Lifeblood

by Penny Rudolph

  Rachel’s eyes flashed. “And who is Charlie?” She already knew the answer. No bank would loan Marty that much money, even if he had something to put up for security, which he didn’t.

  “Just a guy who loans money.”

  “Jesus, Pop! A loan shark! Are you out of your mind?” Rachel banged the wooden fork she was using on the counter, splattering raw egg. “You borrowed eleven thousand dollars from a goddam loan shark?” She grabbed a paper towel and mopped up the globs of egg.

  Marty was wearing his best poker face. “I guess.”

  “Dammit, Pop! You’re gonna wake up some day with busted kneecaps.”

  They both were silent as she finished scrambling the eggs, topped them with cheese and a spoonful of green chile, and put them in front of him. “Just the way you like them, que no?”

  Marty nodded and began to eat. “Really good. Thanks.”

  “You save that money, Pop. You put it somewhere that you can’t get your hands on it real easy. Open an account in a bank in New York or Timbuktu or somewhere you can’t put your hands on it too easily.”

  Marty swallowed a forkful of eggs. “Umm-hmm.”

  “You want some coffee?”

  He shook his head. “No thanks. Must be getting old. It’s started keeping me awake.”

  Rachel was cleaning up the kitchen. She frowned. “Did you hear what I said when I handed you the eggs?”

  Marty shrugged.

  “I said, que no. You taught me that when I was little. That and a couple other words, but that’s all. Not even sentences. Why didn’t you teach me any more Spanish?”

  “Your mother wouldn’t have liked it.”

  “She would have loved it. You know she would.”

  “It would have made her uncomfortable.”

  “Because of Nana and Gramps?”

  Marty raised an eyebrow and gave a little shrug, but said nothing.

  “Well, they’ve been dead for years and years. So teach me some Spanish now.”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t remember any.”

  “Okay, let’s both learn some Spanish. I’ll bet one of the community colleges offers a short course in conversational Spanish. You can use some of that big win of yours to take us to Mexico, to where you were born.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I just don’t want to. Where did all this interest in Spanish and Mexico suddenly come from?”

  The lines between Rachel’s eyes deepened. “Can’t I just want to know where you came from?”

  “Seems sort of silly at this stage of the game.”

  Well, dammit, you owe me a little something about my own history.”

  “I don’t think I do.”

  “Bullshit! I knew everything about Mom, her family, where she was from. All I know about you is you’re half Mexican, half Irish and I guess there were problems with her parents over the Mexican part. Which was incredibly stupid, but it doesn’t matter any more.”

  Marty gave her a hurt look. “I came over here to offer to help you out.” He caught her look. “Okay, pay you back for some of the times you bailed me out of money trouble. And you just want to yell at me about being Mexican.”

  “I am a quarter Mexican! I have a right to know about that part of me.”

  “You are not a quarter Mexican.”

  “I am so.” She stopped, staring. “Omigod! Are you telling me you’re not my father?”

  Chapter Eight

  Marty’s eyes were avoiding Rachel’s. “Don’t be silly. I’m saying you are half Mexican.”

  “What?…Like from where?”

  “From me.”

  “You’re half Irish.”

  “Far as I know, my blood is one hundred percent bonafide Mexican.”

  Rachel didn’t say anything for a moment, then, softly, “You were lying all this time?”

  “I guess so.”

  “But you have blue eyes.”

  Marty moved those eyes to hers. “Yep. That was a puzzlement. A bee in the old ointment. It caused some problems for my mother. My father’s family gave her a real hard time about it. When I was about six, even the padre told them it could happen and pointed out that already I looked more like my father than my brother and sisters did. A recessive gene maybe, from some Spaniard who escaped the Moors, or some guy who got over the fence long, long ago.”

  “Your father didn’t trust your mother?”

  “Nope. And he wouldn’t let up. When I was fourteen, we started fighting a lot. Physical stuff. One night he broke my arm. A couple months later I was in San Francisco. My mother arranged for me to go to her sister there.”

  “You have papers?”

  “Of course.”

  “How did you get them?”

  “We weren’t poor. My mother paid a lot. They were good papers. The best. I think she knew the whole thing eventually would be necessary. She was probably getting ready for it.”

  “What happened to her?”

  “I wrote her many times.” Marty looked down, avoiding whatever he saw in Rachel’s eyes. “I never saw her again.”

  Rachel walked over to her father and drew him close. “Jesus,” she said, voice almost a whisper. “You’re an illegal alien?”

  999

  The next morning, Rachel was still trying to digest her father’s news. He had obediently spent the night on the sofa and was complaining over an early cup of coffee that Clancy had insisted on sitting on his chest and staring at him. “As if I was a mouse. A very large mouse.”

  “More like a rat.”

  “You still mad?”

  She shook her head. “Of course not. It just takes some getting used to.”

  “Good. I was afraid you might turn me in to the Border Patrol.”

  They laughed, shyly at first, then the kind of laughter that brings tears to the eyes.

  Marty left early, wanting to get his car off the street before the rush hour.

  Rachel opened the garage and as soon as the flow of cars slowed, she climbed into the glass booth and began dialing the businesses she had listed as within walking distance. She left messages at the first three, hating the whole thing, the calling, the spiel, the phone tag, but it had to be done. Before she could punch in the next numbers, her own line rang.

  “Archie Van Buren,” the voice said when she had identified herself, “with Jefferson Hospital business office.”

  Had they found the boy she had been inquiring about? But why the business office? Were they were going to try to twist her arm again about paying the bill?

  “That’s Van Buren, capital V, capital B. We have a few problems you may be able to help us with.”

  “Yes?” Rachel drummed her fingers, waiting for him bring up the boy’s bill.

  “You have some available space in your garage?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” She would have to rethink her disbelief in magic and genies and fairy godmothers. “As it happens I’ve just gotten word that one of my clients is moving to the Valley. I have at least a hundred spaces. I could give you a firmer number in a couple hours.”

  “Good.”

  Then it occurred to her this might not be quite the pure stroke of luck it seemed. “You realize I’m not open all night. I close the doors at ten. And I’m not in a position to collect individual fees.”

  “Of course. No problem. For the most part, we only want to be able to park a few of our medical staff there on weekdays. Nights and weekends there’s room in our own lot.”

  “A few…?” Rachel asked. “I thought you wanted more like a hundred.”

  “At least a hundred,” he said. “To me, that’s a few. We have something like nineteen hundred on the staff.”

  “Good heavens, that’s a lot.”

  “Of course they’re not all here at the same time. But when they are, we have to be able to park them. And right now we’re at least a hundred spaces short.”

  “Do you want to write up the lease
yourself or use one of my forms?”

  “We’ll do the lease. But there’s one other thing. You have a helipad there, do you not?”

  “Yes.” She had visions of medics and gurneys and ambulances racing through the garage. “Several clients use it during business hours, but there isn’t proper lighting for use after dark, and I don’t think it could accommodate patients even during the day.”

  “No, of course not. We don’t accept helicopter transfer patients. We’re not a trauma center. Our emergencies arrive from the street. But your helipad might be handy for medical supplies from time to time, and for some particularly perishable items.”

  “That would work,” she said. “If it’s only occasional, I could even do delivery and pickup.”

  “I’m sure we can work something out.”

  When they had hung up, Rachel leaped from her stool in excitement. What a windfall! A bonanza, a break. Financial disaster would stop looming. And she wouldn’t have to make any more calls to beg for business.

  Her delight would not last long.

  Chapter Nine

  Archie Van Buren didn’t waste much time. That same afternoon he called again. When she confirmed the number of spaces, he asked if she would be available the next morning to go over the lease.

  She would. Absolutely.

  Dressed in her only suit, navy chino, and a prim white blouse, Rachel got to the medical center ten minutes early, was escorted through what seemed like miles of corridors to the administrative wing and hence into a huge, elegant conference room. The mahogany table was so highly polished she could have used it to put on eye shadow.

  Rachel wasn’t sure whether to put her purse on the table or on the floor next to her chair. It was a very special handbag, with an intricate design on the flap—an impulse purchase from a leather worker at an arts fair back when she could afford such things. The purse really was a work of art. She decided to place it flat on the table.

  She was soon joined by Van Buren and two other men. One was introduced as a vice president of something or other, the other apparently was the attorney who drew up the paperwork.

  She wondered briefly if she should have her own attorney look it over, but the lease, neatly printed on legal-size paper, was not fundamentally different from those of her other clients. So a couple strokes of a pen and a few pleasantries later, Van Buren was escorting her back through the lobby, and she left the hospital with a check for the first three months’ rent in her handbag.

  In mid-afternoon, Rachel looked up from her eternal book work to see a black man in navy jacket and pants, white shirt and solid red tie, standing quietly in the door to her cubicle. Below round cheeks, soft eyes like melting chocolate, and a gentle chin, his middle strained a bit at the confines of his belt.

  “Dan Morris,” he said, with a somewhat shy smile. “I’m in charge of security at Jefferson Medical Center. When you have time, I just need to take a look at your license and whatnot.”

  “Of course.” Rachel gestured to where the license and certificates hung in diploma frames just below the glass windows.

  Morris studied them and nodded. “Mind if I take a look around? I doubt we’ll be stationing anyone here since it’s just the day staff that will be parking here, but I’d like to know the layout and all that.”

  “Sure. Go ahead. Anywhere you like.” There was something about his eyes that spoke of sadness—maybe something he’d seen he couldn’t forget—a little like some of the war vets she knew from AA. She watched him wander up the ramp with the rolling gait of a man whose few extra pounds had done little to hinder an innate grace.

  He must have been thorough because it was a good half hour or more before he returned.

  “About the helipad,” he said.

  Rachel frowned. “Something wrong? If so, I’ll get it fixed right away.”

  “Nope. No problems I can see. When can we start using it?”

  “Well, your lease is dated the first of next week, but if you need to send or receive something sooner, that’s okay. I bill once a month based on the number of times a helicopter touches down for you.”

  “Good. We’ll be needing to send something off. In about an hour. That okay?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “What’s the procedure with you?”

  “Well, I’d like to meet whoever will be going up there. I don’t like strangers wandering around the place. But generally, I keep the door to the pad unlocked and once I’ve met whoever it is, if I’m here, that person might just stop and give me a nod so I know what’s going on and I can record the use. If for some reason I’m not here, which won’t be often, please just leave me a note—stick it under the door of the booth.”

  “Mostly, I’ll be that person.”

  “Okay. How often do you think you’ll be using it? The pad, I mean.”

  “Could be every day weekdays. Outgoing that is. There may be other stuff coming in. I can’t predict that right now.”

  “Good heavens. I’ll have to check my insurance about that much use. If the premiums go up, I’ll have to raise the fee to cover.”

  Morris hitched up his pants and smiled. “I’m sure that’ll be fine so long as you justify it.”

  Half an hour later, he was knocking at the window of her kiosk hoisting a package of tightly taped Styrofoam measuring about eighteen inches high by a foot wide and deep. A blue plastic handle was attached to the thick black rubbery-looking elastic bands that bound the parcel.

  “Looks like you’re going on a picnic,” she said.

  He smiled. “Don’t I wish.”

  She nodded. Watching him check his watch, waiting for the elevator, she decided his muscles might be a little soft, but all the same, she wouldn’t relish tangling with him.

  Less than ten minutes later she heard the loud thrum-thrum-thrum of the helicopter.

  And a few minutes after that, he tapped on her window, made an O with his thumb and forefinger, then ambled toward the street door.

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Rachel called after him.

  He turned and ambled back with an inquisitive look.

  “You’re with the hospital. Maybe you could help me out on something.”

  “I’ll sure try.”

  “I found a couple of young boys locked in a van here and took them to the emergency room. I was told one of the kids was dead but the other was okay, just dehydrated.”

  He nodded, raised eyebrows, waiting.

  “I got to wondering about the kid who was alive, sort of felt responsible for him in a way, I guess.”

  “Sure,” he agreed.

  “So I went back over there to see if I could visit him.” She stopped, remembering that it was probably someone on this man’s staff who had ultimately escorted her to the door to get rid of her.

  “Was he okay?” Morris asked.

  “I wish I knew. That’s the problem. They said he didn’t exist. They said there was no record of any kid like him being admitted to the hospital that day.”

  Morris turned his head slightly, narrowed his eyes, and hitched up his pants.

  Rachel fiddled with a pencil. “I guess I should add that I made a little bit of a scene because I figured that wasn’t possible. One of your guys came and showed me the way to the door.”

  Morris’ dark eyes examined hers. “If he wasn’t courteous, you tell me what time it was and what he looked like and I’ll have a talk with him.”

  “Oh, no,” Rachel said quickly. “He was perfectly nice. My question to you, since you must know hospital procedures, is can you think of any reason I would be told by the emergency room people this boy was okay, that he was just dehydrated, and that he was being admitted to the hospital. But instead he disappeared?”

  Morris stared at his feet, as if examining the condition of his shoes. “Well, I think dehydration can be pretty serious. Maybe they were wrong about this kid’s condition. Maybe he died before he was admitted.”

  Chapter Ten

  Weeke
nd chores and errands gave Rachel little time to think, but by Sunday night she was again dwelling on what Morris had said.

  If both boys were dead, all her efforts had been wasted. The worst of it was that the second boy’s death would be on her conscience. She knew only too well that one of them had been knocking that bolt against the side of the van, desperately trying to alert someone to the plight of the two locked inside. And she hadn’t responded.

  The next morning, she was standing at the garage entrance watching Irene laying out tarot cards for a passerby the old lady had cornered, when someone tapped her on the shoulder.

  She turned to find a harried-looking woman holding up a cell phone. “Can I help you?”

  The woman raised both hands in the air in a helpless gesture. “My car won’t start, my cell is down….”

  Rachel led the way to the glass booth. “I’ve got several chargers. Let me see your phone.”

  The second connection she tried fit. “Good. Now let’s see about the car.”

  “It’s in C-3,” the woman said. C was the area newly leased to Jefferson.

  Rachel followed her client to a pale blue BMW. “Mind if I give it a try?”

  The woman handed over the keys. She didn’t look like the helpless type, but she obviously didn’t know much about cars.

  The engine ground over with plenty of strength but didn’t catch. Rachel popped the hood, opened it, and looked around for something obvious like a stray distributor wire.

  The woman was pacing back and forth behind the bumper.

  “Okay, my guess is it’s the fuel pump. There’s no smell of gas, but I’m no expert,” Rachel told her. “Couple things we can do. If you have Triple A we can give them a call but no telling when they’ll get here and all they’ll do is tow it—you pick the place. Or, I know a guy who will come out, take a look, and if it isn’t too serious, he’ll fix it right here. He’s not as expensive as some repair places because he knows where to get most parts at the best prices. But I don’t know how busy he is or exactly when he could take a look at it. Take your pick. Triple A or Johnny Mack. For that matter, if Johnny takes a look and decides it has to be towed, Triple A can do it then.”

  The woman looked relieved. “You can vouch for this guy?”

  “As much as I’d vouch for anyone. And if you wind up having to rent a car, I could probably give you a lift to some car rental place.”