She deliberated, then raised a fourth finger. I decided not to push it any farther. I wrote my name in his book and showed him my driver’s license, holding my thumb over the Jodie address just as I had when I’d bet on the Pirates at Faith Financial almost three years ago. Then I passed over my cash, which was about a quarter of all my remaining liquidity, and tucked the receipt into my wallet. Two thousand would be enough to pay down some more of Sadie’s expenses and carry me for my remaining time in Texas. Plus, I wanted to gouge this Frati no more than I’d wanted to gouge Chaz Frati, even though he
“I’ll be back the day after the dance,” I said. “Have my money ready.”
The daughter laughed and lit a cigarette. “Ain’t that what the chorus girl said to the archbishop?”
“Is your name Marjorie, by any chance?” I asked.
She froze with the cigarette in front of her and smoke trickling from between her lips. “How’dja know?” She saw my expression and laughed. “Actually, it’s Wanda, sport. I hope you bet better than you guess names.”
Heading back to my car, I hoped the same thing.
I stayed with Sadie on the morning of August fifth until they put her on a gurney and rolled her down to the operating room. There Dr. Ellerton was waiting for her, along with enough other docs to field a basketball team. Her eyes were shiny with preop dope.
“Wish me luck.”
I bent and kissed her. “All the luck in the world.”
It was three hours before she was wheeled back to her room — same room, same picture on the wall, same horrible squatting commode — fast asleep and snoring, the left side of her face covered in a fresh bandage. Rhonda McGinley, the nurse with the fullback shoulders, let me stay with her until she came around a little, which was a big infraction of the rules. Visiting hours are more stringent in the Land of Ago. Unless the head nurse has taken a shine to you, that is.
“How are you?” I asked, taking Sadie’s hand.
“Sore. And sleepy.”
“Go back to sleep then, honey.”
“Maybe next time…” Her words trailed off in a furry
Then she was gone, and I had something to think about.
When I went back to the nurses’ station, Rhonda told me that Dr. Ellerton was waiting for me downstairs in the cafeteria.
“We’ll keep her tonight and probably tomorrow, too,” he said. “The last thing we want is for any sort of infection to develop.” (I thought of this later, of course — one of those things that’s funny, but not very.)
“How did it go?”
“As well as can be expected, but the damage Clayton inflicted was very serious. Pending her recovery, I’m going to schedule her second go-round for November or December.” He lit a cigarette, chuffed out smoke, and said: “This is a helluva surgical team, and we’re going to do everything we can… but there are limits.”
“Yes. I know.” I was pretty sure I knew something else, as well: there were going to be no more surgeries. Here, at least. The next time Sadie went under the knife, it wouldn’t be a knife at all. It would be a laser.
In
Small economies always come back and bite you in the ass. I’d had the phone taken out of my Neely Street apartment in order to save eight or ten dollars a month, and now I wanted it. But there was a U-Tote-M four blocks away with a phone booth next to the Coke cooler. I had de Mohrenschildt’s number on a scrap of paper. I dropped a dime and dialed.
“De Mohrenschildt residence, how may I help you?” Not Jeanne’s voice. A maid, probably — where
“I’d like to speak to George, please.”
“I’m afraid he’s at the office, sir.”
I grabbed a pen from my breast pocket. “Can you give me that number?”
“Yes, sir. CHapel 5-6323.”
“Thanks.” I wrote it on the back of my hand.
“May I say who called, if you don’t reach him, sir?”
I hung up. That chill was enveloping me again. I welcomed it. If I’d ever needed cold clarity, it was now.
I dropped another dime and this time got a secretary who told me I’d reached the Centrex Corporation. I told her I wanted to speak to Mr. de Mohrenschildt. She, of course, wanted to know why.
“Tell him it’s about Jean-Claude Duvalier and Lee Oswald. Tell him it’s to his advantage.”
“Your name, sir?”
Puddentane wouldn’t do here. “John Lennon.”
“Please hold, Mr. Lennon, I’ll see if he’s available.”
There was no canned music, which on the whole seemed an improvement. I leaned against the wall of the hot booth and stared at the sign reading IF YOU SMOKE, PLEASE TURN ON FAN. I didn’t smoke, but turned the fan on, anyway. It didn’t help much.
There was a click in my ear loud enough to make me wince, and the secretary said, “You’re connected, Mr. D.”
“Hello?” That jovial booming actor’s voice. “Hello? Mr. Lennon?”
“Hello. Is this line secure?”
“What do you…? Of course it is. Just a minute. Let me shut the door.”
There was a pause, then he was back. “What’s this about?”
“Haiti, my friend. And oil leases.”
