The Bum's Rush

by G. M. Ford

  "Believe what?"

  "That I'm pregnant, you dolt. He told me right away. No kids. Said he had bad blood. Lukkas used to call himself the Bad Seed. Like after this old black-and-white movie about a little girl who--"

  "I've seen it," I said.

  "It's all my fault."

  "No way."

  "Way."

  "It takes two to tango," I insisted.

  "Or three, or four, or five," she mused.

  "You didn't put that needle in his arm."

  "In a way I did," she said.

  "No way?"

  "Way," she said. "See"--she pointed at me--"you're just like the rest of them. Just because he's a certain age and a musician, you just assume he must be some kind of drug addict. Just like that" She snapped her fingers in my face.

  "He had other needle marks," I said.

  "Duuuh. Like migraines, retardo boy. Lukkas was very tense, very tight. When he got stressed, he got these migraines. He was such a wuss he couldn't even give himself the shots. Had to get other people to do him up with the medicine. It was pathetic. Lukkas Terry was the straightest mother on the planet, man. Lukkas fired people for using drugs. I never so much as saw him have a beer."

  "So what are you saying?"

  "Duuuh. Don't you get it? You must have gone to school on the little bus, man. It was just too much for him."

  "What was?"

  "All of it. Moving out of Greg's place." Her emotions began to slide toward sadness. "All that money. All that fame. And you know what?" She didn't make me guess. "He'd never even had his own place before. Never. We were gonna move in together '' She bit it off.

  "You found him, didn't you." I said it as a statement.

  Another nod and the beginnings of tears. "I just told him that night. You know, about being late and doing the test and stuff. He went ballistic. He hung up on me. Took the phone off the hook. It was still off when I you know."

  "What time did you call him?"

  "About seven-thirty."

  "What time did you find him?"

  "Around eleven-thirty."

  I cocked an eyebrow at her.

  "I kept trying to call him. I didn't know what else to do. Then I got dressed and got to the bus."

  "The bus?"

  "I don't drive."

  "A cab?"

  "I didn't have any money, man. Okay?"

  "But Lukkas Terry " I started. "Lukkas never had a dime, man. You gotta get that crap out of your head. All he had was this credit card Greg gave him, and most of the time he didn't remember to bring that. Greg just paid for whatever Lukkas wanted, which was musical equipment and grilled cheese sandwiches. He didn't want anything except to do his thing with his music."

  Just short of maudlin, she snapped herself upright and recited a much-practiced litany. "There was no accident. He killed himself, man. He couldn't take the pressure, so he took himself out."

  I changed the subject. "Trying to find his mother how?" "He hired some dude. Some ancient ex-cop like you." I ignored the insult. "What's this guy's name?" "Who cares? Lukkas got his name from somebody. Some old fart looked like the dude in the Monopoly game." "Big white mustache," I said. "Yeah," she agreed. "That's all I know." That was all the info I needed. It had been so long since I'd laid eyes on him, I'd assumed Charlie Boxer was dead. Charlie had operated for thirty years as a Pl-cum-bunkoartist. The kind of operator who creates his own clientele. When he wasn't extricating a customer from some mess or other, he was out running some con game, getting somebody into some mess or other so he could get them out of it later. For a nominal fee, of course. All very smooth and dirty.

  About five years ago, the last time I'd seen him, he was sitting in a battered gold Buick; the aluminum bar running across the whole center of the car held his legendary collection of sport jackets. Scrunched hard together in bold plaids, abstract patterns, and phosphorescent hues, they could have formed the international symbol for bad taste.

  I'd leaned in the passenger window and said howdy. He'd looked bad. Wasted and wounded. Embarrassed for me to see him like that, he'd made a quick joke about his fall from grace reckoning how he'd gone from living on the Riviera to living in a Riviera and then, without warning, he'd fed the peeling sled some gas and gone bouncing off down Western, i s <

  "Go on, take a hike," Beth said.

  "No, I won't."

  "You're so so " She finally settled on "old."

  I could feel my blood rise again. "I am not."

  She rolled her yellow eyes. "As if '' We stood in sullen silence. "I can't believe you fucked this up for me," she said as much to herself as to me.

  "Way," I said.

  She cast me a pitying gaze. "That's not where you say 'way,' you retard. It's like when somebody says 'no way,' then you " She noticed me grinning at her. "Oh, God." She held a hand to her head. "You're soooo sixties."

  "Who's paying your bills?" I asked.

  "None of your busin " She caught herself. "What makes you think anybody "

  "You've got a roof over your head. You're wearing nice clothes. A brand-new pair of Doc Martens. What are they, a hundred and a quarter, someplace in there, with tax? You sit around on your ass all day drinking five-dollar cups of coffee. The money has to come from somewhere."

  "Maybe I have a trust fund."

  "You can't even spell trust fund."

  "If I tell you, will you go away?"

  "Sure," I said.

  "Okay, then, if you must know, Lukkas's manager, Gregory Conover." She studied me carefully. "Even an antique like you must have heard of Mr. Gregory Conover."

  "I've heard of him."

  "Unlike some people." She stared me down. "Mr. Conover is a gentleman. Unlike some people, he knows how to act. How to treat a lady."

  She actually tapped her foot while she waited. "Well?" she said.

  "Well what?"

  "Well, go away like you said you would."

  "I lied."

  "You're execrable," she hissed.

  "I'll help you," I said suddenly.

  She was dubious. "How could you possibly help me?"

  "You might be surprised."

  "Oh, here it comes," she said to the sky.

  "Come on up to the coffee shop on the corner. Tell me your story. If you're straight with me, I'll be straight with you."

  "Oh, let me guess. You want to work out your middle aged hornies on me. It's the little plaid skirt. Something like that. Maybe have me tell you about what a bad boy you've been?"

  "Just talk," I said. "I'm just old, not blind."

  "You should get so lucky," she hissed.

  "I just want to talk," I said again.

  She looked me over. "How do I know--"

  "You don't. The only thing you know for sure is that whatever deal you've had working up till now is history. First thing tomorrow morning that all goes down the toilet. I was being straight with you back there. Believe me, honey, it's time for plan B."

  At first, I thought I'd crapped out. She brushed past me and started up the hill. I stayed where I was and watched as she banged open the coffee shop door and went inside.

  I got her settled in a booth with a double mocha decaf. She pulled her jacket tighter around her. "Where should I start?" she said with a sigh.

  "Howzabout back at the beginning."

  "My parents live in Orem "

  "Whoa, whoa," I said. "Too far back."

  "When I began my career?"

  "What career?"

  "Rock and roll."

  "You mean your career as a music groupie."

  "God, I hate that word. It's sooo retro. What's next, love-ins? Be-ins? We all sit on the ground and sing 'Michael Row the Boat Ashore'?"

  "Well, what do you call it?"

  "I'm a professional musical companion," she said.

  "Okay, start there." I sighed.

  I got out my notebook. She took a moment to organize , her thoughts.

  "Actually, Jesus was my first."

  "Oh, Christ
," I groaned.

  "Not that one, you moron. Greasy Jesus. The band." She looked to me for recognition. "You're sooooo lame," she said.

  "Greasy Jesus, eh?"

  "Actually it was Wound."

  "Wound?"

  "The lead singer. That was just his stage name. He had''

  this scar on his side. You know, like where Jesus was sup-t m

  posed to have one, only his wasn't from a spear or anything; it was from chicken wire. His real name was Howie Dickman." She checked the restaurant for spies. "That's strictly hush-hush, though. Like, nobody, but nobody, knows his real name."

  "Your secret's safe with me," I assured her.

  Three pages in, we were through a couple more lead singers, a keyboard player, and a road manager and working on our first drummer. I was wishing I'd taken shorthand in high school.

  16

  It was one of those What's-wrong-with-this-picture? moments. An instant when the general order of the universe is sufficiently askew to automatically command the eye. I was still dodging traffic when I spotted the Speaker tramping in a solitary vigil up and down the cul-de-sac that fronted Providence Hospital. The sight brought me up short. The bright overhead lights surrounding the driveway showed me that the cellular phone message was gone. He was serious today. Today, both sides of his sandwich board read the same: "Rehab Is for Quitters." He'd attracted other attention as well. A trio Of security guards stood just outside the automatic doors, thick arms folded over two tone blue shirts, eyes following his solitary shuffle, desperately hoping he'd stray onto hospital property so they could clean his clock. The Speaker, however, was way too sly, staying exclusively on the public access strip between the sidewalk and the street.

  I stepped up onto the curb and watched as his board covered back marched to the far end of the building, where he executed a crisp military turn back in my direction. The sight of me waiting for him suddenly spun him again like a shooting gallery bear. He wide-eyed me over his shoulder as he hotfooted it back up the block and disappeared around the corner of the building.

  The guard on the right, a balding specimen whose name tag read T. Parker, appeared at my elbow. "You know that schmuck?"

  "I may have seen him around," I hedged.

  "He seemed to know you."

  "A lot of folks know me."

  Before he could reply, the black plastic radio pinned to his epaulet emitted a stream of static among which some unintelligible verbiage seemed to float. Numbers maybe. Two forty-three. Something like that. Whatever it was brought all three of them to point. Without a word they rushed in through the automatic doors and disappeared down the hallway to the left.

  I stopped at the front desk. Whatever chicanery was going on hadn't filtered down to the blue-haired volunteers at reception. According to them, Ralph was in 509. I headed for the elevators.

  I was one step onto the fifth floor when I suddenly knew what was up. Each end of the long central hallway was capped with a white bench. Mary sat at one end, Earlene at the other, pretending to read magazines, just like I'd taught 'em. Lookouts. Like the Speaker, they took one look at my cherubic countenance and went scurrying out of sight, heel-and-toeing it down parallel halls toward the back of the building. I followed the signs to 509.

  I stepped into the room and took inventory. The room was empty. The bed was gone. On the nightstand, a blue plastic cup with a bendable straw sat on a rumpled newspaper. An IV stand, its plastic bottle of saline solution still hooked on top, lay sprawled on the floor like a remnant pruned from some aluminum cybershrub.

  I turned to leave and bumped into T. Parker, who filled the doorway.

  "What are you doing here?" he demanded.

  "They told me Ralph Batista was in this room," I said.

  "Who told you?"

  "The ladies at the front desk."

  "You better come with me," he said.

  "I don't think so."

  He hooked a thumb in his cop belt. "You don't want to be giving me a hard time now, do you, Sparky?" He gave me a big shit-eating grin.

  "Oh, I don't know," I said evenly. "I think maybe I do."

  He began to fiddle with one of the snaps on his belt.

  "You pull out that cute little Mace can and I'll give you a high colonic with it," I said with an even bigger smile.

  He took two steps back. I kept pace, crowding him, staying right in his face. We stood there, nose to nose, grinning like a couple of idiots until a voice behind Parker broke the reverie.

  "What's all this, Parker?"

  "Got us a smart-ass here," T. Parker said without turning.

  Either the new guy had a stethoscope fetish or he was a doctor. Clad in blue disposable overalls, little white booties, and a matching shower cap, he looked like an accountant caught in his jammies. His bare arms were covered with thick black hair, giving the impression that he was probably furred all over like a rhesus monkey. I decided to take the initiative. "I'm here to visit a guy named Ralph Batista. They told me downstairs that he was in this room. Where is he?"

  I shouldered Parker aside and stepped in close to the doc.

  I stuck out my hand. "Leo Waterman," I said. He glared at my hand like it was radioactive. I stuck it back in my pocket. "Where's Ralph?" I said.

  Parker and the doc passed meaningful glances but stayed mute.

  "They move him to another room?" I tried. Nothing. "Where do I find an administrator?" I asked.

  This query seemed to have the desired effect. Dr. Jam mies immediately softened. "Well, Mr. Batista... at the moment--" He started again. "As we speak--"

  "You lost him, huh," I interrupted.

  He showed me a palm. "Not lost, exactly." He glanced from Parker to me and back. "Why don't you continue with your duties, Parker," he said finally. "I'll--eh--have a few words with Mr.--"

  "Waterman," I prompted.

  "Of course--yes, with Mr. Waterman."

  Parker left slowly, sullenly, like an errant schoolboy consigned to his room for the rest of the day. He gave me his most terrifying stare as he boarded the elevator. I gave him a nice little wave in return.

  "Now. Mr. Waterman--I wouldn't have you getting the wrong impression."

  "Oh?"

  "This is a big hospital. Sometimes the lines of communication are not what they might be."

  "You mean like when they cut the wrong leg off that guy a couple of months back?"

  "Oh no." He checked the hall. "That was most unfortunate. No, no. Nothing like that at all. I merely mean to suggest that Mr. Batista is most likely just out for tests in some other department, and somehow--you know, the lines of--"

  "You don't know where he is, do you?"

  "Well, perhaps not specifically, but "

  "Then howzabout generally, or maybe cosmically?"

  "Excuse me?"

  I tried again. "Where's Ralph?"

  He took a deep breath and held it. "I'm not sure," he said finally, exhaling. "We had some trouble the other day with a bunch of hooligans showing up drunk to see Mr. Batista. We were forced to remove them from the hospital. That's what Parker we're concerned these" he searched for a word "people may have you know." He stopped. "Security is looking for Mr. Batista right now. It's quite unlikely that any of those same people could have gained entry. Our staff was briefed. They all saw the security camera film. So you see, it's almost surely a communications snafu. Mr. Batista will "

  I let him off the hook. "Okay," I said. "I'll come back later when this is all straightened out." He looked at me like I'd just given him that sled he'd always wanted for Christmas. I turned on my heel and started back toward the elevators. I stopped. His back was to me.

  "By the way," I said. He stopped and screwed his neck my way. "What's the dirtiest, crappiest job in the hospital?" I asked. He looked as blank as a melon. I tried again. "What's the job with the biggest turnover? Where they constantly need new people?"

  "Why, the laundry, I suppose. You know, with surgery and incontinence, all of that, it ca
n be rather "

  "Thanks," I said. "Where's the laundry?"

  "In the basement. Basement two. All the way down."

  I ambled back to the elevator. No basements listed. The door began to close. I stuck my arm in, muscled open the doors, and went looking for a nurses' station. Yes, as a matter of fact, there was a freight elevator. In the back of the building. In the northwest corner. Over that way. Yes, that was indeed how one got down to the laundry. Thanks a bunch. Adios.

  The floor of the elevator car was rough scarred wood like the bed of a boxcar. The walls were draped with heavy olive-drab padding sheets hooked to brass eyelets. I pushed the button marked B2. If the crew hadn't come in through any of the conventional entrances and hadn't been spotted by anybody in all the time it took to find Ralph and get him out of his room, then they must have had some kind of inside help. If they knew anybody who worked in a hospital, in all likelihood it wasn't a neurosurgeon. More likely it was somebody whose parole officer had found them the job and dogged their ass into showing up. The laundry was a good place to start.

  I'd expected a great deal of sloshing and tumbling, but instead the basement was strangely quiet. I followed the black-and-white linoleum down a long hall lined with lockers and then around the corner into a large central room. Huge silver commercial washers and dryers, maybe twenty of each, lined two sides of the room, their empty glass windows staring out like the portholes of some sunken liner. A long white folding table ran the length of the center.

  Surrounding the room were meshed-in storage areas bursting with freshly washed linens piled floor to ceiling on gray Erector set shelves. A small woman in a fresh white uniform walked out of the nearest storage area. She stopped in her tracks. Her name tag read Betty.

  "Oh, you scared me," she said.

  "Sorry," I offered. "Where is everybody?"

  "A staff meeting, I think. I'm not sure. I don't work here." She wrinkled her nose and stepped around me. "I'm helping out in obstetrics today. They told me that if the laundry didn't answer the phone that they were probably all in a meeting and I'd have to go down and get it myself." She patted a thick blue blanket under her left arm. "Every Sunday, one to three. That's what they said."

  "On a Sunday?"