by G. M. Ford
“What now?”
She took Corso by the arm and moved him toward the door. “Come on,” she said. Corso followed her out into the hall. “I hate to talk about comatose patients as if they’re not there,” she explained. “I always have this feeling that on some deeper level they may be listening.” Corso nodded his understanding.
“What next?” he asked.
She wrinkled her nose. “Next we iron out a couple of administrative matters.”
“Such as?”
“I had a very unhappy financial administrator down here this evening.”
“And?”
“And he wants to move Miss Dougherty up to Providence Hospital.”
“Why would he want to do that?”
“Because we’re chock-full of patients and Providence is only sixty percent full, and because neither Miss Dougherty nor the young man with whom she lives has any kind of health insurance.”
Corso trapped the words in his throat. What started as a profane protest came out as little more than a low growl. He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the growl. He closed his eyes for a moment and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. In the darkness behind his eyelids, he could see the endless halls of the veterans’ hospital where his father had coughed out his last breath. Where he and his mother and his brother and sister had traveled every Tuesday night for seven years to pay homage to a man they barely knew—a man who left whatever decency he might once have possessed lying in the bottom of a frozen Korean foxhole and came home with little more than an unquenchable thirst and an ungovernable temper. Corso’s nose stung with the smell of stale urine along the maze of scuffed hallways. He could see the ghosts sitting outside their rooms in the late evening, mouths agape, stubbled black-tooth chins resting on stained gowns. The burned and the legless, the lame and the disjointed, the shakers, the droolers, and the goners, all lined up along the halls like sentinels.
When he opened his eyes, the nurse held up a moderating hand. “It’s standard procedure,” she said. “Providence is a full-service—”
Corso cut her off. “Providence is a dump. I want her to stay here.”
“If she stays here, she’s going to have to move to a semiprivate room.”
“A ward.”
“There are no”—she made quotation marks in the air with her fingers—“wards anymore. The most patients we have in a single room is four.”
“She wouldn’t like being in a room with other people.”
Rachel Taylor made a resigned face. “Sometimes, Mr. Corso—”
“I’ll take care of the bill,” Corso said suddenly.
The nurse took a step back, looking at Corso as if for the first time. “Do you have any idea how much money we’re talking about here?”
“No,” he said, “and I don’t care. Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.”
“Her present bill alone…You’re 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 trees.
He was half a block past the oaks when Gerardo swung the Mercedes around the corner of Ninth and Madison and began coming his way. He heard the door locks pop as the car slid to a stop in front of him and then heard the noise again as he slid into the seat.
“What now?” Gerardo asked.
The radio was on the Spanish-language channel, Música del Mundo. A soft samba spilled from the speakers. “I don’t know,” Ramón said.
For a moment, Gerardo stopped breathing. He squinted at Ramón in the darkness. Turned the radio off. Something was bad wrong. Ramón always knew what to do next. Gerardo swallowed some air and waited.
“We got problems,” Ramón said.
“Like?”
“Like that girl who crashed her car is still alive. In the hospital. That’s who he’s visiting in there.”
“What’s the writer guy got to do with her?”
“I haven’t got a fuckin’ clue,” Ramón said. “It’s like he’s got the eye on us or something.”
Gerardo scowled. Lifted his hands from the wheel. “You said you seen her head come clean off.”
“I did,” Ramón said with a shrug. “Musta not been bad as it looked.”
; “That’s not good. She seen us both.”
“No shit,” said Ramón. He slipped into his seat belt. “Let’s get outa here.”
“What about the writer guy?”
“Fuck him,” said Ramón. “We gotta decide what to do, man. Things are gettin’ outa hand here.”
15
Thursday, October 19
9:29 a.m.
His name was Crispin, Edward J. Or at least that’s what the name tag said. HARBORVIEW MEDICAL CENTER, PATIENT SERVICES REPRESENTATIVE. “I’m telling you, Mr.—”
“Corso.”
“We quite literally don’t have a room for her.”
“Find one.”
“You don’t understand,” he huffed. “We’ve already pushed her surgery back to Saturday morning in hopes that a room would free up.” He shrugged. “As we speak, I still don’t have a single post-op room available. Not one.” He got to his feet and put a chubby hand on Corso’s shoulder. “Providence can operate this afternoon. They’ve got plenty of space. She’ll be quite happy with the service there.”
Corso’s eyes were cast to the side, staring down at the dimpled knuckles gripping his shoulder. Edward J. Crispin got the message and retrieved his hand. Thus chastened, he pulled his collection of chins down onto his chest and went all official.
“The space issue notwithstanding, Mr. Corso, and as much as it pains me to be forced to deal with such pedestrian issues as finances at a time like this”—he reached down and thumbed open a bright green folder; his overworked cardiovascular system had painted a bright red spot on each of his cheeks—“as of this morning, not including today”—he peeked down at his desk—“the charges for services total seventy-one thousand three hundred sixty-five dollars and thirty-three cents.” He flicked the folder shut. “Plus tax.”
Corso dropped a Visa card onto the folder. “Pay the bill,” he said. “Start a tab for further charges.”
Crispin made a rude noise with his lips. “If you do the math, sir, you’ll find that liability possibilities could run”—he pursed his lips—“halfway to seven figures.” He gave the figure a moment to sink in. “With all due respect, Mr. Corso, credit limits don’t go that high.”
“Why don’t you run the card and see,” Corso suggested.
Edward J. compressed his lips and jabbed a finger at the phone. “Alice, come in here for a moment, please.” Almost immediately, the white louvered door behind him opened. She was maybe twenty. A mouth breather, wearing a white blouse under a blue denim jumper. Her black wiry hair was held at bay by a pair of tortoiseshell hair clips. “Yes, Mr. Crispin.”
He passed her the folder and the credit card and then leaned over and whispered in her ear. He waited until the door clicked closed before turning his attention back to Corso.
“You don’t have to do this, you know. It’s not like we’re going to put her out in the street. Anyone and everyone who comes to us gets the very best we have to offer, regardless of their ability to pay, but we do try, in cases such as this, to spread the liability around a bit, if you catch my drift. Providence is a fully accredited hospital. It’s—”
“I want her to stay here.”
He was about to start back on his spiel when his phone buzzed. He picked up the receiver and listened. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” he said, before disappearing through the door. Corso could hear the hiss of whispers but couldn’t pick up the words.
Another minute and Crispin reappeared. He leaned over and set the card and an invoice in front of Corso. With a flourish, he pulled a pen from his coat pocket. “If you’d just sign at the X, Mr. Corso.”
Corso signed his name. “You’ll keep her where she is until you have a room for her.”
Crispin did something midway between a shrug and a nod. “We’ll put something together,” he said tentatively. He busied himself with tearing off the perforated strips and handing Corso a copy of the bill. “We’ll make it work,” he said.
“That’s the spirit,” Corso said, as he left the room.
Corso took the stairs. He jogged one flight up to ground level, then wormed his way through the lobby congestion and out the main exit onto Ninth Avenue. A gray sky swirled overhead as he stretched his long legs out, crossing Ninth diagonally, swiveling through the traffic until he eased up onto the opposite sidewalk and began moving steadily north.
Three blocks up, at Madison, he turned left down the steep hill. The breeze from the sound carried smells of salt and seaweed. Half a block down, the Madison Renaissance Hotel slid into view, its colorful flags stiff in the breeze. Another block and the federal courthouse slipped out from behind the Sorrento Hotel, its bleak plebeian facade black against the roiling gray sky.
The media horde had fallen into its feeding rhythm. This morning, Warren Klein held court at the back door. A knot of reporters jockeyed for position along the police barriers, as Corso crossed the freeway and approached the melee from the rear.
As Klein stepped up to the microphones, the clouds suddenly split, bathing the back of the courthouse in soft fall sunshine. Renee Rogers and Raymond Butler stood leaning against the building, squinting into the glare.
Corso could hear questions being shouted as he showed his ID to the nearest cop and ducked under the barrier. Klein’s face was scrunched into a knot, and he was shading his eyes with his hand.
“Provided we’re not faced with any undue delays—and I must say that, thus far in the trial, Judge Howell is moving the proceeding along with great dispatch—I’d hazard a guess that we’ll have the case in the hands of the jury by the middle of next week.”
Corso slid along the wall until he was rubbing shoulders with Renee Rogers.
“Warren’s gonna look like a mole on TV,” Rogers whispered.
“Not real media savvy, is he?” Corso said.
“He’s hired a media consultant,” Butler said. “To help polish his image, he says.”
Corso couldn’t hear the question, but whatever it was it got Klein started on his daily spiel about how it was an open-and-shut case. He was going to set up a foundation of extortion and negligence. He was going to prove Nicholas Balagula’s connection to a maze of companies responsible for the construction of Fairmont Hospital, and, most important, he would tie Nicholas Balagula directly to the plan to fake core sample results and other test data.
Renee Rogers leaned over and whispered in Corso’s ear, “You may be getting some company in the courtroom.” Corso raised an eyebrow. “Both Seattle newspapers are suing for the right to be present at the trial. The Second Circuit Court is going to take it up this afternoon.”
“And?”
“And recent decisions have been coming down on the side of the media.”
“Klein doesn’t seem worried.”
“Warren thinks the sunshine was arranged,” Butler said.
They shared a quiet laugh. Corso closed his eyes and languished, the warmth of the sun melting on his cheeks.
“You find out anything about what happened to your friend?” Rogers asked. When he opened his eyes, she was studying his face as if it were a road map.
“Nothing that makes any sense,” Corso replied. “I made some calls. The guy in the truck was a janitor for a local school district. Lived in a ratty little apartment down in the south end. The guy was so amorphous nobody even reported him missing.”
“Really?”
“And that’s not the good part.”
“Oh?”
“Before somebody went to all the trouble of burying him and the truck, they shot him nine times.” Corso looked over at Rogers and their eyes met. “With three different guns. Five of the shots postmortem.”
Rogers whistled softly. “Curiouser and curiouser.”
“Lotta anger there,” Butler offered. “It’s usually a family member who gets that pissed off.”
“I’ve got a line on an ex-wife,” Corso said. “I’m going to follow up on it this afternoon.”
Klein was separating himself from the crow
d. “I hope to God this thing is as cut and dried as Klein thinks it is,” Corso said.
Rogers and Butler made faces at each other. “Next couple days will tell the tale,” Butler said. “We’ve got our expert witnesses. Elkins has got his own expert witnesses.” He shrugged. “A lot’s going to depend on what shakes out in there. Balagula’s done a great job of insulating himself from his business enterprises.” He waggled a hand. “It’s touch and go.” He looked over at Renee Rogers as if seeking agreement.
She picked her briefcase up from the sidewalk. “Much as it pains me to say it, Raymond, if I had to bet I’d bet Warren is probably going to luck out.”
Corso broke out in a grin.
“What’s so funny?” Rogers demanded.
“I was thinking how somebody once said that we have to believe in luck, or else there’s no way to explain the success of people we don’t like,” he said.
She laughed and followed Ray Butler up the short length of sidewalk toward Warren Klein and the thick pair of brass doors. Corso stood and watched them file inside. Above the buzz of the crowd, a voice called his name and then another. Absentmindedly, he turned toward the crowd and found himself staring into the lens of a TV camera. He only said one word. One was all it took to stay off the evening news.
Thursday, October 19
1:51 p.m.
“Dr. Goldman, would you please provide the court with a brief description of your present academic position?”
Dr. Hiram Goldman was perfect: just this side of sixty, aging but not elderly, with a big shock of white hair combed back from a billboard forehead. He coughed into his hand and said, “I currently hold the position of executive director of the National Information Service for Earthquake Engineering.”
“And your offices are located where?” Klein asked.
“At the University of California at Berkeley.”
“And how far is that from the site of the Fairmont Hospital?”
“Approximately thirty miles.”
Elkins was on his feet, wearing his bored face. “Your Honor, the defense will stipulate as to the witness’s expertise in the area of seismology and earthquake engineering.”