in that room, and heard what the big emergency was. He was calling his broker. ‘The market’s still dropping?’ the great healer said. ‘Better sell.’
“After that, he was known in the ER as Better Sell Brentmoor.”
“Jeez,” I said, “no wonder his patients didn’t want to talk to the police.”
Marlene went off with the coffeepot to top off diners’ cups, and came back from her rounds excited. “Something’s going on in the back room,” she said. “Ithink it may be the Doc in the Box case. A bunch of police brass are back there, all guys, who think they’re so sharp they’ll cut themselves if they rub their hands together.”
“If they were really sharp, they’d tip you,” I said.
“Oh, I’m just a dumb waitress,” she said. “What do I know?”
Marlene knew everything that went on at Uncle Bob’s and a lot that happened in City Hall. The back room was semiprivate, and a lot of city skulduggery went on there. The men who used it generally tipped Marlene as if each dollar was stripped off their hide, and ordered her around like they were little kings. Marlene got her revenge by reporting their conversations to me.
“I’m really busy today,” she said. “I can’t hang around back there and listen.”
“Think I’ll use the back bathroom,” I said.
“It was open last time I checked,” she said. “Lock the door, and I’ll put up the sign. And make sure the boys in the back room don’t see you going in there.”
I walked down the back hall next to the kitchen where the waitresses and dishwashers sneaked cigarettes and caught a glimpse of the knotty-pine paneled back room. Two younger-looking men were listening to a fit silver-haired type as if he was promising them eternal salvation. The younger men had that short-haired scrubbed-clean look of very good yes-men. I didn’t know them, but I knew the older guy. He was Major Gideon Davis, high-ranking brass in the St. Louis Police Department. Davis was the first person to get his mug on camera whenever there was a high-profile case, and he often served as a police spokesman. If the case was solved, he never gavecredit to the detectives who did the work, but somehow managed to imply that he cracked the case himself, without actually saying that. The three sat at a long table covered with paper placemats, coffee cups, and legal pads, deep in conversation. No one looked up.
I slid quietly into the back bathroom and locked the door. I heard a clunk on the outside. Marlene had hung the Out of Order sign on the doorknob. I kicked off my shoes. If I stood on the toilet seat, which had a tendency to wobble, I could hear some of their conversation through the vent near the ceiling. I held on to the top of the scratched beige metal divider with one hand, and put my other hand flat against the tile wall, and listened at the vent. I caught “… the hospital lawyers are going to refuse us … mumble … we have to make a formal request anyway … mumble … be denied access to patient records … ask our in-house counsel to file an appeal in circuit court …”
There was more talk about strategy and precedent and court cases. The court cases were cited by the slick young assistants, who liked to show how smart they were. My feet were killing me and I was having a hard time staying balanced on the wobbly seat. The strong cherry-scented disinfectant did not mask the restroom smells. Also, I had to use the bathroom, but I didn’t want to miss anything major while the police brass were talking. God, they were still talking. I heard, “The police couldn’t see them without the patients’ written permission … mumble, mumble … we’ll probably lose … hospital will refuse us … a matter of life and death … Missouri Attorney General … grave bodily harm …”
They batted these same phrases around like a cat playing with a paper ball and said something about a precedent which I couldn’t quite decipher. But I
“After that, he was known in the ER as Better Sell Brentmoor.”
“Jeez,” I said, “no wonder his patients didn’t want to talk to the police.”
Marlene went off with the coffeepot to top off diners’ cups, and came back from her rounds excited. “Something’s going on in the back room,” she said. “Ithink it may be the Doc in the Box case. A bunch of police brass are back there, all guys, who think they’re so sharp they’ll cut themselves if they rub their hands together.”
“If they were really sharp, they’d tip you,” I said.
“Oh, I’m just a dumb waitress,” she said. “What do I know?”
Marlene knew everything that went on at Uncle Bob’s and a lot that happened in City Hall. The back room was semiprivate, and a lot of city skulduggery went on there. The men who used it generally tipped Marlene as if each dollar was stripped off their hide, and ordered her around like they were little kings. Marlene got her revenge by reporting their conversations to me.
“I’m really busy today,” she said. “I can’t hang around back there and listen.”
“Think I’ll use the back bathroom,” I said.
“It was open last time I checked,” she said. “Lock the door, and I’ll put up the sign. And make sure the boys in the back room don’t see you going in there.”
I walked down the back hall next to the kitchen where the waitresses and dishwashers sneaked cigarettes and caught a glimpse of the knotty-pine paneled back room. Two younger-looking men were listening to a fit silver-haired type as if he was promising them eternal salvation. The younger men had that short-haired scrubbed-clean look of very good yes-men. I didn’t know them, but I knew the older guy. He was Major Gideon Davis, high-ranking brass in the St. Louis Police Department. Davis was the first person to get his mug on camera whenever there was a high-profile case, and he often served as a police spokesman. If the case was solved, he never gavecredit to the detectives who did the work, but somehow managed to imply that he cracked the case himself, without actually saying that. The three sat at a long table covered with paper placemats, coffee cups, and legal pads, deep in conversation. No one looked up.
I slid quietly into the back bathroom and locked the door. I heard a clunk on the outside. Marlene had hung the Out of Order sign on the doorknob. I kicked off my shoes. If I stood on the toilet seat, which had a tendency to wobble, I could hear some of their conversation through the vent near the ceiling. I held on to the top of the scratched beige metal divider with one hand, and put my other hand flat against the tile wall, and listened at the vent. I caught “… the hospital lawyers are going to refuse us … mumble … we have to make a formal request anyway … mumble … be denied access to patient records … ask our in-house counsel to file an appeal in circuit court …”
There was more talk about strategy and precedent and court cases. The court cases were cited by the slick young assistants, who liked to show how smart they were. My feet were killing me and I was having a hard time staying balanced on the wobbly seat. The strong cherry-scented disinfectant did not mask the restroom smells. Also, I had to use the bathroom, but I didn’t want to miss anything major while the police brass were talking. God, they were still talking. I heard, “The police couldn’t see them without the patients’ written permission … mumble, mumble … we’ll probably lose … hospital will refuse us … a matter of life and death … Missouri Attorney General … grave bodily harm …”
They batted these same phrases around like a cat playing with a paper ball and said something about a precedent which I couldn’t quite decipher. But I
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