by Karl Tutt
Chapter 15
I called Ev, told her I had Ricky.
“Bring him to my place . . . now.”
I did as she instructed. We made it into the penthouse. Then she told me to go away . . . not too politely.
I tried to work. I tried to sleep. Finally I tried to drink, but the image of Bijet lurked behind my eyes and sucked up my soul like some sort of incubus. Ricky seemed okay, but each time I opened my eyes “The Kiss of Death” smothered me like a shroud from every corner. The day wouldn’t go away, but I chased it by shuffling papers, and making calls that I really didn’t need to make.
Then I thought of Sullivan. I didn’t want the cops out running down a wild goose. He breathed a sign of honest relief when I told him about Ricky. He told me to phone him if anything came up or he could provide more information.
“You need it, you got it,” were the Captain’s last words.
But what I needed was me and Bijet alone in a dark place with the S and W pointed at his head.
The cell rang early. I was hoping for Sterling. I hadn’t heard word one from him since our somewhat fateful conversation. I was worn out on the tough broad routine. I needed a man so I could bury my head in his chest and sob. It just wasn’t happening.
“Dee, its Evelyn. I couldn’t get his fever down. He was vomiting every half hour, bile and even some blood. I tried everything. No luck.”
“How about the hospital?”
“We’re at Broward County Memorial right now. He’s in intensive care. The doctors are baffled. Room 601.”
“I’m going to make one call, then I’m on my way.”
I dialed Dr. Paul Galliano and told him enough of what had happened. He said to call as soon as there was an update from the hospital. I promised I would. I knew I looked like crap as I sprang into the dusty Focus, but it wasn’t time to get on my diva look.
I’m sure I broke a record slew of traffic laws on the way, but soon I was parked in the visitors’ lot. My finger got numb in the lobby hammering away at the button on the elevator. But machines take their own sweet time. I told the nurse I was Ricky’s wife. I think the look on my face put a quick end to further questions. She handed me a set of green paper scrubs, two latex gloves, and a mask. “Put them on,” she told me, “and under no circumstances whatsoever are you to have any physical contact with the patient.” She glared at me until I nodded understanding, then told me his sister was in the room with him. Sister? I figured Ev had pulled a fast one to get him admitted and gain unlimited access to the room.
I walked into the room quietly. Some sort of white cottony cover had been slipped over the doorknob. The smell of disinfectant hit my nose like a belt of ammonia. The walls were painted in that sickly color of green that these places buy by the container load. I nodded to Ev. She shook her head, but said nothing.
Ricky lay on the ghostly sheets. A plastic tube leading from the oxygen dispenser on the wall was taped across his nose. His chest heaved, but the breathing was way too quiet. On the other side of the bed was an intravenous feed with two needles, one in his arm just below the elbow and the other in the top of his hand. I watched the rise and fall of the heart monitor. It seemed stable. His blood pressure was a little low, but close enough to normal.
The area around his eyes was black, but the wounds he had sustained were already starting to close up. His skin had a jaundiced look beneath the surface. I got close to his ear and spoke to him. He didn’t move.
Evelyn pulled me into a corner to the right of the silent TV set.
“They can’t get his fever down. They are trying to rehydrate him and treat it with antibiotics. They gave him an anti-nausea drug and at least he isn’t vomiting constantly. He had a lot of congestion, but they think they’ve got that under control. They’ve run multiple tests, but they don’t know, Dee. They don’t know what it is or how to treat it. The doctor was honest. He told me they were shooting in the dark.”
She sniffed and fought off a sob. I looked back at Ricky. Now I could see the distinctive tint of yellow beneath his skin. Grace’s description of Jacques’ death flashed in my mind.
“I gotta make a call,” I said and slipped out of the room.
Dr. Galliano answered on the first ring. I told him about Ricky, tried to repeat all of the things Ev had told me.
“Look,” he said, “I’ve got hospital privileges at Broward Memorial. I’ll be up as soon as I complete my eleven o’clock lecture at the university. I should be there a little after lunch.”
I thanked him, gave him the room number and hung up. I went down the hall to use the restroom. Yeah, I looked like shit when I came in and now I looked like more shit. On the way back down the hall, my cell vibrated. I checked the caller ID. It was Grace.
“Oh, God, Dee. Henri came home in tears. He told me about Ricky. Some of the gang had made jokes about what they called Ricky’s final performance. One called it a ‘bloody Swan Song.’ Henri didn’t know that expression, but he figured it meant something evil. He asked me. I told him. What have they done to Ricky? Is he okay?”
I told her where we were and described the symptoms. There was a hush over the phone. I thought for a moment it had gone dead. Then I heard her breathing in short gasps. I said her name and barely heard the words she spoke, “The Mondatti. He has the Mondatti. It is ‘The Kiss.” Then she hung up.
I went back to the room and told Evelyn about the two calls.
“Mondatti? Kiss of Death? Sounds like old wive’s tales.”
“It does Ev, but a lot of people believe them, and that may make it real.”