Devil's Waltz Part 26

"I wouldn't say strange. He's just not what you'd expect of Chuck Jones's son. Beard, earring. Doesn't seem to have much affection for the hospital."

"Well, at least he and Chuck have something in common . . . Far as I'm concerned the case is a loser and I'm tired of losing. That's why I punted to you. And now you're telling me you've got squat. Too bad."

He retrieved the hammer, tossed it, caught it, used it to drum the top of the table.

I said, "Would hypoglycemia explain any of Ca.s.sie's earlier symptoms?"

"Maybe the diarrhea. But she also had fevers, so there was probably some kind of infectious process going on. In terms of the breathing problems, it's also possible. Mess with the metabolism, anything's possible."

He picked up his stethoscope and looked at his watch. "Got work to do. Some of the kids out there, this'll be the last time I see them."

I got up and thanked him.

"For what? I've accomplished squat on this one."

I laughed. "Same way I feel, Al."

"Consultancy blues. You know the story of the overs.e.xed rooster who was bothering the hens in the henhouse? Sneaking up behind 'em and jumping their bones, just generally making a nuisance of himself? So the farmer had him castrated and turned him into a consultant. Now he just sits on the fence, watching and giving advice to the other roosters. Trying to remember what it felt like."

I laughed again. We left the exam room and returned to the waiting room. A nurse came up to Macauley and handed him a pile of charts without comment. She looked angry as she walked away.

"Good morning to you, too, darling," he said. To me: "I'm a rotten deserter. Next few weeks are gonna be my punishment."

He looked out at the turmoil and his hound face sagged.

"Does quieter pastures mean private practice?" I said.

"Group practice. Small town in Colorado, not far from Vail. Ski in the winter, fish in the summer, find new modes of mischief for the rest of the year."

"Doesn't sound too bad."

"Shouldn't be. No one else in the group does endocrinology, so maybe I'll even have a chance to use my training once in a while."

"How long have you been at Western Peds?"

"Two years. One and a half too long."

"The financial situation?"

"That's a big part of it but not all of it. I was no Pollyanna when I came here, knew an inner-city hospital would always be struggling to balance the books. It's the att.i.tude that bugs me."

"Grandpa Chuck?"

"And his boys. They're trying to run this place like just another company. We could be manufacturing widgets for all they're concerned. That's what grinds-their not understanding. Even the gypsies know things are bad-you know about our Hollywood gypsies?"

"Sure," I said. "Big white Cadillacs, twelve to a car, camp-outs in the hallways, the barter system."

He grinned. "I've been paid with food, spare parts for my MG, an old mandolin. Actually, it's a better reimburs.e.m.e.nt rate than I get from the government. Anyway, one of my diabetics is one of them. Nine years old, in line to be king of the tribe. His mother's this good-looking woman, educated, about a hundred years of living behind her. Usually when she comes in she's full of laughs, b.u.t.tering me up, telling me I'm G.o.d's answer to medical science. This time she was really quiet, as if she was upset about something. And it was just a routine exam-the boy's doing well, medically. So I asked her what the matter was and she said, 'This place, Dr. Al. Bad vibrations.' She was narrowing her eyes at me like some storefront fortuneteller. I said, what do you mean? But she wouldn't explain, just touched my hand and said, 'I like you, Dr. Al, and Anton likes you. But we won't be coming back here. Bad vibrations.' "

He hefted the charts and transferred them to one hand. "Pretty dicey, huh?"

I said, "Maybe we should consult her on Ca.s.sie."

He smiled. Patients continued to stream in, even though there was no room for them. Some of them greeted him and he responded with winks.

I thanked him again for his time.

He said, "Sorry we won't have a chance to work together."

"Good luck in Colorado."

"Yup," he said. "You ski?"

"No."

"Me neither . . ." He looked back at the waiting room, shook his head. "What a place . . . Originally, I was gonna be a surgeon, slice and dice. Then, when I was a second-year med student, I came down with diabetes. No dramatic symptoms, just some weight loss that I didn't think much about because I wasn't eating properly. I went into shock in the middle of gross anatomy lab, collapsed on top of my cadaver. It was just before Christmas. I got home and my family handled it by pa.s.sing the honey-baked ham right by me, no one saying anything. I handled that by rolling my pants up, hoisting my leg up on the table and jabbing it, in front of everyone. Eventually, I figured it was time to forget about scalpels and think about people. That's what appealed to me about this place-working with kids and families. But when I got here I found out that was all gone. Bad vibes is right. That gypsy lady could tell the moment she walked in the door. It might sound nuts to you, but she crystallized what had been going on in my head for a while. Sure, Colorado's gonna be boring-sniffles and sneezes and diaper rash. And I haven't been here long enough to collect any pension, so financially the two years have been a wash. But at least I won't be sitting on the fence. c.o.c.k-a-doodle-doo."

15.

Robin called at seven to say she was on her way over. She was at my door a half hour later, hair drawn back and French-braided, accentuating the sweet, clean lines of her neck. She wore black teardrop earrings and a cool-pink denim dress that hugged her hips. In her arms were bags of Chinese takeout.

When we'd lived together, Chinese had been the cue for dinner in bed. Back in the good old days I'd have led her into the bedroom, Joe Suave. But two years apart and a reconciliation that was still confusing had shaken my instincts. I took the bags, placed them on the dining room table, and kissed her lightly on the lips.

She put an arm around me, pressed the back of my head, and enlarged the kiss.

When we broke for breath she said, "I hope this is okay-not going out?"

"I've been out plenty today."

"Me too. Delivering the Stealths to the boys' hotel. They wanted me to stay and party."

"They've got better taste in women than in music."

She laughed, kissed me again, pulled back, and did some exaggerated heavy breathing.

"Enough with the hormones," she said. "First things first. Let me heat this up and we'll have ourselves an indoor picnic."

She took the food into the kitchen. I hung back and watched her move. All these years I'd never tired of watching her move.

The dress was nouveau-rodeo sweetheart-lots of leather fringe and old lace on the yoke. She wore ankle-high boots that echoed sharply on the kitchen floor. Her braid swung as she walked. So did the rest of her but I found myself looking at the braid. Shorter than Cindy Jones's and auburn instead of dark-brown, but it got me thinking about the hospital again.

She deposited the bags on the counter, started to say something, then realized I hadn't followed her in. Looking over her shoulder, she said, "Something the matter, Alex?"

"No," I lied, "just admiring."

One of her hands darted to her hair and I realized she was nervous. That made me want to kiss her again.

I said, "You look gorgeous."

She flashed a smile that tightened my chest and held out her arms. I went into the kitchen.

"Tricky," she said later, trying to knit my chest hair with chopsticks.

"The idea," I said, "is to show your devotion by knitting me a sweater. Not turning me into one."

She laughed. "Cold moo goo. What a gourmet treat."

"At this moment, wet sand on toast would be okay." I stroked her face.

Placing the chopsticks on the nightstand, she moved closer. Our sweaty flanks stuck together and made wet-plastic noises. She turned her hand into a glider and flew it over my chest, barely touching skin. Propping herself up, she b.u.mped her nose against mine, kissed my chin. Her hair was still braided. As we'd made love, I'd held it, pa.s.sing the smooth rope between my fingers, finally letting go when I began to lose control, for fear of hurting her. Some of the curly strands had come loose and they tickled my face. I smoothed them back and nuzzled her under her chin.

Her head lifted. She ma.s.saged my chest some more, stopped, inspected, looped a finger under a single hair, and said, "Hmm."

"What?"

"A gray one-isn't that cute."

"Adorable."

"It is, Alex. You're maturing."

"What's that, the euphemism of the day?"

"The truth, Doctor. Time's a s.e.xist pig-women decay; men acquire a vintage. Even guys who weren't all that cute when they were young have a second shot at studliness if they don't let themselves go completely to seed. The ones like you, who were adorable to begin with, can really clean up."

I started panting.

"I'm serious, Alex. You'll probably get all craggy and wise-look like you really understand the mysteries of life."

"Talk about false advertising."

She inspected each of my temples, turning my head gently with strong fingers and burrowing through the hair.

"This is the ideal place to start silvering," she said in a teacher's voice. "Maximum cla.s.s-and-wisdom quotient. Hmm, nope, I don't see anything yet, just this one little guy, down here." Touching a nail to the chest hair, she brushed my nipple again. "Too bad you're still a callow youth."

"Hey, babe, let's party."

She put her head back down and reached lower, under the blanket.

"Well," she said, "there's something to be said for callow too."

We moved to the living room and listened to some tapes she'd brought. The new Warren Zevon casting cold light upon the dark side of life-a novel in miniature. A Texas genius named Eric Johnson who produced musical textures from the guitar that made me want to burn my instruments. A young woman named Lucinda Williams with a beautiful, bruised voice and lyrics straight from the heart.

Robin sat on my lap, curled small, her head on my chest, breathing shallowly.

When the music was over she said, "Is everything okay?"

"Sure. Why?"

"You seem a little distracted."

"Don't mean to be," I said, wondering how she could tell.

She sat up and undid her braid. Her curls had matted and she began separating the strands. When she'd fluffed them and restored the natural perm, she said, "Anything you want to talk about?"

"It really isn't anything," I said. "Just work-a tough case. I'm probably letting it get to me too much."

I expected her to let that go, but she said, "Confidential, right?" with just a trace of regret.

"Limited confidentiality," I said. "I'm a consultant and this one may spill over into the criminal justice system."

"Oh. That kind of case."

She touched my face. Waited.

I told her the story of Ca.s.sie Jones, leaving out names and identifying marks.

When I finished, she said, "Isn't there anything that can be done?"

"I'm open to suggestions," I said. "I've got Milo running background checks on the parents and the nurse, and I'm doing my best to get a feel for all of them. Problem is, there isn't a shred of real evidence, just logic, and logic isn't worth much, legally. The only fishy thing so far is the mother lying to me about being the victim of an influenza epidemic when she was in the army. I called the base and managed to find out there'd been no epidemic."

"Why would she lie about something like that?"

"The real reason she was discharged could be something she wants to hide. Or, if she's a Munchausen personality, she just likes lying."

"Disgusting," she said. "A person doing that to their own flesh and blood. To any kid . . . How does it feel to be back at the hospital?"

"Kind of depressing, actually. Like meeting an old friend who's gone downhill. The place seems gloomy, Rob. Morale's low, cash flow's worse than ever, lots of staff have left-remember Raoul Melendez-Lynch?"

"The cancer specialist?"

"Uh-huh. He was married to the hospital. I watched him weather crisis after crisis and keep on ticking. Even he's gone-took a job in Florida. All the senior physicians seem to be gone. The faces I pa.s.s in the halls are new. And young. Or maybe I'm just getting old."

"Mature," she said. "Repeat after me: ma-ture."

"I thought I was callow."

"Mature and callow. Secret of your charm."

"Top of all that, the crime problems out on the street are leaking in more and more. Nurses beaten and robbed . . . A couple of nights ago there was a murder in one of the parking lots. A doctor."

"I know. I heard it on the radio. Didn't know you were back working there or I would have freaked."