receptionist in a glass cubicle, behind a glass partition and glass desk, speaking into a headset. It wasn’t actually glass she was encircled by. It was plastic but it held one hell of a shine. Lou pictured her with a paper towel and a bottle of Windex, wiping away fingerprints all day, when she wasn’t on the phone or pushing a pencil. Enough prints to fill an FBI file.
Lou walked up in front of her as though he was there to pay an overdue medical bill. She didn’t look up immediately. She couldn’t hear him through the thick glass. There was a roundhole cut in the center where he assumed his face should be if he wanted to be heard. It looked more like an air hole, like the ones he’d punched into a plastic jug after catching a bug. He was tempted to order a cheeseburger. Her fingers pounded away at a keyboard, the clicking like a vague Morse code, like piano keys hitting dead strings.
“I’m looking for Sarah Blackwell, or Trafficante. I’m not sure what name she’s under. Came in by ambulance last night.”
“You a relative?”
“No, a friend.”
“Have a seat.”
“Look, can you at least tell me if she’s alive?”
“I’m sorry but that’s confidential information.”
“Well, when can I see her?”
“Visiting hours begin at ten.”
“Thanks.”
A red-haired kid with a cast on his arm came through the emergency room doors. Mitch caught it before it closed. There was a buzz inside. Nurses in white and doctors in green scrubs, bounced from room to room, stopping to fill out charts and wash their hands. All of the beds were full. A woman screamed as a nurse tried to insert a needle into her arm. Two other nurses and a security guard held her arms and legs and once the drip started down the line, the thrashing stopped. They walked down the aisle, glancing behind drawn curtains and closed doors. If they’d wheeled Sarah out of there on a gurney with a white sheet over her face, it would’ve been just another statistic, a suicide, another person with nothing to live for, survived by a husband she didn’t like.
“Since when did they start locking hospitals up like fortresses?”
“Since people started thinking babies were puppies and hospitals were the pound, adopting them right out of their incubators.And since the popular attitude was that the rules applied to everyone else, but not to you. So now they lock the patients in and the public out.”
“What if you’re really sick and you need help?”
“What are you, a wiseguy?”
At the nurse’s station, a group of women in white passed around a set of baby pictures, fawning over someone’s new grandchild. They did their best to ignore the fax machine groaning behind them and a doctor scribbling notes onto a clipboard. A gray-haired witch spied them from her perch. She slid a pencil behind her ear and leaned over the counter with a sardonic glance, her thick glasses magnifying the size of her eyes.
“Can I help you boys?”
Her tone was only mildly antagonistic. She pulled back her lips, showed Mitch her teeth. He didn’t like her attitude.
“We’re looking for a lady, came in last night. Her name is Trafficante.”
“Trafficante . . . Trafficante,” she kept repeating the name under her breadth while she rummaged through a stack of papers. “You’re sure that’s her name. What did she come in for?”
“She’s going to have a baby. He’s the father. I’m the grandfather. You could be the wicked step-mother if you’d like.”
The angel of mercy behind the desk stared at Mitch over the top of her glasses and pursed her lips as if she were trying to keep her new choppers in her mouth. If she smiled, she would have crumbled like a stone statue. Another nurse came over and rested a hand on her arm as if she was taking her pulse.
“Lou Klein, you old dog. I thought that was you. Still rescuing damsels in distress?”
“No more, Betty. I’m retired. Couldn’t deal with the rejection.”
“You always were a
Lou walked up in front of her as though he was there to pay an overdue medical bill. She didn’t look up immediately. She couldn’t hear him through the thick glass. There was a roundhole cut in the center where he assumed his face should be if he wanted to be heard. It looked more like an air hole, like the ones he’d punched into a plastic jug after catching a bug. He was tempted to order a cheeseburger. Her fingers pounded away at a keyboard, the clicking like a vague Morse code, like piano keys hitting dead strings.
“I’m looking for Sarah Blackwell, or Trafficante. I’m not sure what name she’s under. Came in by ambulance last night.”
“You a relative?”
“No, a friend.”
“Have a seat.”
“Look, can you at least tell me if she’s alive?”
“I’m sorry but that’s confidential information.”
“Well, when can I see her?”
“Visiting hours begin at ten.”
“Thanks.”
A red-haired kid with a cast on his arm came through the emergency room doors. Mitch caught it before it closed. There was a buzz inside. Nurses in white and doctors in green scrubs, bounced from room to room, stopping to fill out charts and wash their hands. All of the beds were full. A woman screamed as a nurse tried to insert a needle into her arm. Two other nurses and a security guard held her arms and legs and once the drip started down the line, the thrashing stopped. They walked down the aisle, glancing behind drawn curtains and closed doors. If they’d wheeled Sarah out of there on a gurney with a white sheet over her face, it would’ve been just another statistic, a suicide, another person with nothing to live for, survived by a husband she didn’t like.
“Since when did they start locking hospitals up like fortresses?”
“Since people started thinking babies were puppies and hospitals were the pound, adopting them right out of their incubators.And since the popular attitude was that the rules applied to everyone else, but not to you. So now they lock the patients in and the public out.”
“What if you’re really sick and you need help?”
“What are you, a wiseguy?”
At the nurse’s station, a group of women in white passed around a set of baby pictures, fawning over someone’s new grandchild. They did their best to ignore the fax machine groaning behind them and a doctor scribbling notes onto a clipboard. A gray-haired witch spied them from her perch. She slid a pencil behind her ear and leaned over the counter with a sardonic glance, her thick glasses magnifying the size of her eyes.
“Can I help you boys?”
Her tone was only mildly antagonistic. She pulled back her lips, showed Mitch her teeth. He didn’t like her attitude.
“We’re looking for a lady, came in last night. Her name is Trafficante.”
“Trafficante . . . Trafficante,” she kept repeating the name under her breadth while she rummaged through a stack of papers. “You’re sure that’s her name. What did she come in for?”
“She’s going to have a baby. He’s the father. I’m the grandfather. You could be the wicked step-mother if you’d like.”
The angel of mercy behind the desk stared at Mitch over the top of her glasses and pursed her lips as if she were trying to keep her new choppers in her mouth. If she smiled, she would have crumbled like a stone statue. Another nurse came over and rested a hand on her arm as if she was taking her pulse.
“Lou Klein, you old dog. I thought that was you. Still rescuing damsels in distress?”
“No more, Betty. I’m retired. Couldn’t deal with the rejection.”
“You always were a
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