the other was tuned to the pretty black nurse’s murmured comments about Melvin Crane’s “very critical” condition. “All right, Lieutenant,” Kevin Riley, boy-doctor, said abruptly, and walked away.
Larry stood there another moment wondering whether to call his commander at home, or to file a complaint with the Chiefs office at Parker Center.
But official channels had never been effective for him, and he went out to his car. He would return tomorrow morning, but not to Emergency; he’d walk into Intensive Care to see Mr. Crane’s condition for himself.
He had been about to shower when DHQ had called him on the mislabeled “double killing,” and as soon as he reached his apartment he stripped and stepped into a strong, hot stream. He completed the relaxing process with a Scotch and water, and reached for the phone, thinking to call Diana and discuss the possibility of a solution to her sister’s murder.
But he didn’t dial her number. Nothing to say yet, really. And he wanted to give her straight dope, no bullshit, no con. Just Numbah One info, as they used to say in ’Nam.
Instead, he called Roberta. The little blonde secretary was eager, and drove over from Studio City in twenty minutes. She was wearing a green slicker-style raincoat, which surprisd him since it hadn’t rained since June. But then she took it off and was nude underneath.
He was surprised again, when it didn’t mean a hell of a lot.
SEVEN: Tuesday, August 1
Mel awoke, twitching, trying to shove that long gun aside, cursing the fat man for what he’d done to Beth-Anne.
And the fat man was gone. The car was gone. There was a milky haze. And a heavy, deeply felt drumming sound.
And a smell. Like his mother’s room after a customer had left and she’d been cleaning up. A medicinal douche.
No. It was more like her room at the hospital when she’d been dying. . .
He remembered then! He’d grabbed at the gun in the window and felt a sledgehammer blow to the head.
He’d been shot. Like Beth-Ann.
He moved his head, trying to see beyond the milky haze.
Oh, God, the granddaddy of all headaches!
He tried calling for help: “Someone, anyone, come here!” And realized that while he was thinking words, and while his vocal chords were thrumming under the correct thrust of air from the lungs, his mouth wasn’t moving.
Slowly, to avoid pain, he reached for his lips.
At least he thought to move his right hand up to his mouth.
And couldn’t feel his right hand. Or left hand. Or legs. Christ, he couldn’t even feel his cock and he’d never ever lost awareness of that!
The heavy, drumming sound increased. He thanked God for it. At least there was something getting through to him. Rock music, maybe. Or machinery . . .
But then he listened more carefully, and recognized the sound. His own heart, pounding away. The only sound in all the world.
Why couldn’t he see clearly?
The panic came then, so quickly he couldn’t fight it. The hysteria and insanity caught him and tried to overwhelm him and he jerked his head back and forth and pain joined horror.
He’d been shot in the head like Beth-Anne, and hadn’t been lucky enough to die like Beth-Anne. He was paralyzed and he was deaf and he was dumb and he was blind except for a milky white haze.
He shrieked his horror, his pain.
And heard the shriek. It was blocked at the mouth, it was held inside, but he heard it.
So he wasn’t deaf. And he wasn’t dumb, just unable to speak words.
Beats a blank, baby. Now wait for someone to come. Wait for input, information, salvation.
But his eyes. Christ, he could take almost anything if he could only see. A pretty chick. A newspaper. A TV screen.
And he saw. A gorgeous chick! Who was really a chunky, middle-aged nurse who lifted what he now saw was a plastic oxygen tent off him—removing the milky haze—but who looked like Monroe and Farrah and Beth-Anne put together, because he wasn’t blind!
He wasn’t deaf or dumb or blind, and he laughed and opened his mouth to say, “Hey, hon, when do I get outta here?”
And said nothing, grunting instead, because his mouth still wouldn’t work. And neither would his arms or legs.
He looked at her, trying to thank her with his eyes for coming to him.
She said, “You’re in Cedars-Sinai Hospital, Mr. Crane. You’ve been shot in the face. Your head and jaw are bandaged, so you can’t speak. But you’re all right.”
He flickered his eyes at her.
“Are you thirsty? Hungry? We can give you nourishment through a tube. Or do you need a bedpan?”
He shook his head, even though it made him groan.
“Please don’t move,” she said. And then she looked at his body, at his arms and legs. Because he hadn’t moved them, not even a little bit. Because he lay there like a stone, except for his bandaged head.
He saw the understanding cross her face, and she said, “I’ll get the doctor. Just remember you’ve suffered severe shock. Just remember that it takes time . . .” She ran out of comforting things to say, and hurried from the room.
He waited. He tried to hold onto the joy he’d felt at having eyes and ears and vocal chords. He tried not to think of anything else.
But he did think of Beth-Anne falling over against the door, and of the fat white face in the window. The fat white face belonging to the fat white fuck . . .
Incredibly, in the midst of so much hatred, he felt himself losing thought, drifting away, being enveloped by heavy sleep.
And gave himself to it gratefully.
Sleep might be the best thing left in his life.
At nine a.m., Frank and Lila were at the hospital, waiting to be admitted into the Intensive Care section. His mother was being cleaned up now, the nurse at the desk explained. She was doing well, “though she might be a little fuzzy, you know.” He nodded and asked for a phone and was directed down the hall.
He was in a state of shock . . . and not just because of his mother. On the way over to Cedars-Sinai, he’d turned on the car radio, tuned to the all-news station, and learned that the black was alive. And somewhere in this very hospital.
The man had seen him. The man could describe him.
He fumbled for a dime, hands sweaty, and dialed the store. He told Martin he wouldn’t be in until later, and hunff up. He tried to think of what to do.
Get rid of the gun; that was the first thing. Maybe, somehow, get rid of the black . . . if he didn’t die on his own.
He was in “a deep coma,” the radio said. “In critical condition.”
He began walking back to Intensive Care. He walked slowly. What if the black was in one of those rooms? What if he regained consciousness and saw Frank?
He was sweating heavily now. He paused to wipe his face and neck with his handkerchief.
He should run from this place, go home, get rid of the gun.
Lila was waving at him from the desk. He went over, reluctantly. “We can go in now,” she murmured.
He walked behind her and a nurse. The rooms in Intensive Care had their doors closed, but the walls facing the nurses’ station had clear glass panels so that these critically ill patients could be under constant surveillance.
Frank