by Robert Ward
“Yeah,” Dios said, “calm down. You’re right, Harry. The truth of the matter is, I’m the one should be calm—you nervous.”
“Why’s that?” Harry said, sittting in the rocker across from Dios’s desk.
“They are gonna hang you if they find out,” Dios said.
“Find out what?” Harry said.
“Oh, come on, Harry,” Dios said. “At least three of the nurses I know say they saw you with June Boswell the night that lady died in CCU.”
“When?” Harry said. He walked toward Dios and snorted out his breath.
Dios reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a bottle of Rémy Martin, and poured them both a drink.
“What’s the story?” Harry said, accepting the glass from Dios.
“You should be tense because a couple of the nurses have been talking about you and June Boswell. There’s a rumor going around that you were with her. Though I don’t think it’s gotten back to Beauregard yet.”
“That’s a lie,” Harry said. But he drank the cognac quickly, then he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and drew in a deep breath.
“Is it?” Dios said. “Tell me the truth, Harry. Were you with her that night—getting a little?” Dios liked to use these Yankee phrases. So descriptive.
“No,” Harry said. “Hey, what is this—the Spanish Inquisition?”
“No, Harry,” Dios said. “Just some talk among friends.”
Harry walked over to the desk, cracking his knuckles.
“Nervous, Harry?”
“No … well, yeah … You’re making me nervous. Hey, you’re the one who got all hot about Cross after that gomer died. I think you’re a goddamn paranoid—I think you got a thing about anesthesiologists.” Harry was trying to keep it light, but he sipped steadily at the drink.
“I don’t like Peter,” Dios said, running his hand over his huge ivory face. “I don’t like him, but he wasn’t seen up there, Harry; you were.”
“Yeah? Well, so maybe I was up there—and visiting June—so what?”
“Maybe you visited her for a while, then walked in and greased that Goldstein lady.”
Harry looked down at Dios and then reached across the desk and grabbed him by the lapels.
“Listen, you asshole, I don’t want to hear any more of this shit, you hear me. Or your ass will be back cutting sugarcane. You get me?”
He pushed Dios back hard in the chair and started out the door.
“I’d be careful,” Dios said in a monotone. “If I was you, Harry, I’d look out for my ass.”
“Hello, June?”
“Harry … Harry … I’m afraid.”
“It’s all right, baby. It’s all right. I’ve been keeping it cool for you. You aren’t going to get suspended. It’s okay.”
“I’ve got to face the board, Harry. They are going to be rough, Harry. They are going to ask me a lot of questions … you know that? Like what kind of sickness did I have?”
“You tell them you had the flu.”
“Why didn’t I tell them before?”
“It came on sudden. The stomach virus. It’s happening all over the Big Apple. No sweat.”
“But it’s not going to be easy, Harry. Beauregard was back over here. He questioned me again. There’s a problem. They talked to Yvonne again and asked her what hallway I was coming down when she saw me, and she said the north hall.”
“So?”
“Harry, the women’s room is on the south hall. What was I doing on the north hall? Harry … can you come over?”
“Ah, not right now, Junie. Got some work. But I’ll call tomorrow. I love you, June.”
“I love you, Harry.”
Harry hung up and turned to the tall girl with the black hair who was waiting for him at the bar.
“Back from the dead,” he said, smiling at her.
“Oh, Harry,” she said, “you’re such a card.”
Beauregard sat in his office holding the wire, while in front of him Jimmy Myers worked on his Tasty Pie.
“I don’t know,” Beauregard said. “Now that you’ve looked over the other machines, what have you found?”
Jimmy stuffed the Tasty Pie in his mouth and spoke while he chewed. “It’s like this,” he said. “The deal is, twenty of these ‘scopes came in about three months ago. I looked at every one of them, tested them out—two of them had bum switches. I sent them back. When they came back, we retested them—AOK—so when the ‘scope upstairs went out, I asked Calvin to check out the insides, just to make sure.”
“And did he?”
“Look, Doc. Calvin’s a little spacy, but he doesn’t bullshit. He says he checked them out—he opened up every machine we got back.”
“So how come the switch didn’t work?”
“I don’t know—sometimes they get stuck—sometimes you turn them in a hurry, you don’t move them just the right way—these are sensitive machines.”
Beauregard sighed deeply and tapped the wire on his desk. It was, the more he examined it, a pretty ragged clip mark.
“It’s unbelievable,” he said. “What you’re telling me is that somebody clipped that thing after Calvin checked these machines—sometime right before the CCU death.”
Jimmy wiped the strawberry filling from the Tasty Pie on his pants and picked at his teeth. Then he took a long swig of Yoo Hoo.
“Doc,” he said matter-of-factly, “this thing is … I seen wires that were cut and I seen ones that were broke. This one was cut. That’s all there is to it.”
“Jesus!” Beauregard said, “This is too much. Jesus Christ!”
He sat down and stared at the wire.
“The only thing we don’t know,” Jimmy said, “is why anybody would cut it. Who would want to murder that old lady?”
“Jimmy,” Beauregard said, “I’ve got to have time to think about this. So don’t say a word to anyone.”
Jimmy took a big hunk of pie and chewed with his mouth open.
“My mouth is full,” he said, laughing and dropping some crust on Beauregard’s floor.
17
The red light flashed on Beauregard’s phone. He stared at it for a second, rubbed his hand over his cheeks, and sighed. “Hello.”
The voice was a falsetto, both comical and hysterical.
“Dr. Beauuuuregard. This is Charles.”
“Charles who?”
“Charles—with Lauren Shaw. You know. I’m her personal assistant.
“Right, Charles. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Doctor. It’s Lauren. She just collapsed.”
Beauregard sucked in his breath. The minute he heard the words he knew he had secretly expected this call, and he cursed himself for not insisting she come into the hospital.
“When did this happen?”
“Just about a half hour ago,” Charles said. “She was supposed to go onstage tonight, and we were running through some of the rewrites, and suddenly, with no warning whatsoever … Oh, God, it was so awful. I just started to scream. She just fell off the English library stairs that are in the second act.”
“Charles, where is she now?”
“Well, in an ambulance, of course. You don’t think we just let her sluuuump there like a piece of furniture, do you?”
“She’s coming into Emergency?”
“Well, of course.”
“Good-bye, Charles.”
Peter Cross opened the closet door to the armamentarium and pulled out his bag. Behind him two nurses walked by, their stiffly starched gowns rustling. “Have you heard? The actress Lauren Shaw has been admitted. They’re making the diagnosis now. She’s up in Room Two-twenty-eight.”
Cross turned and watched them moving away from him. The fat one, dressed in white, looked like a nun or a penguin. He smiled at them, turned and started toward his OR, when he smashed into someone. When he regained his composure, he looked up and saw Harry Gardner.
“Hey, Spaceman,” Harry said, “you got to keep the feet aligned with the brain.
That’s the way the animal works.”
Cross looked down at the floor at his bag. It had fallen, and he heard a bottle break.
“It wasn’t me who was running down the hall, Harry. Just watch it.”
“Watch it? You getting a little testy, aren’t you, Spaceman. Whatsamatter? That woman of yours keeping you up all night?”
Cross suddenly had the urge to smash Harry in the face with his bag. The asshole, the presumptuous, condescending ape. What made it worse was that he hadn’t seen Debby in three days. But don’t let the ape know he’s getting to you.
“It beats banging June Boswell between shifts,” Peter said, and then was immediately sorry he had let it slip.
Harry shot him a look like a bull on the rampage.
“What does that mean, Spaceman? You trying to say something?”
He reached over and grabbed Peter’s lapel and pulled him toward him.
Peter smiled at him now, enjoying the game.
“No, Harry, should it?”
Gardner’s breath was in his face. He smelled of relish, and Peter wanted to gag, but he looked him in the eye.
“I wouldn’t go talking about June and me,” Harry said. “I know what’s been going around, and if you say anything …”
Peter took his hand and squeezed it. He could feel the fingers giving under his grip.
“Listen, Harry,” he said, “if I were you, I’d keep a real low profile. Some of the more unscrupulous types around here are starting some real nasty rumors about you and June.”
Harry’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
Peter leered at him, and when he had removed Harry’s hand from his lapel, he pushed him backward.
“Don’t ever grab me again, Harry,” he said. “You hear me? Don’t come near me.”
Harry rubbed his fingers and cracked his knuckles.
“Just kidding, Cross. I’ve been a little on edge.”
“Yeah?” Peter said. “That’s too bad.”
He smiled again at Harry, and for the first time since Vietnam, Harry felt a shadow pass across his face. It was as if he had never seen Cross before, and now for the first time, the mask had been pulled off, revealing the grinning skull. He watched as Cross walked away. The long, powerful gliding stride. Something almost effeminate about it—but more than that, something he hadn’t seen before—full of power, confidence.
He stood there, staring, transfixed, until Peter Cross turned the corner. Then Harry rubbed his knuckles again and thought of what Dios had said before about Cross. There just might be something to it after all.
“Lauren. Lauren. Are you awake?”
Lauren Shaw looked up, and it was a moment before her eyes focused. She had just had her Demerol shot and was feeling groggy … pleasantly groggy, but the pleasantness was unsettling, for she realized that it masked something terrifying, something not pleasant at all. It was almost too much, the millions of betrayals the body could play on a person. And just when she was coming back, finding herself again … a smash play, film offers rolling in from the Coast. Now she blinked and stared at Robert Beauregard’s handsome, reassuring face.
“Beau,” she said hoarsely, reaching out and taking his hand.
He smiled and took her hand in his.
She smiled and looked just over his shoulder at a beautiful bouquet of roses which sat in a vase by the door.
“Beau, the flowers …”
“I brought them,” he said. “The first, but not the last.”
“That’s sweet, Beau. I’m sorry to cause you so much trouble.”
He smiled at her and sat down on the chair next to the bed.
“How does your head feel?” he asked.
“Much better. They gave me a shot of something.”
“Demerol,” Beauregard said, staring at her pupils. They seemed normal. Indeed, she looked radiant, as though she could get up and walk home.
“Beau, what is it?”
She looked at him dead on, wanting the truth.
“You’ve got an aneurysm, Lauren,” he said. “Do you know what that is?”
She managed a smile.
“This is like a role I played once,” she said. “The noble dying mother with the bloated blood vessel. They can pop any time, isn’t that it?”
There was just the faintest touch of fear in her voice, and Beauregard admired the courage she was showing.
“One side of the vein simply gets tired. It’s weakened, though we’re not sure why it is. It puffs out, and it needs immediate attention.”
“Where is it, Beau?”
“In the brain, Lauren. It’s not an easy operation. But you’re going to have the best person around. Dr. Spencer Taylor. He’ll handle it all right. You’re not to worry.”
“Sure,” said Lauren. “Come on, Beau. Forget the bedside manner. What are my chances?”
He smiled at her and held her hand again.
“Excellent,” he said. “We’ve caught it in time. We’re going to fix it up tomorrow.”
“And if you don’t get it?”
“We’ll get it, Lauren. Three months from now you’ll be out in Hollywood shooting a movie.”
“Beau,” she said. “With your charm, I should have you as my director.”
She raised her eyebrow and winked at him.
“I’ve missed you, you know?”
Beauregard felt a pang of guilt. He should have called her. He should have done something. Christ—months had gone by—he knew about the pains … He sighed deeply, and for a second something flashed through his mind … another operating table … another brain operation. He saw the pleading face before him, his own hand on the oxygen tank.
“I’ve missed you too, Lauren,” he said awkwardly.
She smiled and squeezed his hand.
“Poor Beau. Guilty until proven innocent. You judge yourself too harshly. I’m glad that Heather is back. I know what she means to you. I’m happy for you, Beau. I really am. You’re my dearest friend.”
He smiled at her again and nodded slowly.
“And you mine,” he said.
18
“Go ahead, jerk, dial the phone.”
Debby sat in her apartment, staring at the tube. Richie Cunningham and Fonzie were playing a trick on Arnold. Debby picked up her drink—a large glass of vodka over ice—and suddenly wanted to hurl the whole thing at the screen. The goddamned 50’s. Who would ever want to live through them? She remembered her brother Sam, his whinings about women … they tortured him so often that he ended up marrying a woman twice his age, just so he could finally get in the sack. They had lasted two years, been divorced, and now he spent all his money paying for her trips to St. Croix. But that was Sam all right. He was a product of his age. Not like you, Debby. Hey, you’re in the swinging 70’s where everybody is totally “up front” about sex. Hey, you’re free of inhibitions, you can sleep with whomever you want. Pick up any magazine, turn on any TV show, and they are hitting you with the new morality … it’s a swinger’s paradise out there. Except the only man you want to swing with is Peter Cross.
And she hadn’t seen him or heard from him since Saturday. Three days. Sunday wasn’t too bad—she had spent it doing things around the apartment. Monday she was a little anxious. But things were going so well between them. Still no word. Once she called his apartment and let the phone ring and ring. No answer. He was not at the hospital; the desk said he’d called in sick. It had been so long since they hadn’t spent their time off together that she was lost. The loneliness was opening up inside of her. Oh, God—what was going on with him?
On Tuesday—still no word. Oh, God, where is he? It was then that she pinpointed Peter’s mood swing to the time spent in the wine cellar.
Enough of this shit, she thought. She walked into her bedroom—stared at the Miro print on the wall—so happy, carefree, a mockery of her melodramatic condition. She lay down, and in no time the tears were coming, though out in the living room she could hear the high-pitched cackle of the
laugh track. Maybe that’s what people needed with them. A recorded laugh track carried around with them. That way, when the guy you were in love with dumped you, you could just hit the playback button and hear it, “Hahahahaha,” like a funhouse lady you heard in a cheap upstate carny, the one with the pig-squeal laugh that made you want to pound your temples and scream. What the hell had happened? Had she flirted with Beauregard? No, that was absurd. Even Peter hadn’t delivered that pronouncement with any authority. No, he was upset by something else.
Back in the living room, she stared at Fonzie, who was going “Heyyyy,” and she put her forefinger into her mouth, and bit off her nail. Christ, that was dumb. You’ve been growing that for a month. She looked down at the green telephone. If only he would call.
It came to her in a flash. It was totally against all tradition. It broke all the rules, but she was desperate. Peter would kill her if he knew she had been so bold as to call Dr. Beauregard. They all knew the way the system worked—the Indians did not take liberties with the chiefs. But, after all, it was Beau who had broken the ice, and certainly Heather had opened herself up to them.
“Hello.”
“Heather, this is Debby.”
“Well, Debby, how are you? I really enjoyed seeing you and Peter the other night.”
“So did I, Heather … I really did. It was a terrific night … except …”
“Except for what?” Heather said.
Debby felt a pang of betrayal. She hadn’t meant to get Heather involved at all. Now it was too late.
“Well,” she said, “I really called to talk to Dr. Beauregard about it, but if you’ll promise to keep it a secret, I guess I’d like to tell you both.”
“Fire away,” Heather said.
“It’s about Peter. He was in such great spirits … up until he and Dr. Beauregard went into the wine cellar. Then, when he came back, his mood had changed.”
“Yes,” Heather said. “I’m really glad you called because I noticed it too. He seemed more reserved … a little tense.”
“So you noticed it too,” Debby said, picking up her drink. “Well, it got a lot worse. When we went home he was annoyed at me. I don’t want to go into it. He just acted very tense. I just wondered if he and Beau … had some kind of disagreement in the cellar.”
