serious, aren’t you?”
“I don’t have many friends,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose any.”
The sadness in his eyes told her he wasn’t kidding. “You have to work it out with the business office.”
“How do I do that?” he asked.
She took him by the elbow. “Come down to the nurses’ station, and I’ll get you started on the paperwork,” she said. Before he could move, she gripped his arm tighter. “If you don’t mind me saying it, Mr. Corso, she’s a very lucky woman to have a friend like you.”
Corso grunted and started down the hall.
Ramón was backed into a service alcove, a collapsible wheelchair on either side of him, as he peeked down the hall toward the red-sweater nurse and the nosy-writer man. He’d watched as they came out of the room together. Watched as they talked and then disappeared down a hall to the left. He checked the area. Nothing. Nobody. He stepped out and started down the hall. His shoes squeaked with every step as he made his way down the gleaming corridor. Still nobody in sight as he used his right hand to push open the door of Room 109.
In the green glow of the life-support machines, he could make out a single heavily bandaged figure lying propped halfway up in bed. As he started to step into the room, he glanced to his left and caught sight of a long black cape hanging on the wall. His breath suddenly lay frozen in his chest. He could feel the bile rising in his stomach. His mouth tasted like sheet metal.
He stood, one foot in the room, the other still in the corridor, when a voice said, “Excuse me.” Startled, Ramón turned quickly toward the sound. A thick little Japanese guy, looked like a doctor: all in blue, stethoscope flopped up over one shoulder, wearing a fruity-looking shower-cap thing.
“Wrong room,” Ramón said with a smile.
“You better check in at the nurses’ station,” he said. “This is the ICU. We can’t have you wandering around in here.”
Ramón pulled his foot out of the door and then pointed down the hall to his right.
The guy nodded. “Right down there,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Ramón kept the smile plastered to his face as he sauntered along. Fifty feet ahead the bright lights of the nurses’ station washed across the dim corridor. He checked back over his shoulder. The nosy Jap doctor man was back at the corner checking up on him. He could hear voices ahead.
The red-sweater nurse looked up. “Can I help you?”
“Loooking por maternity,” Ramón said, with a thick Cuban accent.
The nurse straightened up and came rustling out from behind the desk. “You’re lost,” she said. “Maternity’s on the ninth floor. Come with me.”
As she took Ramón by the elbow, the writer man looked up and made a flicker of eye contact. Ramón didn’t like what he saw. Something hard. Something sure. Not the usual tourist bravado. The guy was a player.
Unnerved, he stumbled slightly as he walked up the hall toward the pair of elevators along the left wall. She pushed the UP button, and immediately the silver door on the left slid open with a bing . Ramón kept smiling as she shepherded him inside and then reached in and pushed 9. “There you go,” Nursie said.
Ramón resisted the urge to stop the elevator. To get off and hurry back to the street. No. Just be cool. Nursie seemed like the kind of bitch gonna stand there and make sure the car went to 9. Ramón did not wish to be remembered.
Hospital elevators are built for comfort, not for speed. A full five minutes passed before Ramón stepped back out onto Ninth Avenue. A thick icy drizzle hissed on the awning above his head. Gerardo and the car were nowhere in sight. To the north, the lights of a red-and-white fire department aid car tore circles in the darkness, as the crew rushed a gurney into the emergency room. Ramón jammed his hands into his pants pockets, nodded at the security guard, and hustled north, toward the puddles of darkness beneath skeletal oak
“I don’t have many friends,” he said. “I can’t afford to lose any.”
The sadness in his eyes told her he wasn’t kidding. “You have to work it out with the business office.”
“How do I do that?” he asked.
She took him by the elbow. “Come down to the nurses’ station, and I’ll get you started on the paperwork,” she said. Before he could move, she gripped his arm tighter. “If you don’t mind me saying it, Mr. Corso, she’s a very lucky woman to have a friend like you.”
Corso grunted and started down the hall.
Ramón was backed into a service alcove, a collapsible wheelchair on either side of him, as he peeked down the hall toward the red-sweater nurse and the nosy-writer man. He’d watched as they came out of the room together. Watched as they talked and then disappeared down a hall to the left. He checked the area. Nothing. Nobody. He stepped out and started down the hall. His shoes squeaked with every step as he made his way down the gleaming corridor. Still nobody in sight as he used his right hand to push open the door of Room 109.
In the green glow of the life-support machines, he could make out a single heavily bandaged figure lying propped halfway up in bed. As he started to step into the room, he glanced to his left and caught sight of a long black cape hanging on the wall. His breath suddenly lay frozen in his chest. He could feel the bile rising in his stomach. His mouth tasted like sheet metal.
He stood, one foot in the room, the other still in the corridor, when a voice said, “Excuse me.” Startled, Ramón turned quickly toward the sound. A thick little Japanese guy, looked like a doctor: all in blue, stethoscope flopped up over one shoulder, wearing a fruity-looking shower-cap thing.
“Wrong room,” Ramón said with a smile.
“You better check in at the nurses’ station,” he said. “This is the ICU. We can’t have you wandering around in here.”
Ramón pulled his foot out of the door and then pointed down the hall to his right.
The guy nodded. “Right down there,” he said.
“Thanks.”
Ramón kept the smile plastered to his face as he sauntered along. Fifty feet ahead the bright lights of the nurses’ station washed across the dim corridor. He checked back over his shoulder. The nosy Jap doctor man was back at the corner checking up on him. He could hear voices ahead.
The red-sweater nurse looked up. “Can I help you?”
“Loooking por maternity,” Ramón said, with a thick Cuban accent.
The nurse straightened up and came rustling out from behind the desk. “You’re lost,” she said. “Maternity’s on the ninth floor. Come with me.”
As she took Ramón by the elbow, the writer man looked up and made a flicker of eye contact. Ramón didn’t like what he saw. Something hard. Something sure. Not the usual tourist bravado. The guy was a player.
Unnerved, he stumbled slightly as he walked up the hall toward the pair of elevators along the left wall. She pushed the UP button, and immediately the silver door on the left slid open with a bing . Ramón kept smiling as she shepherded him inside and then reached in and pushed 9. “There you go,” Nursie said.
Ramón resisted the urge to stop the elevator. To get off and hurry back to the street. No. Just be cool. Nursie seemed like the kind of bitch gonna stand there and make sure the car went to 9. Ramón did not wish to be remembered.
Hospital elevators are built for comfort, not for speed. A full five minutes passed before Ramón stepped back out onto Ninth Avenue. A thick icy drizzle hissed on the awning above his head. Gerardo and the car were nowhere in sight. To the north, the lights of a red-and-white fire department aid car tore circles in the darkness, as the crew rushed a gurney into the emergency room. Ramón jammed his hands into his pants pockets, nodded at the security guard, and hustled north, toward the puddles of darkness beneath skeletal oak
Similar Books
