Book 11 - Whispering Nickel Idols by Glen Cook Page B

the
Bledsoe can provide when its staff wants to bother. “You’re right. One
thing at a time. I’ll do what I came to do. Relway will get to this
place someday.”
    “I’ll just stroll along with you. I’m curious about the
construction.”
    He did sound curious. Like a gangster wondering how anybody would be
doing something without getting his permission first.
    A large man without a hair on his head had a notion not to let us
in. I’d never run into guards before. Morley asked, “You’re kidding,
right? You don’t really want to be the next patient here, do you?”
    My guess is, the bald guy recognized Morley. He got out of the way.
    Next obstacle, an admissions clerk. Who was no challenge at all.
    The clerk was a volunteer. Of the female persuasion. Ellie Jacques.
Meaning it took Morley about thirty-seven seconds to have her ready to
jump her counter and devour him. She gave up the whereabouts of the
burned woman immediately. The patient was Buy Claxton. She
was
getting the
best
care the Bledsoe could deliver. With Morley
making eyes Ellie admitted Mrs. Claxton was getting the best because
the doctors knew the Contague name.
    The Contagues and the Relways tend to get results.
    I asked the clerk, “What’s going on outside?” Which earned me a look
of disdain. How dare I intrude on her romantic interlude?
    Morley offered a whispered apology. I was good of heart. And the
question intrigued him, too.
    Homely and middle-aged, Ellie was desperate to please. “A charitable
trust came in. They wanted to fix the place up. But they wouldn’t hand
over the money. I guess they’re not stupid, even if they are bumpkins.
They insisted on doing the work themselves. The directors resisted till
they came up with the notion of going after matching funds.”
    Morley batted his eyes and made implied promises. Ellie implied a
willingness to play any game Morley wanted.
    Bumpkins? Yes. A consortium of civic-minded, successful businessmen
from Ymber. Yada yada yada. The “give something back” yammer nobody
with smarts enough to get in out of the rain ever buys. Give it back?
What did you get in the first place? From whom?
    Morley suggested, “Why don’t you visit Mrs. Claxton?” Reminding me
that I had a mission. He swung the charm beam back to the volunteer.
Who admitted she was a Mrs., too, but wasn’t fanatic about it.
    “Right,” I said. “Why don’t I go check on her while you hang around
here?”
    “Absolutely perfect, my friend.”
    Enjoying the therapeutic aroma of the Bledsoe, I climbed two flights
of stairs to one of the hospital’s celebrity suites. The crooks in
charge are clever enough to keep a few available in case somebody with
lots of money stumbles in, bleeding. Belinda’s father had used one
occasionally when he was younger and got into those sorts of situations.
    Buy Claxton’s physicians had betrayed their normally hidden
competence by making her pain go away, then followed up by doing
mysterious, wonderful things to reduce the damage caused her by burns.
Their respect for the Contague name led them to bring in a wizard with
a strong healing talent.
    I don’t doubt that they found gentle, unobtrusive ways to pad their
fees.
    Buy was awake. “I remember you. You tried to help.”
    “Yes, I did. Miss Contague asked me to make sure they’re taking care
of you. And to see if you need anything.”
    “They’re treating me like a princess. Because they’re scared
shitless of what’ll happen if they don’t.”
    “Are you unhappy about that?”
    “Shit, no. I’m thinking maybe I’ll just camp out here from now on. I
got no fuckin’ desire for my ass to be some kind a symbol to them what
thinks the ruling class…” They must have drugged her as soon as I
showed up downstairs. Just in case. She mumbled through most of that,
then faded completely.
    “Belinda put the fear of God in them,” I told Morley as we left.
“And how was your day?”
    “The things I suffer for