“What are you looking at?” he snarled at them. “Get back to work.”
He reached out with the shotgun and shoved one of the women in the back. She fell forward onto her face. Then he pointed the gun back at us.
Oh, great, did I have to pull out the Dirty Harry bag of tricks again?
“You have no business here. Now leave!”
He was within striking distance. It was time for some Krav Maga action. I shifted my weight to my right leg and turned slightly to face him sideways. Then before he could blink an eye, I raised my left leg, bent it at the knee and shot it straight out, knocking the gun from his grip. It flew in a graceful arc and landed in a pile of manure. The shit splattered up and hit the bastard straight in the kisser.
He spat and sputtered, swatting at his mug.
“Damn you!” he yelled. “I’m covered with that crap!”
“Hey, shit happens,” I said, shrugging.
He made a move toward the shotgun.
I pulled my Magnum and leveled it at him.
“You step anywhere near that gun, I’ll cancel your ass like a stamp,” I said. Keeping my own gun aimed at him, I walked over and picked up the shotgun out of the manure. Gross. I placed it between my knees and unloaded it with my free hand. I put the ammo in my pocket and threw the shotgun as far as I could away from Jake. I wiped my hand on my pants.
Then I said to Lupe, “Eulalia may be in the shacks. Let’s go.”
We headed in the direction of the shacks, beyond Jake, but the bastard stood there, blocking our path.
“Get outta the way, hammerhead!” I said. He lunged for my pistol. I made a quick sidestep, and he stumbled past us.
Lupe walked on, and I followed, walking backward to keep him in my sights. We reached the shacks and Lupe entered one after another while I stood guard outside. At the fourth one, she yelled, “I found her!”
I followed her inside, staying by the door. Eulalia was lying on a cot in the back. She was moaning and mumbling to herself. Lupe rushed to her side. “She’s burning up!” she said. “She’s delirious. We’ve got to get her out of here.”
“Let’s book,” I said. “You take her shoulders. I’ll get her legs.”
I walked to the cot, picked up Eulalia’s legs, and crooked them under my left arm. I kept the gun raised in my right. Lupe picked up Eulalia’s upper body, and we struggled to the door. We stepped out and down the steps.
Jake was waiting outside, shotgun raised. Shit, I guess he’d retrieved and reloaded it.
“You don’t learn, do ya, asshole?” I said. “We’ll knock your block off.”
He sneered. “Who? You and the spic?”
“No, Smith & Wesson and me.”
I fired a shot that grazed his right outer toe. He dropped the shotgun as his hands went to his foot.
“Shit! You tried to kill me!” he yelled, putting his foot between his hands and jumping up and down.
“Listen, shitface, if I’d tried that, your head would be splattered all over this field.”
We left him to his jumping and scrambled toward Lupe’s truck. As we passed the workers, they stopped picking to stare at us. The men started yelling and running toward us. I fired a couple shots in the air, then aimed the gun at them. They stopped in their tracks and went into a tizzy, arguing with each other about what to do. Yeah, a piece of ass toting a piece will rattle a posse of tough guys every time. Gotta love it.
We reached the truck and lifted Eulalia up into the cab. She couldn’t sit up and kept falling over. I held her up as we climbed in on either side of her. Lupe started the truck, put the pedal to the metal, and we barreled out of there.
The dust flew and the tires squealed as we pulled out of the field onto the paved road. We shot down the straightaway. Up ahead, a longhorn decided to cross the road at that very moment, and for an instant I thought I would meet the same fate that my daddy had. But Lupe expertly swerved around the beast, although the truck teetered on two wheels for a second there.
The whole time Eulalia was slumped on my shoulder, moaning and babbling incoherently. However, by the time we screeched to a stop at the emergency entrance of West Boca Hospital with a stench of burning rubber, she had lapsed into silence and was eerily still.
I swung open the truck door and ran into the emergency room.
“We’ve got a sick woman out there!” I screamed.
The waiting room was full of senior citizens who looked up in bewilderment. Their eyes lit up and their backs straightened as they realized that this was probably the most exciting thing that would happen in their lives that day.
The Boca Babe wannabe at the reception desk looked up blandly and said, “Please sign in and write the nature of your emergency.”
This was one time I didn’t have time for this bureaucratic bullshit. However, I didn’t think pulling the Magnum would be entirely appropriate in this situation. Pulling the contessa’s name should do it, though. She was a major donor to the hospital with an entire pavilion—that was the new and improved term for what used to be called a wing—named after her.
“Perhaps you misunderstood me,” I told the receptionist. “We have a very ill woman outside whose wellbeing is of great personal interest to the Contessa von Phul.”
“Well, that’s different. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
Before she had even finished the sentence, a couple of attendants were wheeling a gurney out the door. The seniors watched the whole thing in awe.
A moment later, the attendants wheeled the gurney back in with Eulalia on top, silent and motionless. Lupe came in behind them, and we followed them into a large room beyond the waiting area. It consisted of individual patient areas separated by curtains, and Eulalia was wheeled into one of them. The attendants left and shortly after a woman in a white lab coat, wearing tortoiseshell glasses and bright red lipstick, came in.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Yemenides,” she said. “What have we got here?”
Lupe and I described Eulalia’s fever, lethargy, and delirium. Dr. Yemenides asked us a few questions about her recent and past medical history, none of which we could answer. She then started firing a bunch of medicalese at a couple nurses who had shown up.
“Why don’t you two make yourselves comfortable in the waiting room,” she suggested to us. “We need a little space to work here. I’ll be out as soon as I have some information for you.”
We did as requested and took seats among the seniors watching the parade of ailments come in the door. West Boca Hospital E.R. didn’t get the gunshots, stabbings and such that you’d get in the big city. Heart palpitations, hip dislocations and, of course, Publix war casualties were the norm around here. Through it all, the Ethels, Herbs, Idas, and Harrys kept up a running commentary on the proceedings.
“Get a load of the shiner on that one!”
“Take a gander at the beaner on that noggin!”
A half hour passed this way. Lupe excused herself to go to the restroom. When she hadn’t returned after twenty minutes, I thought I’d better check on her.
I found her standing in front of a sink. On the little metal ledge underneath the mirror, she had set up a votive candle, an incense burner, a tiny bowl of water, and a statuette of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Jeez, a portable altar.
Lupe’s eyes were closed, and she was chanting in Spanish. She seemed oblivious to my presence. I quietly backed out and returned to the waiting room. Soon afterward, Lupe came back.
Another half hour passed. I was starting to get a real bad feeling about Eulalia. Finally, Dr. Yemenides came out and called for us. I could tell just by looking at her face that the news was not good.
She looked us straight in the eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “We did all we could, but it was too late. She didn’t make it.”
>
I let out a deep sigh. Lupe whispered, “Madre de Dios,” and crossed herself.
“Can you tell us what happened, Doctor?” she asked.
“She had a septic infection. A postoperative complication. The original surgery site became infected, then that spread through her bloodstream. By the time you got her here, her kidneys had started shutting down. The end was already near.”
Lupe and I looked at each other.
“What operation?” I asked.
The doctor fixed us with a penetrating gaze.
“This patient had a hysterectomy very recently, probably no more than a week ago,” she pronounced.
Chapter 26
SO GLADYS and Eulalia, both healthy, young Mayan women, had had hysterectomies. As a rule, investigators don’t like coincidences. There had to be a connection. What the hell was going on?
Dr. Yemenides didn’t have a clue. Obviously, there was no way of telling what had been wrong with the uterus once it was already gone.
More importantly, where had they had these surgeries? If I could find out the where, I might be a lot closer to finding out the why.
In the meantime, Lupe was having a major guilt attack for not having gotten medical attention for Eulalia sooner. I consoled her as best I could, but I was all too familiar with the guilt demon. No matter what I or anyone else said, Lupe would just beat herself up till she was senseless, then quit only out of sheer exhaustion.
So Lupe drove me back to my boat, then she went home to pack for the guilt trip. Normally, I would have been her traveling companion, but since I myself had almost died yesterday, I really couldn’t lug much more baggage.
Even so, I felt pretty torn up about Eulalia’s demise. Death wasn’t part of my routine as a ScamBuster, and it hit me hard. I went home, sat on the porch, and grieved.
Lana floated by.
“I know you’re hurtin’,” she said in my mind, “but get bumpin’, girl! Don’t let this death go unpunished.”
She was right, of course. Eulalia’s death had been senseless, and somebody was responsible. It was negligence or malpractice at best, sinister intent at worst. My inner vigilante wouldn’t stand for it.
Before making a move, though, I had to call the contessa and give her the bad news about Eulalia.
“So where did Eulalia and Gladys get those hysterectomies?” she asked.
“There’s only one place I can think of—the Isis Clinic.”
“Right,” the contessa said. “After all, why did Gladys give Eulalia that scrap of paper from her medical chart?”
“Yeah, I’ve never figured that out. And I have only Farber’s word as to why and when Gladys was at the clinic. I’ve never actually seen her records for myself.”
“Seems like your next step is obvious,” the contessa said.
She was right. I had to get into the clinic and get hold of those records. But how?
I racked my brain, trying to think of a way to break in unnoticed. Then I remembered. Hadn’t Farber, slick salesman that he was, urged me to come in for an exam? That was it. Though I shuddered at the prospect of a pelvic probe, I realized that was my opening, so to speak. I’d go in for an appointment, then hide somewhere inside till closing hours.
So the following morning, I found the phone number of the clinic and called. I gave the receptionist my name and asked for an appointment for a routine pelvic exam.
“You’re in luck, Ms. Horowitz,” she said. “We have a cancellation for tomorrow. How’s three o’clock?”
“Perfect,” I said.
I hung up and then called Chuck.
“What’s the scoop on my scooter, pal?” I asked.
“Bad news, babe,” he replied. “That sumbitch done some major damage. I’ve ordered some parts, but it’s gonna be a couple days, at least.”
“Okay,” I sighed. “Listen, I’m gonna need a ride into town tomorrow afternoon. Think you can swing it?”
“Tomorrow afternoon would be a real tight squeeze. But tell ya what. I can come get you tonight, you have dinner with me an’ Ricky, spend the night, then I can drop you in town tomorrow.”
There he was, trying to get me to be a social creature again. Well, he had me by the short hairs (and yeah, they were shorter than usual right now). What could I say? I was in no position to negotiate.
“Deal,” I muttered.
A couple hours later, he was waiting for me at land’s end on his Shovelhead. I climbed behind him, and we took off. It was good to have the feel of a vibrator between my legs again, although, of course, having the speed and motion out of my hands dampened my excitement. Being a passenger on a Hog can be pretty frustrating. You get all hot to trot, and then you hover there on the verge of ecstasy, unable to make that final push over the edge.
That night we sat around shooting the bull while feasting on deep-fried catfish, potatoes and hush puppies (Chuck’s contribution), tiramisu for dessert (Enrique’s) and a six-pack (mine).
The next morning, I slept in late and hung around the house; then Chuck came home to give me a ride to the Isis Clinic. He dropped me off a few blocks away, so as not to draw undue attention to my arrival, which would, of course, draw undue attention to my departure—or lack of it, that is.
“Want me to pick you up?” he asked.
“No thanks, I’m gonna catch a cab to go meet my mother tonight. Her ship’s coming in.”
“What? Some old fart cashed in his chips and left her his take again?”
“No, no. Literally, her ship’s coming in.” I explained about the cruise.
“Tell you what,” he said, “why don’t you come by Hog Heaven when you’re done here?” This was a biker bar located a couple miles away. “We can sip a couple brews, then I’ll give you a ride to the port.”
“That’d be great,” I said.
He roared off, and I walked to the clinic. A couple other women were already waiting inside. The receptionist asked me to provide my insurance card and to fill out some forms on demographic and health information.
I sat down to complete the tedious task. I filled in my name, address, date of birth, blah, blah, blah. Under Race, I put Human. Under Sex, I put Not Lately. Under Marital Status, I put Happily Widowed. Under Type of Exercise and Frequency, I put Ass-Kicking—Daily.
I handed the forms to the receptionist, then I sat back to case the joint. The waiting room contained two doors, not counting the outside entrance. One led to the medical areas, the other to the receptionist’s room, which also served as the file room. In addition, there was a small, sliding frosted-glass window in the wall that separated the receptionist’s room from the waiting room. The receptionist slid the window open and shut to talk to patients, like the gatekeeper of the castle.
Well, there was no place to hide in here. I’d have to see what things looked like inside.
In a few minutes, the door to the medical area opened and a nurse called my name. I followed her inside. She had me step on a scale. I looked away while she slid the little counterbalances across the bar. I didn’t need to be dealing with any weight issues right now.
Then she handed me a paper cup and asked me to provide a urine sample.
I looked down at the cup. She expected me to pee into that tiny thing? Yeah, right. My aim with my Magnum might be dead-on, but I hadn’t exactly been practicing my aim with my urine stream.
The nurse continued, “Please catch the urine in midstream.”
Yeah, right again. So I’m supposed to start, stop, start, stop, start, stop, all in one sitting?
Jeez, how I hate medical exams. They’re just torture wrapped in humiliation, shrouded in dread. Yeah, be honest now, every time you go to the doctor’s office you fully expect to be told you have some terminal illness or other, don’t you?
“The ladies’ room
is in there,” The nurse pointed to a door on my right. “When you’re finished, please place the cup in the slot that’s inside.”
I proceeded through the door. There were five stalls, and I stepped into one of them. Then I sat there and sat there and nothing happened. Damn it! I was stricken with performance anxiety.
I tried to distract myself by thinking about something else. I recited the Lord’s Prayer, then the national anthem. Who knows why? These things just pop into my head.
Finally, a trickle dribbled out. Of course, it dribbled everywhere but into the cup. Eventually I managed to get about a teaspoonful in there. Victory at last!
I stepped out of the stall, shoved the cup into the designated slot, then went to a sink and washed my hands five times. Not that I’m obsessive about hygiene or anything.
I exited the restroom and was met by the accusatory glare of the nurse. Well, excuuuse me for taking up an eternity of your precious time for such a minuscule result.
And to think, the worst was yet to come.
“Please step in here,” the nurse said. She led me into an exam room and had me sit up on the torture table. Then she proceeded to take my blood pressure.
“Hmm, it’s a little high,” she said disapprovingly.
No shit, Sherlock. Ever hear of White Coat Syndrome?
Then she handed me one of those paper gowns that are made of the same stuff as tablecloths for kids’ birthday parties. She told me to undress and put it on, “opening to the front.”
“The doctor will be in shortly,” she said, and left the room.
I struggled with unfolding the gown, trying to figure out what was the top, the bottom, the front and the back. I had practically torn it to shreds by the time I got it on.
Then I sat there, waiting. Why is it that doctors’ office staff always take you out of the waiting room, where you can sit fully clothed on a comfortable, cushioned chair, and where there’s plenty of material for your reading pleasure, only to make you wait for an eternity in the examination room, buck naked, freezing, and perching your bare ass on a vinyl-covered wood slab, with nothing to stare at but some larger-than-life poster of the upper digestive tract, the lower digestive tract, or whatever, depicted in all its gory detail?
Dirty Harriet Page 14