‘Why didn’t you do a blood sugar on that guy?’ she demanded, her mouth compressed in frustration at having to accept a report from mere ambulance drivers.
‘We did,’ Nique replied. ‘It was 106.’
‘You could have let us know that,’ she said, speaking slowly, as if to a wayward two-year-old.
‘We did,’ said Nique, all sweetness. ‘I saw Trish write it down with the vitals. Maybe you didn’t hear it,’ she added in her most calming voice, ‘what with all the confusion in there.’
Brenda maintained her stony expression, nodded curtly, forced out ‘Oh. OK,’ in a tone conciliatory enough to cut glass, and walked off.
‘She’s sexy when she scowls like that,’ I said.
Nique faced me, her placid expression still in place. ‘You know,’ she observed sweetly, ‘I think she really should just have the word “cunt” tattooed on her forehead.’
Not having anything to say to that, I just finished making up the cot.
On our way out to the truck, a disheveled man on a stretcher in the hallway hailed me. ‘Hey, Paramedico.’
I recognized him immediately. ‘Jose! Que pasa?’ I shook his grubby hand. ‘What’re you doing here? Racking up the frequent flyer miles?’
‘My asthma,’ he replied. ‘It make my heart attack worse.’
‘Sleeping in the parked buses at the station is making your asthma worse, amigo. You need to find a place. And get your own prescription for an inhaler. Stop using the ones you find in the trash.’
‘What’s you name?’ he asked, ignoring the indispensable medical wisdom I was giving him free of charge.
‘What? You know me, Jose.’ I tapped the company-mandated name tag, the one which ensured every psych patient, drunk and heroin addict in Philips Mills knew me on a first-name basis. ‘It’s Sean.’
‘What’s you las’ name?’
‘Why you want to know that?’ I smiled. ‘I’m pretty sure we aren’t family, unless there are Montreal Gutierezes. Even if there are, I don’t plan on coming over for Thanksgiving dinner.’
‘Just tell me you name.’
‘It’s Sean. My last name is The Medic, and my phone number is 911. I never let it go to voice mail,’ I said in my all-business, no-longer-fucking-around tone. ‘Now, why the interest in my name?’
Jose shrugged, smiling sheepishly. ‘This guy, he say he pay if anybody know you. He ask for the gringo Paramedico who work with the partner mas bonita.’
‘What did this guy look like?’
Jose’s look morphed from sheepish to calculating. ‘He the one pay for information.’
‘Jose.’ I tried to look hurt. ‘How many times have I come out to find you grey and barely breathing and helped you out? That’s not payment?’
‘That’s you job.’ He crossed his arms.
I sighed. ‘You’re breaking my heart, hermano.’ I pulled a five out of my wallet and put it in the pocket of his filthy flannel jacket. ‘I’d tell you not to spend it on booze, but I’m a realist.’
‘He was some big gringo,’ said Jose, narrowing it down quite a bit in Philips Mills. ‘He wear a long black coat. He speak English funny.’
‘Not good like us, eh?’ I replied. ‘Gracias, Jose.’ I patted his shoulder. ‘If he asks, tell him my name is Niemand.’
‘OK.’ He smiled. ‘Gracias.’
I walked back to Nique, who looked at me with a raised eyebrow. ‘What was that about?’
‘Our friend with the ankle is still asking about me. He’s canvassing the homeless now.’
‘Seriously?’
‘He offered Jose there money for any info.’
‘What’d you tell him?’
‘That my name is Niemand.’
She shook her head blankly.
‘That’s “nobody” in German. Either our buddy will know I’m on to him, or he’ll spend time chasing nobody, quite literally.’
‘So what do we do now?’
‘We violate the shit out of some patient confidentiality laws,’ I replied. ‘We need a hazelnut latte and my most charming smile.’
‘Why?’
‘Tiffany is working in medical records today, and she has a weakness for both.’
‘Which one is Tiffany?’
‘Not the old bat with the funny eye. Although it would be hilarious if her name was Tiffany. More like an Agnes, really. Tiffany’s the little brunette with the nose ring and the rack.’
‘Oh. Her,’ she said, her voice thick with Gallic disdain. ‘The one who thinks a neckline that ends at her navel is appropriate for the office.’
‘Yep, that’s the one.’
‘I thought you had a new girlfriend.’
‘You wound me,’ I said as we walked to the truck. ‘I’d never let it go anywhere. I’m just going to flirt and schmooze some info out of her. I’ll play the clueless medic who needs to get info for the billing department.’
‘Well, you do a good clueless medic.’
‘That’s why I need you to watch my back.’
A smile fought its way onto her face and she sighed. ‘OK, let’s go. I have to admit, I wonder why this guy wants to know so much about you.’
Chapter 11
HALF AN HOUR LATER, armed with a hazelnut latte, half skim, extra foam, we entered the patient records department of Philips Mills General. A vital skill to getting people to help you in emergency services is to learn and remember how they take their coffee. Forget birthdays and anniversaries if you must, but retain your coffee knowledge at all costs.
‘Hi, Sean.’ Tiffany rose from her seat, leaning over the counter as though she had no idea the effect it would have on any heterosexual male between the ages of puberty and death. ‘Oh, is that for me?’ She took the latte, sipped decorously, then wiped the foam from her lip and giggled. I swear I could hear Nique’s eyes roll. ‘Did you need something, or did you just come to say hi?’
In fairness, Nique was a bit cruel. Tiffany’s neckline ended around the bottom of her sternum. She was a short girl with a friendly smile, big dark eyes and an exaggerated hourglass of a figure that made men drool and women seethe. Her dark curls were piled high on her head like a Greek goddess and a tiny diamond sparkled on her left nostril.
‘Actually, I do need a favor,’ I said. ‘I lost a patient demographic sheet and billing is all over me about it. Do you think you could pull it up for me?’
‘I’m not supposed to give that out,’ she demurred.
‘I know,’ I sighed, ‘but you’d be saving me, really.’ I turned my smile on her. ‘You can’t just bend the rules a bit? Just this once?’
‘Oh, all right.’ She feigned reluctant surrender. ‘You’re gonna ruin my good-girl reputation. When did you bring the patient in?’ She turned to her computer and brought up a menu, her long, graceful fingers flying over the keys with a speed and efficiency that few noticed beneath her bubbly exterior.
‘Last Sunday, around two in the afternoon. He had an ankle sprain.’
‘OK,’ she replied, ‘got it.’ She punched some keys and a printer hummed and spat out a page. As she turned and walked over to it, I noticed that in addition to the low cut, midriff-baring, sleeveless blouse, she was actually wearing leather pants, slung just low enough to reveal a tiny tattoo on the small of her back.
She swept up the sheet and handed it to me, leaning forward just a bit farther than necessary.
‘You’re the best.’ I smiled again, accepting the paper.
‘Don’t tell anybody I gave you that,’ she reminded me in a stage whisper.
‘I was never here,’ I replied. ‘Take care.’
I walked out, right into the beaten zone of Nique’s reproachful gaze. ‘You tawdry slut, you.’
I drew the cloak of my dignity around me. ‘Your harsh words cut me to the bone, madame.’
‘I never knew you could be such a shameless hussy. My image of you is forever tarnished.’
‘I’ll see if I can’t find a scarlet letter to sew on my uniform. L
et’s roll, we’ve wasted enough time here. Got lives to save.’
She remained unmoved.
‘Drunks to pick up. Addicts’ misery to prolong. Insurance frauds to backboard.’
Still nothing.
I reached into my quiver again. ‘Nurses to annoy.’
She smiled at that. She grinned despite herself and punched me in the arm so I wouldn’t forget who was in charge. ‘Let’s get back to work.’
We climbed back into the ambulance. I scanned my ill-gotten demographic sheet on our curious European friend.
It wasn’t very helpful. The name, Doors, had obviously been anglicized, the address was a post office box, and the phone number was a cell. The employer was listed as Doors Imports, with a number and address, so maybe I could run that down.
‘She’s really into you,’ Nique observed as she pulled the ambulance out of the hospital lot. ‘You two never hooked up?’
‘Hmm?’ I looked up from my reading. ‘What? Tiffany? You’re kidding, right?’
‘Why not? I mean, yeah, you met someone, but why not a week ago?’
‘It’d never work out,’ I replied dismissively. ‘I mean, have you seen the magazines on her desk? Cosmo. Glamour. God help us, Us. I couldn’t fake an interest long enough to get through dinner.’
‘Not even a fling, though?’
I shook my head. ‘Still have to wake up next to her in the morning. I know it wouldn’t work, and she works in admitting, so every time we needed to register a patient I’d have to see her. Not worth it. Besides, she’s a sweet girl, even if she’s not my type. It would just be sex and I’d feel bad using her.’
‘That didn’t stop you and that ER nurse at Holy Trinity.’
‘That was different. Jenna knew the score and she was perfectly happy to be used.’ Eager, even, but Nique didn’t need that much detail. ‘Tiffany actually kinda has a crush on me. Using that to get her into bed and then moving on would be a lousy thing to do.’
I have limits. Not strict or demanding ones, but limits nonetheless.
‘If Pete hears that you could’ve slept with her and didn’t, it’ll just throw fuel on the fire of his gay theory.’
‘Oh, God, please. Don’t encourage him.’
‘Half the EMTs and medics in the company want to bang her. I don’t get what the deal is.’
‘Of course you don’t,’ I said without looking up. ‘You’re not a guy.’
‘I know who’s attractive,’ she replied defensively.
‘OK.’ I set my paper down. ‘I shall try to explain the dark and sinister workings of the male brain. At first glance, Tiffany appears to be the perfect woman. Probably isn’t, but she appears that way. Women don’t think she’s attractive because she doesn’t have the body of a fashion model, but you need to realize that only women and gay men read fashion magazines, and they set the tone for movies, tabloids and so on. Real, meat-eating, sports-watching heterosexual men like a girl with big boobs, a small waist, nice hips and enough ass to get a good grip on. A million years of evolution has programmed that deeper than a mere half century of fashion and pop culture can touch. Plus, whenever we see her, she’s always happy, smiling and, to the casual observer, uncomplicated. She looks low maintenance. She probably wouldn’t be all that easy and uncomplicated in an actual relationship, and nobody’s happy and giggly all the time, but that’s how she appears.’
I shifted focus. ‘You, on the other hand, are undeniably hot, and a better conversationalist, and probably much more fun to spend long periods of time with. But from a purely sexist, caveman view, you are less desirable because you look like more work.’
‘More work?’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘Yes, my platonic soul mate, more work. This conversation, for example. For all your sterling qualities, I couldn’t get you to drop your panties for a latte, and then distract you with a copy of Us magazine so I could just drift off to sleep after slaking my lust on your fabulous bod. You, my dear, are an investment. Well worth the effort, and a much better prospect when looked at long term, but more work nevertheless. Dating a pretty, low-maintenance, easily amused and uncomplicated girl is much less investment. Like buying a goldfish. Only a goldfish you can screw.’
‘Lovely,’ she responded. ‘You men are disgusting.’
‘That we are,’ I agreed. ‘But now, you tell me. Your fiancé Joe is a great guy, has a good job, and is, I can say as a confident heterosexual, not bad-looking.’
‘All true.’
‘So you wouldn’t find an unemployed, arrogant guitarist really hot?’
I saw a brief, dreamy expression cross her features as she, no doubt, pictured an unshaven version of Joe with terminal bed head, dressed mostly in tattoos, guitar slung low across his hips. She made several attempts to speak, but finally shrugged. ‘Fair enough. I can’t explain that to a guy.’
‘Exactly. Now, to reassure you as to the salvageable nature of mankind, it is a mark of maturity when a man realizes that complexity and dimension are good things in a woman and stops chasing bimbos. Much the same as when kids grow up and start preferring aged sirloin to a McDonald’s hamburger.’
She shook her head, but her smile remained. ‘So you can compare women to pets and food? Any other insights?’
‘I could do cars or sports teams right off the bat,’ I offered. ‘Or with some work I could hammer out a flower analogy.’
‘I think I’ll pass.’ She gave me that combination of a little sigh, sad headshake and indulgent smile that meant she found me at least slightly more amusing than frustrating, like a kitten who playfully drags all the toilet paper off the roll.
Chapter 12
WE MADE IT BACK TO THE BASE and had a chance to warm up dinner. I took my Tupperware plate of leftover pasta and walked into the day room. As usual, the TV was on and the stylish faux leather couches were covered by recumbent paramedics.
Looking for a seat, I noticed Pete sprawled across the slashed upholstery, his FirstLine Ambulance cap over his eyes. I walked over and kicked the couch near his unzipped boots. ‘Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty. I need a spot to sit.’
He opened his eyes, gave a slow smile and swung his legs out of my way, leisurely sitting up. ‘No problem, man. I’m getting bed sores here anyway.’
‘You slacking off and letting us do all your calls?’ I asked. ‘Nique and I have been out all day saving lives and making a difference and you tell me you’ve been here checking your eyelids for pinholes?’
‘Don’t try to bullshit me. I work in the same town you do. You been pulling drunks out of snowbanks.’ He smiled lazily. ‘Besides, I got no partner. Big Juan is on his way in.’
‘What happened to Spaz McGee?’
‘He accidentally slammed his hand in the door of the medication closet,’ Pete replied. ‘That was shortly after, but in no way related to his insistence on running up the stairs to treat the suicidal male rather than wait for PD.’
‘How did the guy plan to off himself?’ I asked around a mouthful of pasta.
‘Well, he didn’t have a gun or a knife, which is too bad, really, since it might have helped us solve our partner issues on a long-term basis,’ said Pete. ‘I think he was threatening to jump from the Singing Bridge.’
‘Into the Merrimack?’ I asked. ‘Was he planning to poison himself?’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, no cops in sight, the sister meets us at the truck, bawling in Spanglish about how he’s gonna kill himself. So Sparky grabs the jump kit and makes for the stairs like he’s Johnny Gage.’ He shook his head.
‘So the sister didn’t even say whether or not he had a gun or knife and Spaz wants to charge in?’ Custer or Lord Cardigan would have thought twice about partnering with Jim Burton. He was the kind of man best used to find landmines and snipers.
‘I swear it wouldn’t have mattered if she said the guy had a hand grenade,’ Pete replied.
‘It would just excite him,’ Nique added. ‘He doesn’t have the brains to be scared.’
> ‘You scare the shit out of him,’ said Pete.
She shrugged in regal dismissal, as though it was obvious that even someone as clueless as Jim Burton would recognize that she was not to be trifled with.
‘So what did you do?’ I asked.
‘I just advocated caution in my own polite way,’ said Pete. ‘You know how polite I am.’
He reached over and plucked a piece of chicken from my bowl, popped it into his mouth and smiled, then wiped his fingers on the couch. If I looked very closely, I could just make out the new stain. Nique sighed, shook her head and arranged her meal on the only table in the day room, setting her salad front and center, a grilled skinless chicken breast on the left flank, bottled water on the right, and a container of yogurt in tactical reserve.
‘Mmm,’ Pete said. ‘That’s good. Not buyin’ your sauce in a jar. Make a trip to mom’s?’
I shook my head, chewing. I didn’t want to talk with my mouth full in front of Nique.
‘He met somebody worth a nice dinner,’ Nique informed him on my behalf.
‘Holy crap,’ he said. ‘He’s a good cook. What’s his name?’
‘I made this.’ When dealing with Pete, I felt the need to assert my culinary skills more than my heterosexuality. There really was more point.
‘Jesus, he’s got you in the kitchen?’ Pete shook his head sadly, ‘Queer I was gettin’ used to, but I didn’t know you’d be the bitch.’
‘Hey, if you’d treat me special once in a while, I might be cooking for you, you sexy beast.’
‘You start dressin’ pretty, I may let you cook for me,’ he responded.
‘When you boys finish this very mature game of gay chicken,’ said Nique, dipping a forkful of salad into the tiny Tupperware container of dressing she had brought, separate of course, to keep the lettuce from wilting in the vinegar, ‘I will point out that I think a man who cooks is a turn on.’
I was spared further exposure to Pete’s rapier wit by the arrival of his new partner. Juan Lopez entered the dayroom like a liner pulling up to a dock. Slow, oddly graceful and impossible to ignore.
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