a quick breath. Unfortunately, breathing causes pain and he winces; the wince and sudden intake of air garners the attention of Renault, who’s still here? Why is he still here? Surely he returned to the Germans and didn’t stay with Rick.
“Ah, tres bien, you’re awake. No no, don’t sit up. Your wound is still fresh. The bullet is out but you will need to rest for a very long while.”
Rick’s got his feet on the floor before Renault can get over to the couch to keep him lying down. “Thank you, Frenchie, but I have to get back to—”
“Back to the café, oui. But you also need to rest, Rick.”
“I’ll rest when I know everything is fine downstairs.”
“Do you have such little faith in your employees, monsieur? Truly, Emil would be hurt to hear that, especially after he helped to save your life.”
“How did—?”
“He came to ask you something just as we made it into your office, and ended up holding you down while I removed the bullet.”
“Oh.”
“Oui, ‘oh’. Now, rest. I will check on them all and report back to you.”
“But the Germans! They must’ve been annoyed that you left them high and dry.”
“No, they were unbothered, especially since I went down to them with your blood on my front. Moreover, they were concerned and told me they had best wishes for your health; they also said they wanted to see you before they left.”
“I’m sure they do.” Rick pawed at his side with a grimace, where the bandage had a tiny spot of red seeping through. “This hurts like the devil, Frenchie. What’d you do, rearrange my organs while you were in there?”
“Oui, and I replaced your heart as well. Mon Dieu, Rick, it was hard. You need to love someone now and then.”
“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say. Now, are you gonna help me off this couch or do I have to do it myself?”
“If you are determined to bleed out while worrying about your café, I refuse to be an accomplice. But since you are my friend, I will, how do you say it, donner un coup de main?”
“Give me a hand? Sure. Can you hand me a clean shirt?”
“Oui. But I am not your nursemaid, I will let you dress yourself.”
They grin at each other for a brief second before Renault throws a shirt at Rick and hits his freshly bandaged wound on accident. There's a quick cough and he's rushing to apologize, the nursemaid comment forgotten as he helps the café owner into the sleeves.
Rick breathes through the pain, not as sharp and strong as before but still annoying, as Renault takes his good arm over his shoulder and lifts him off the couch.
As they approach the doorway, Rick eyes him. “Louis?”
“Bon sang, you are heavier than a sack of caca, Rick. Oui?”
He laughs and has to take short breaths to get rid of the burning that starts up again, but he perseveres. “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
They’re still laughing as they go down the stairs, one of Rick’s arms over Louis’ shoulders and one of Louis’ around Rick’s waist.