breathe. Michael said hello to Betsey in Processing and good afternoon to Aramanda in Permanent Files, and laughed a little to himself. If he’d ever described the situation here in just that way to someone who knew nothing about it—to one of his classmates in the Harvard Medical School class, one of the ones who had gone on to make a million dollars a year doing plastic surgery in Beverly Hills—it would have sounded as impressive as hell. There would have been no way for his listener to tell Betsey was one of only two people in Processing or that Aramanda had to do the Permanent Files by hand because the center’s computer system consisted of three Macintosh PCs, all kept in Augie’s office downstairs and used to sort out the medical backgrounds of emergency cases. They needed computers to sort out the medical backgrounds of emergency cases because they got a lot of repeat visits by people who couldn’t remember they were making repeat visits. Michael found it absolutely incredible what crack could do to a human brain. He found it even more incredible that kids in these neighborhoods, having seen what crack could do to a human brain, started taking it anyway. Sometimes he thought his cats had more sense than half of the people he knew.
He reached the fifth floor and the day-care center. Forty children between the ages of two and five were running back and forth across the central corridor, into one room and out of another. A cluster of six children around the age of three were sitting in a semicircle around Sister Rosalita, singing the alphabet song. The stairway down was blocked. Michael waited while Kanistra Johnson came over and removed the block for him.
“You going down to see the great detective?” Kanistra asked.
“Something like that.”
“Sister Joan Kennedy was up here a while ago saying that Rosalie was downstairs having a fit.”
Michael smiled wanly and continued down the stairs. He passed four without stopping. He stopped on three just long enough to make sure that his own and all the other offices were empty. He stopped on two to check out the room of one Carmelita Gomez, who had given birth the night before under what could only be described as seriously bizarre conditions. Her grandmother—a full-blown schizophrenic who was just cunning enough to appear placid any time she got in front of a social worker—had decided that the baby was taking too long, it was bottled up in there, they had to release it. Then she had gotten a great big kitchen knife and stabbed Carmelita in the top of the abdomen.
Carmelita wasn’t in her room. She was supposed to go in for a new set of x-rays today. Maybe she was down there. Michael stopped at the nursery and saw that Carmelita’s baby was well and sleeping comfortably. Amazingly enough, it had not been damaged at all, at least that he could see, by the insane circumstances surrounding its delivery. The baby was a boy, whom Carmelita had named Juan, after her grandmother. Carmelita’s grandmother’s name was Juanita.
There’s really no way I’m going to be able to get out of this, Michael thought. I’m going to have to go down there and do something about it. Augie and Eamon Donleavy did their best to shield him from annoyances. They meant well and they often did him a service by affording him protection. Sometimes they were attempting the impossible. And much as he didn’t like the idea, he was going to have to meet the Cardinal’s private detective eventually. No, Michael didn’t like that idea at all. Ever since he’d first heard Demarkian was coming, he’d been having a very difficult time calming down. It was a bad idea, bringing a man like that to a place like this. It was an especially bad idea to bring a man like that into a life like his. Michael Pride had no illusions about himself. Other people called him a saint. He knew he was a fanatic with a socially approved obsession. His other obsessions weren’t socially approved at all.
As
He reached the fifth floor and the day-care center. Forty children between the ages of two and five were running back and forth across the central corridor, into one room and out of another. A cluster of six children around the age of three were sitting in a semicircle around Sister Rosalita, singing the alphabet song. The stairway down was blocked. Michael waited while Kanistra Johnson came over and removed the block for him.
“You going down to see the great detective?” Kanistra asked.
“Something like that.”
“Sister Joan Kennedy was up here a while ago saying that Rosalie was downstairs having a fit.”
Michael smiled wanly and continued down the stairs. He passed four without stopping. He stopped on three just long enough to make sure that his own and all the other offices were empty. He stopped on two to check out the room of one Carmelita Gomez, who had given birth the night before under what could only be described as seriously bizarre conditions. Her grandmother—a full-blown schizophrenic who was just cunning enough to appear placid any time she got in front of a social worker—had decided that the baby was taking too long, it was bottled up in there, they had to release it. Then she had gotten a great big kitchen knife and stabbed Carmelita in the top of the abdomen.
Carmelita wasn’t in her room. She was supposed to go in for a new set of x-rays today. Maybe she was down there. Michael stopped at the nursery and saw that Carmelita’s baby was well and sleeping comfortably. Amazingly enough, it had not been damaged at all, at least that he could see, by the insane circumstances surrounding its delivery. The baby was a boy, whom Carmelita had named Juan, after her grandmother. Carmelita’s grandmother’s name was Juanita.
There’s really no way I’m going to be able to get out of this, Michael thought. I’m going to have to go down there and do something about it. Augie and Eamon Donleavy did their best to shield him from annoyances. They meant well and they often did him a service by affording him protection. Sometimes they were attempting the impossible. And much as he didn’t like the idea, he was going to have to meet the Cardinal’s private detective eventually. No, Michael didn’t like that idea at all. Ever since he’d first heard Demarkian was coming, he’d been having a very difficult time calming down. It was a bad idea, bringing a man like that to a place like this. It was an especially bad idea to bring a man like that into a life like his. Michael Pride had no illusions about himself. Other people called him a saint. He knew he was a fanatic with a socially approved obsession. His other obsessions weren’t socially approved at all.
As
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