I didn’t need my friends larger than life. It was enough for me that Carlos made the best milkshake in Miami.
He also had taken it on himself to teach me Spanish so I could welcome our Hispanic patients. So far he had taught me six sentences I could rattle off with the staccato accents and speed of a native Cuban: ‘‘Good day. I am the hospital hostess. Welcome to the hospital. Do you need anything special?’’ If the patient responded with anything except ‘‘No,’’ I fell back on the other two: ‘‘One moment. I am going to call an interpreter.’’
‘‘Quiero un bestido de chocolate,’’ I said carefully.
‘‘I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,’’ Angie called.
‘‘A little,’’ I boasted.
Carlos laughed. The two women working with him tittered. Rosa’s dimples flashed as she hid a smile behind her cup.
‘‘What? What did I say wrong?’’
He gave me the severe look of a parent to a child. ‘‘You just ordered a chocolate dress. Dress is’’—he wrote vestido on a paper napkin and, being Cuban, read it—‘‘bestido. Milkshake is’’—he wrote and said— ‘‘batido.’’ He made me order correctly before he fixed the milkshake.
Dr. McQuirter came to the counter and stood near me. ‘‘Hello, Celia.’’ His voice was like melted chocolate, and he looked so good my knees wobbled. No wonder new mothers swooned over him. In the past month three infant boys had gone home with the name Randall. I did a quick calculation and decided our age difference wasn’t too great.
‘‘Bring your chocolate dress over here and join us.’’ Angie’s invitation was more of a command.
When I obeyed, Dr. McQuirter ambled along beside me and pulled up a chair between me and Rosa. Angie frowned.
Two minutes later the overhead pager came to life. ‘‘Miss Winters, emergency room. Dr. Gerstein, emergency room. Stat.’’
Dr. Gerstein muttered an oath in German. Angie pushed back her chair. ‘‘What now?’’
Carver, the head orderly, hurried in and approached our table. ‘‘Emergency’s got one of those fellows back there, nearly tearing the place apart.’’
‘‘Oh, lordy.’’ Angie looked at the rest of us. ‘‘You’d better come, too, Celia. We might need you.’’
The emergency room was off-limits in my job description, I wasn’t on duty yet, and I still had half a milkshake left. We both knew she was simply hauling me away from Dr. McQuirter. I opened my mouth to protest, but Angie grabbed my elbow and dragged me with her.
Rosa called to Dr. Gerstein, ‘‘See you tonight.’’
Dr. Gerstein might be short and squat, but she moved fast. She was already out the door. Soon Angie and Carver were right behind her with me bringing up a reluctant rear.
‘‘Magda and Rosa work at the Overtown free clinic two evenings a week,’’ Angie explained to Carver as we hurried down the hall. ‘‘Poor folks, battered wives, prostitutes—’’
Dr. Gerstein interrupted impatiently. ‘‘You are sure, Carver, it is one of them?’’
‘‘Yes, ma’am. He was left in the emergency room sometime during the night, wearing sweats. As crazy as things were, nobody noticed when he came in. After the place calmed down, they saw him sleeping in the corner, but presumed he was a relative of one of the patients, so they let him sleep. He woke up a little while ago and started yelling that he had been—’’ He looked over his shoulder at me and stopped talking.
‘‘Fixed?’’ I asked bluntly. Angie gave me a chiding look. ‘‘I am an adult,’’ I reminded her. ‘‘I read newspapers and watch the eleven o’clock news.’’
Dr. Gerstein, still in the lead, continued quizzing Carver. ‘‘Both testicles were removed and he does not remember a thing from the time he entered a bar until he woke up here?’’
‘‘Doesn’t remember a thing,’’ Carver agreed. ‘‘Just like the others.’’
I put on speed and came abreast of Angie. ‘‘How many is that?’’
‘‘Three in three weeks. The other two were left at Jackson. I guess it was our turn. Poor guys.’’
We turned the corner by our equal-opportunity chapel, which had icons for the religions of all our patients. I caught the eye of my favorite—a Madonna with dark hair, dimples, and kind plaster eyes—and murmured, ‘‘God knows the first one deserved it.’’
‘‘How do you know?’’ Angie’s eyes flashed I share all my gossip with you.
I wished I could take back my words. Still, fair is fair. ‘‘His girlfriend—or one of them—had a baby here a few weeks ago. Dr. McQuirter delivered it for free.’’ I paused to let that virtue sink in, but the look in Angie’s eye pushed me on. ‘‘I recognized the man’s name, Anthony Miguel Williams, because he named the poor baby Zhivago Miguel and wanted Williams on the birth certificate, even though he refused to marry the baby’s mama. She cried about that the whole time she was here. You remember,’’ I called up to Dr. Gerstein. ‘‘I paged you because she was threatening to kill herself.’’
Dr. Gerstein wasn’t listening. She was heading to emergency like a horse to a barn. Angie claimed the psychiatrist had an internal magnet for people in trouble.
‘‘A guy refusing to marry somebody is no reason to do what they did,’’ Carver argued.
‘‘He’d already had three other babies by different mamas. He bragged about that. Said Zhivago was the second son he’s had this year, but the other baby was born at Jackson and his mama had to get her prenatal care at a clinic, because Anthony hadn’t met Dr. McQuirter yet.’’
‘‘Not a nice person.’’ Carver finally accepted my assessment.
We stepped through the swinging doors into chaos. Somebody had ripped magazines and flung them on the floor, overturned the newspaper box, and broken the glass front of the candy machine. The telephone from the desk decorated a silk ficus in one corner. Housekeeping staff were putting the room to rights while patients and their families huddled on the far side with frightened eyes. From one examining room came curses and shouts. ‘‘. . . lawyer . . . police!’’
Dr. Gerstein trotted in that direction. Angie gave me a wave of dismissal. ‘‘There’s nothing you can do here. Go on upstairs and start your rounds.’’
I backed up and stepped on Carver. His eyes were fixed on the examining room curtain while he pressed one hand below his belt. ‘‘Who’d do such a thing to such a nice man?’’
‘‘You know him?’’ I asked.
‘‘Not personally, but I heard it was Lyle Bradford.’’
Lyle Bradford was a big man in town. Important architect. Sat on the Orange Bowl committee. Gave money every year so Jackson Hospital could have Santa Claus for sick kids. He was even a personal friend of the governor.
‘‘Not like that second guy who got taken to Jackson,’’ Carver added in a voice rough with feeling. ‘‘Him, now—’’ He turned and headed out. ‘‘He’s the one who really got what he deserved.’’
I caught up and trotted beside him toward the lobby. ‘‘You knew him?’’
‘‘No, but he was part of a gang that raped a girl in my daughter’s high school. The other guys were nineteen and they went to jail, but because he was seventeen, he only did a few months at juvey. My daughter and her friends were terrified when he got out. They claim he’s been messing with girls all his life and threatening to hurt their brothers and sisters if they told. Well, he ain’t gonna be messing with any more little girls.’’ Carver spoke with a quiet satisfaction that made me uneasy.
‘‘I’ll catch the elevator here and go on up to my office. See you later.’’ I stepped in and pushed the button.
My usual routine was to pick up our department’s peach index cards on new patients and head out to welcome them. Instead I picked up the phone and called a former high school classmate who worked in the admissions office at Jackson. ‘‘We have one of those castrated men here,’’ I reported. ‘‘I heard it was Lyle Bradford, but I don’t know for sure.’’
From her squeal, I deduced I’
d given her a top banana for their staff gossip tree. She owed me. ‘‘What do you know about the men who turned up at your place?’’
She snickered. ‘‘They are singing soprano.’’
‘‘Seriously. I’ve read what the papers said—that they went into a bar and didn’t remember anything after that—but is that all you know?’’
‘‘Well’’—her voice dropped a register—‘‘I had to take admissions information from the first one, and he said he remembered talking in the bar with a woman who looked like the Virgin Mary, but he couldn’t remember which bar. He wondered if she’d put something in his drink.’’
‘‘Sounds more like Bloody Mary. How did he get to your emergency room? Nobody saw anyone bring him?’’
‘‘No, he was left in a wheelchair outside. One of the ambulances found him sitting there at three a.m. in a johnny gown with a blanket tucked around his legs. It was a pretty night, so at first they thought he was a patient who had gone outside for a smoke or something and fallen asleep. They mentioned him to a nurse and she wheeled him back in, figuring she’d return him to his room. Then she discovered he didn’t have an ID bracelet. About that time he woke up and started yelling. That’s when they realized he’d had what we were instructed the next morning to call ’unauthorized surgery.’ ’’
‘‘Who was his doctor?’’
‘‘He didn’t have one. Said he’d never been sick. The residents checked him out and said the surgery looked like a professional job, so they let him recuperate a few days and sent him home. Don’t tell anybody I told you this, okay? He’s threatening to sue us, so we aren’t supposed to talk about it.’’
‘‘Of course not.’’
We both knew there is no place more gossipy than a hospital except a police station.
‘‘How did the second one get in? Looks like you’d have been watching the doors pretty carefully after that.’’
‘‘We were. The police got a call that he was down in Biscayne Park. They found him sitting on a park bench dressed in loose sweats and carrying on so loud, they thought he was drunk at first. He didn’t remember anything, either, except sitting at a bar talking to a woman he claimed was ‘a gorgeous blonde with legs up to her throat.’ ’’
‘‘Not my image of the Virgin Mary.’’
‘‘Mine, either. He at least could remember the name of the bar, but they were real busy that night after a baseball game and didn’t remember him. How did yours get in?’’
‘‘Full moon night.’’ I didn’t have to say more. Anybody who works in a hospital knows a full moon brings babies, death, and all sorts of craziness. ‘‘He was found sleeping in a corner of the emergency room.’’
‘‘It gives me the creeps. I’ve never been so glad to be a woman.’’
‘‘Me, neither. See you later.’’
I hung up and checked my watch. I’d give Lyle Bradford a couple of hours to get up to his room; then no matter what Angie said (she was bound to tell me, ‘‘I’ll take care of this one,’’ since he was, in a sense, a celebrity), I’d go welcome him. I was dying to hear his story.
The NO VISITORS sign didn’t deter me. I was hospital administration.
Mr. Bradford lay on his back watching a soap opera. He glowered as I came in. ‘‘Who the hell are you?’’
‘‘A patient counselor. I came to see if you have everything you need.’’
His glower deepened.
‘‘I mean, is there something I can get you?’’
He started up in anger, then sank back with a groan. ‘‘Yeah, there’s a couple of things you could get me if you have a spare pair. Look, I’m not a freak show, okay? I’ve already had another one of you in here.’’
‘‘That would be my boss. I didn’t know she had visited you, so I came to say if there is anything we can do to make your stay easier, just ask. Our job is to welcome patients and handle requests or complaints.’’
His language blistered my ears and singed my back hair. Cleaned up considerably, what he said was, ‘‘I got a complaint, all right. Some pirate tied me up and took my crown jewels.’’ He fingered a scrap of peach index card and squinted at something scrawled on it. ‘‘You ever hear of a guy named Randall McQuirter?’’
‘‘Sure. He’s one of our ob-gyns.’’
He laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. ‘‘You’re kidding. He’s a women’s doc?’’
‘‘Yessir.’’
What was the matter with my tongue? Angie was always telling me that middle-aged men don’t like young women calling them sir.
Lyle Bradford didn’t seem to notice. He gave that rude laugh again. ‘‘Well, from what somebody told me, that’s not all he is. If you see the bastard, tell him I want to see him pronto. Okay?’’
‘‘He’ll be here tonight making evening rounds. If I see him—’’
‘‘You find him, you hear me?’’ He punctuated every word with a pointing forefinger.
‘‘I’ll tell him.’’ I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I had a patient’s orders to seek out Dr. McQuirter after Angie had left for the day.
She went at five. ‘‘I am beat. Don’t bother visiting Mr. Bradford. I’ll take care of him.’’
‘‘I won’t,’’ I assured her.
At five thirty I started lurking in the lobby. Dr. McQuirter strolled in at six and paused in the doorway to cast a quick, worried look around. He actually took a step backward as I approached to announce, ‘‘I have a message for you.’’
He grinned down at me. ‘‘As a pickup line, I’d rather hear ‘I’m so glad you’re here. I’ve been waiting all afternoon.’ ’’
‘‘I have,’’ I admitted, trying to keep my balance under that deep black gaze. ‘‘Lyle Bradford wants to see you. He’s in room 508.’’
‘‘I don’t know Lyle Bradford.’’ He started for the elevator.
I followed. ‘‘He came in today. I think he’s on the Orange Bowl committee.’’
He shook his head. ‘‘Still doesn’t ring a bell.’’
‘‘He specifically asked to see you. Maybe he has free tickets for you or something.’’
Dr. McQuirter put his right hand in his pocket. ‘‘He asked for me by name? I’ll check with him after I’ve seen my patients. Want to meet me on five in an hour and have coffee when I’m done with him?’’
‘‘Put that in your pipe and smoke it, Angie,’’ I said softly as I headed on my rounds.
As soon as I stepped off the fifth-floor elevator an hour later, I heard shouting. Two orderlies were sprinting down the hall. Luis, the meds nurse (who might or might not have once been Havana’s premier cardiologist), dashed out of the nurses’ station and headed the same way. Running in heels, I made a late fourth.
We all could hear the shouted threats. ‘‘You did this to me! I’m gonna sue you for millions! Your pretty ladies will have to work night and—’’
As I reached the door of Lyle Bradford’s room, Dr. McQuirter pulled a gun out of his pocket and killed the man before he finished the sentence.
By the time of Dr. McQuirter’s trial, I had accrued some vacation days. I sat in the packed courtroom with other hospital personnel who didn’t have to testify, grateful that Luis had pushed me toward the elevator immediately after the shooting. ‘‘You were never here. Stay out of this.’’
He and the two orderlies testified that Mr. Bradford had accused Dr. McQuirter of castrating him and had then threatened the doctor. The defense attorney went after the word ‘‘threatened,’’ trying to plant the notion of self-defense. Luis refused to play. ‘‘Mr. Bradford was standing by his bed wearing only a hospital gown. Where could he hide a weapon? He was too sore to even wear boxers.’’
Every man in the courtroom squirmed.
The prosecutor put a police detective on the witness stand to testify they were seeking connections between Dr. McQuirter and the other two unsolved castration cases. The defense attorney managed to get that testimony ruled inadmissible—arguing successfull
y that McQuirter wasn’t being tried for castrating Mr. Bradford, just for killing him.
On the second day, the defense started its arguments and Dr. McQuirter himself took the stand. The jury seemed unimpressed by his explanation for why he was carrying a gun on rounds that evening—‘‘I’d gotten an anonymous threat that afternoon’’—and unconvinced by his reason for checking on Bradford, who had no need of an ob-gyn and was three floors above Dr. McQuirter’s other patients: ‘‘I got a message he wanted to see me.’’
I caught my breath. Would I have to testify after all? Heaven knew what Angie would do to me if she learned I’d been in Bradford’s room.
Nobody called me. Instead, Angie was called to the stand. She testified that Dr. Randall McQuirter was an excellent doctor, highly respected and loved by all his patients and the hospital staff. She gave him a dazzling smile as she stepped down. After that, physicians, nurses, ward clerks, and even Carver spoke about what a wonderful doctor Dr. McQuirter was and how he must have been seriously provoked to do what he had done.
As we left for the day, I saw Angie in the parking lot. ‘‘You sure laid it on thick in there.’’
She shrugged. ‘‘Why not? He is a good doctor, but that’s not going to keep him out of jail.’’
A good doctor? I drove home thinking about Lyle Bradford’s last words. As soon as I got in, I called another high school friend who had become an investigative reporter with the Miami Herald. She had established amazing contacts throughout Miami’s seamier element and was so tenacious about research that her nickname was Bulldog.
‘‘There’s something odd about the McQuirter case,’’ I told her.
‘‘The Teflon doc? You’re telling me. You think he castrated Bradford and those other guys?’’
‘‘I have no idea, but he didn’t shoot Bradford for saying that. He fired after Bradford starting making threats.’’
‘‘What were his exact words?’’
She, like me, had taken senior English from a tyrant who made us memorize reams of poetry and famous speeches. We had gotten real good at verbatim repetition.
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