Lifeblood

by Penny Rudolph

  Goldie thought about that. “Okay, there was a sign. But it wasn’t hanging on the door. You said you found it on the floor. Maybe it was meant for somewhere else, fell off a cart or something.”

  Rachel scratched the end of her nose. “Maybe. But area closed means area closed. And the area where the sign was looked like it should have been closed, only it wasn’t.”

  “Maybe it’s closed some of the time,” Goldie said. “Maybe it’s an overflow area.”

  “You’re probably right. That’s what I thought when I first saw it.”

  “I’ve heard of women having babies in the halls of some hospitals. Or maybe it’s some sort of charity ward that they open when they need it.”

  Rachel thought about that. “I guess that’s possible, too.” She leaned forward. “What do you think happened to that boy I took to the emergency room?”

  Goldie pursed her lips and blew out a stream of air that sounded like a punctured tire. “You got me, sweet pea. Maybe he did pass on before they got him admitted to the hospital, like that security guy said.”

  “If that was the case, they’d have to file some kind of report, wouldn’t they? He wouldn’t just disappear. After all, the kid was a victim of criminal neglect, at the very least. Surely the cops would be called in.”

  “Seems like. But that’s probably the very sort of thing that falls between the cracks.”

  “I’d sure like to get a better look at that ward.”

  “You got some fool notion they stashed that kid there?” Goldie drew back. “Don’t you be giving me that look. Nosiree! I am not going to help you nose around that hospital.”

  “Okay. I didn’t ask, did I?”

  “I already did that once for you, over there.” Goldie nodded toward the building across the street. “My heart will never beat normal again.”

  She had sneaked Rachel into InterUrban Water Agency’s headquarters with the cleaning crew so they could search the office of the CEO who had been killed—murdered, as Rachel had suspected. They were caught red-handed by the chairman of the board and Rachel had lied their way out of it.

  “I said okay. I’ll figure out….”

  “I didn’t say I wouldn’t help.” Goldie paused and flashed a grin. “It was kind of awesome.”

  “And I was right.”

  “Yeah, you were right. You sure were.” Goldie grinned. “Hoooooooo-ee! That was exciting.”

  Rachel pulled a wry face. “Maybe you miss that stuff. I sure don’t.”

  “I think that may be a wee bit of a fib.”

  “No way,” Rachel said. “I hated every minute.”

  Goldie was silent for a moment. “You know what? If there are celebrities in that wing, or even if there aren’t, you can be damn sure they aren’t cleaning those rooms themselves.”

  “And?”

  “I might see if I can find out who is cleaning over there and ask what’s up.”

  “Would you?”

  “Uh-huh. I just might do that very thing.”

  One by one, the cleaning crew was leaving the office building across the street and streaming toward them. They were all young. Six of the nine had chubby round faces and rounder cheeks. Rachel had trouble telling the boys from the girls because all had hair about the same length and their nearly identical overalls hid any physical dissimilarities. Most were Down’s Syndrome people. All were earning a living. Most lived at a sort of halfway house named, for some peculiar reason, Downers Grove. Maybe the naming was deliberate. My kids, as Goldie had explained, don’t have much use for political correctness and prettified terms.

  “Get in the van,” Goldie called to them. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Right-o, Golda,” a voice shouted, and several giggled as they all turned and headed for the big van parked in a short half-circle driveway in front of the office building.

  “I love those kids,” Rachel said. “Don’t they ever get tired?”

  “Never tired, never crabby,” Goldie said. “Well, hardly ever.”

  “We should all be so lucky.”

  Goldie got up to follow the cleaning crew. “Why don’t you give Rampart a call? See if they know anything about those Mexican kids you’re so curious about.”

  “You know why.”

  “Well, Rampart has been butt deep in its own scandal. They play high-and-mighty with you, I believe I would gently remind them that you’ve been clean a lot longer than they have.”

  “I’ll do that. I’m sure they’d enjoy hearing it. Especially from me.”

  “’Bout time you get over that, girl.” Goldie called over her shoulder as she crossed to where the kids stood in a cluster under the street light.

  It wasn’t that Rachel had a grudge against cops. She just figured they would discount most of anything she had to say. But that was her own fault. Six or so years ago, up north around San Francisco, she had been high on booze and a snootful of meth to boot. She’d run a car off the freeway. It was pure luck the father and son in the car weren’t hurt.

  She got out of doing jail time thanks to a clever attorney. And she’d never taken another swig, snort, or drag of anything. But she was sure any cops she talked to would somehow be able to look up her record and then would chalk up anything she had to say as chatter from a junky.

  999

  Four days later, Rachel was still trying to rid her head of the image of the kids on the squalid floor of that van. No matter how many times she told herself it had nothing to do with her, it somehow did. What kind of a world was it if everyone just looked the other way? Just ignored what happened to others? Especially kids that young.

  As soon as the morning rush hour was over, she worked up her nerve, picked up the phone and called the infamous Rampart police station. A woman answered, put her on hold, then cut her off. Rachel called back. On hold again she pictured some of the cops she’d seen. They looked like Marines on steroids with necks as thick as thighs and so much muscle they were bowlegged. On the other hand, there was a police captain who occasionally showed up at her AA group, and he looked, acted and sounded like a university professor. Go figure.

  After being transferred for the third time, she was muttering to herself about the possibility that if you called a police station and said it wasn’t an emergency, they transferred you to some job that had been outsourced to India and your call was handled like corporate customer service. She drummed her fingers trying not to give way to annoyance.

  Finally, a raspy voice asked if its owner could help.

  For the third time, Rachel described finding two young boys and taking them to the emergency room at Jefferson Hospital. “It was too late for one of them,” she said, amazed at the dispassionate sound of her voice. Maybe if you say something often enough you don’t care anymore.

  “And the other?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out. They said he was being admitted, but he’s not at the hospital. I don’t know what happened to him. Would they have to file some kind of report if a kid was brought in suffering from what was obviously criminal negligence if not worse?”

  “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “The one who was dead, that would be the coroner’s office. You’ll have to call there.”

  “And the one who was alive?”

  “Well, maybe he died, or maybe his parents came and got him before the hospital admitted him.”

  “Would there be any kind of report made, in either case?”

  “I can look. The date?”

  She told him.

  “Hold please.”

  A few minutes later, he was back on the line. “Sorry. Nothing like that on that date.” And without another word, she was listening to a dial tone.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Rachel reached for the phone book and thumbed through the pages. How would the coroner’s office be listed? Under City of Los Angeles? County? Looking up, she saw Irene peering into the garage, one hand on her supermarket cart, which seemed t
o have gained a bright blue and yellow striped blanket. Beneath the blanket, something protruded that might be the tail of an animal.

  “Hallo, dear girl.”

  “I like your new blanket,” Rachel said as the woman pushed the cart into the garage. She never asked where Irene acquired things.

  “Getting on toward winter. Got to be prepared. Wait till you see this.” Irene reached into the cart and drew a fur coat from under the blanket. Pulling it over her plump shoulders, she twirled. The coat reached nearly to the ground.

  “That is spectacular,” Rachel said.

  “There’s a small tear in the back.” Irene slowly spun about holding the right side of the coat out like a model. “Otherwise it’s perfect. My old mother had one of these. I think it’s raccoon. Found it out behind the Rainbow Theater on Beverly. They are closing, you know. Tossed out a lot of costumes. I had me a very good day, I did.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “You haven’t had use for me lately.”

  Rachel closed the phone book. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t that I didn’t want your help. I had a client move out of town and I was worried about money. About keeping this place afloat.”

  “Ah, that I understand. I do indeed. But your credit is good with me, luv. Anytime. Remember that.”

  “Well, thank you. But I think I’m okay for now. I got another client pretty quickly.”

  “Good to hear it. Yes indeed. That’s very good.” Irene took off the coat, folded it and put it back under the blanket in the basket. “Did you ever find that poor boy you were looking for?”

  “No. He seems to have disappeared.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me. Doesn’t surprise me at all.”

  “You said that before. I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Oh, I hear things, I do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Things a girl like you would rather not know,” Irene said.

  Rachel raised her eyebrows. “Try me.”

  “Life on the street is not always good, you know,” Irene said. “Every now and then someone disappears, never to be heard from again.”

  “Well, that’s not at a hospital.”

  “Not always, dear girl.”

  “People sometimes disappear at hospitals?”

  “They might,” Irene answered cryptically.

  “You ever hear anything about that particular hospital? Jefferson?”

  “Well, I could say yes, or I could say no. Like what?”

  “Like do they have a lot of celebrity patients?”

  “I expect they do, dear girl. Celebrities get sick just like you and me, you know. Yes, I’ve heard of limousines pulling up there. Saw one or two myself. Neil Diamond, it was once. And another time Sean Penn. They always dress like plumbers, movie stars do.”

  “Plumbers?”

  “Yes, indeed. All in gray. Gray shirt, gray pants, gray jacket. Black shoes, though.”

  The phone rang. Rachel punched the talk button and said, “Chavez Garage” into the mouth piece.

  Irene turned to push her cart back to the sidewalk. “You let me know if you need me, you hear? I gave you my cell number, didn’t I?”

  Rachel shook her head.

  Irene reached into a pocket, drew out a business card and handed it to Rachel.

  Irene. Fortunes And More.

  Rachel wondered what the “more” was and decided it might be wiser not to know.

  “Your credit is plenty good with me,” Irene said. “You remember that.”

  “I will.” Rachel waved as the woman went back to her supermarket basket, then said into the phone, “Sorry. Can I help you?”

  “Rachel, honey?” It was Marty.

  “Hi, Pop. How’s it going?” Had he already lost all his winnings and needed some money? It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Okay. Real well, in fact. I want to bring you something. When’s a good time?”

  “Bring me what?”

  “A surprise.”

  “Pop, I don’t like surprises.” Rachel peered through the glass of the cubicle at what looked like the shadow of someone leaning against the garage wall a few yards away.

  “Well, you’ll like this one. When’s a good time?”

  She sighed. She knew the routine. When her dad won big, he liked to shower friends and family with gifts and cash. Eventually he would lose big and want back whatever cash was left, along with any pawnable gifts. She sometimes wondered if he deliberately gave the kinds of gifts that pawnshops liked.

  “I suppose it’ll have to be something like noon,” she said. The previous day’s poker games tended to wind up by noon and there was a lull in the afternoon, at least at the club where Marty played.

  “Noon is good. Tomorrow? We can go for lunch.”

  Rachel was idly watching the shadow on the wall. It probably was not a person at all. “If it doesn’t matter to you,” she said into the phone, “I’d rather stick around here. A lot of people take their cars at noon and you never know when somebody will need something.”

  “Sure. Okay. I’ll bring lunch. How about Chinese?”

  “Okay. But look, Pop, I’d love to see you tomorrow. I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but I really don’t need anything.” The shadow moved, lengthened, grew shoulders. Rachel glanced at her watch. Mid afternoon. Still, the local lowlife didn’t keep special hours. There were always enough around to cause problems.

  She pulled the three-year-old book of yellow pages from a shelf and opened it. Inside, her old thirty-eight rested where the center pages had been carved out to hold it. Marty had given it to her years ago for her birthday.

  “Come on, Rachel,” Marty was saying. “I’ll give my little girl a present if I want to. Noon tomorrow. Your place. Lunch.”

  She gave up. “Okay.” Then, “I gotta go.” She pressed the off button.

  With the gun pointed at the floor, Rachel stepped out of the booth. Not for the first time she was glad that back on the farm, Marty had taught her how to shoot.

  She stepped quickly and quietly toward the shadow.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What are you doing here?” The words exploded from her in relief.

  “Waiting for you to stop gabbing long enough to say hello.” Hank swept her into his hug.

  “Why didn’t you call?” she sputtered.

  He took the wrist of the hand that held the thirty-eight. “What the hell is that?”

  “I saw your shadow. How was I supposed to know it was you? Why didn’t you call?” she asked again.

  “I’m only here for a couple hours. Keith was coming down in the Water and Power plane and at the last minute, offered me a ride…. Put that thing away. It reminds me of how we met.”

  At that, she had to laugh. They had met in the garage when, during a power outage, they bumped into each other in the dark and Rachel, thinking him a thief or mugger, had floored him with her knee.

  “Well, do tell. It’s the Water Man.” Irene waddled toward them, her smile almost as broad as she was. “How have you been, sir?” She offered him her hand. Somewhere she had come into possession of a beanie, which somehow gave her a look of youthful surprise.

  “Couldn’t be better.” He brought the woman’s hand to his lips in an Antonio Banderas imitation that made Irene fairly squeal with delight. “Now, can you take care of the shop while I whisk my dearly beloved away for a soda or snack or whatever she wants?”

  “Of course dear boy. I was just a few minutes ago complaining that she doesn’t make use of me enough.” She turned to Rachel. “All work and no play, dear girl. You don’t want to become dull.”

  Rachel nodded, wondering if she was part of this tête-à-tête or just the audience. Hank could at least have asked her instead of Irene. Don’t be so irritable. He flew all the way down here just to see you.

  How do I know it was just to see me?

  “I do think I should have your spare set of keys. You know. In case you want to take off the whole night,�
� Irene said with her most ingenuous deadpan.

  999

  The Pig ’n Whistle was almost deserted. The bartender, whose name tag read Randall, wordlessly laid out napkins and cardboard coasters imprinted with a chubby pink pig in a Scottish kilt, and gave them a raised eyebrow.

  Hank ordered a Guinness, Rachel asked for her usual club soda with lemon. She felt oddly safer these days at the Pig since Randall had come to work there. He was a member of her AA group.

  “Haven’t seen you lately,” he said as he delivered the soda.

  Rachel hung her head, knowing he meant at meetings. “I’ve been sorta busy.”

  A frosted mug and a dark brown bottle arrived in front of Hank. He tilted the bottle and poured into the glass but got mostly foam.

  “What does he mean he hasn’t seen you lately?” he asked Rachel.

  Rachel lifted one shoulder. One does not “out” a fellow AA member. She took a sip of the fizzy soda water.

  “I hear you were here a couple days ago,” Hank said. He was still having trouble getting any beer into the glass without the foam overflowing.

  “Obviously, you don’t drink a lot of beer,” Rachel said.

  “Not a lot,” Hank agreed. “Even less if I don’t count the ones I drink from the can or the bottle. Must be a trick to using a glass.”

  “You have to tilt it and pour down the side.”

  Hank frowned at her.

  “Trust me. Among all the odd jobs I’ve done, I was once a bartender.” She took the glass, squeezed a little of the lemon from her own drink into the mug, and the foam wilted. Tilting the glass, she poured in half the bottle of beer.

  “Now it’ll taste like Mexican beer,” Hank said.

  “Maybe. So?”

  “It’s Irish beer.”

  She gave him a wide-eyed look. “Really?”

  “Were you in here a few days ago?”

  Rachel felt her face flush. About what? A silly glass of club soda with Gabe? She looked away from Hank toward the clock. “What if I was?”

  “I’m just asking.”

  “I guess I’m asking why you’re asking. Like who told you, and what’s it to you if I was?”

  “Oh-oh. Sounds like a storm warning.”

  Rachel sighed. “I’m sorry. But I am curious.”