Read Online The Chinese Beverly Hills by John Shannon - Free Book Online
Authors: John Shannon
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about the Bank of the Cayman Islands and several other places.”
“La-la-la-la-la.”
She had her fingers in her ears.
“What’s all that?”
“Please. What I don’t know, Gus-boy, can’t hurt you.”
“What you do know can’t hurt me either, my fine sex object. I can arrange an underground nap in the New Jersey pine barrens for anyone.”
He saw her puzzled expression, indicating she was not quite sure how serious he was, and he liked that.
*
“Nurse, is this the way to room 441?”
The short, dark woman, encumbered with an armload of linens, pitched her neck forcefully toward a side hallway. “Don’t give up hope.”
“Thanks so much.”
Walt Roski made his way along the corridor of San Pedro’s Little Company of Mary Hospital. Tony Piscatelli’s wife had insisted on moving him here, only a few blocks from her sister’s home where she could stay. The San Pedro hospital had no burn unit, but they made do.
He knocked once on the wooden door and walked in. There were two beds in the pie-shaped room, which was against the recent American fashion for making all hospital rooms private. On the far bed, near the window, a figure was rising up under the covers and groaning, then falling flat, over and over.
“Piscatelli?”
“Over here.” The near bed, a dim figure lying on his side facing the door. The bed burred noisily all at once and pumped itself up to lift the man’s body.
Shit, Roski thought. So much for thinking the man was pretty much okay. “Can I turn on some light?”
“Use the local one. This doohickey. My roommate doesn’t like light.”
A spotlight came on overhead, pooling on Piscatelli’s face and chest. He was propped up on his side with pillows.
A groan, then another, from across the room. This was going to be a lot of fun.
“How you doing?” Roski asked.
“As well as can be expected, sir—etc., etc.” The mattress, pumping and hissing softly, seemed to tilt the man a bit further onto his back. “It’s like living on a tilt-a-whirl. But without the cotton candy.”
“That could be arranged,” Roski offered.
Piscatelli seemed to drift for a moment. “You’re Arson, right?”
“Captain Walter Roski, County Fire. I won’t offer my hand. They told me to stay back three feet.”
“Infections and all that. I just had my cocktail of antibiotics and morphine, so I’m ready to talk. I’m actually floating a bit.”
Roski checked his notebook. “I’ll go right to it. Was your partner religious, Mr. Piscatelli?”
“Routt was about as devout as a chair.”
“Are you religious?”
“Yes, sir. Very much so. I’m a deacon of the Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Vallejo. I was praying hard for both of us when the firestorm hit.”
“Do you have any idea why your partner would have a Catholic rosary with him in the fire shelter?”
A long pause. “Jerry Routt may have believed something, deep down, but he certainly wasn’t Catholic. I’ve known him for ten years.”
Walt Roski basically disliked religion. He’d arrested more than one young matcher over the years who swore that his beliefs required him to scourge the world with fire.
“Can you think of any reason your partner would be carrying a rosary? Maybe a new girlfriend gave it to him? We think it was made of amber beads and the heat ignited it.”
Piscatelli seemed to be trying hard to reclaim a memory from the abyss, but the sensation passed. “Honestly, sir, no. If something comes to me, you’ll be the first to know.”
Roski asked the rest of the questions from his notebook without eliciting anything useful, and then left his card on the far side of the bed table.
“My card is right there. Don’t touch it, it’s full of my germs, but you can have the nurse read my phone number if you think of anything. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, Captain. God bless.”
“I can always use a blessing.” Particularly since he was about to be read the riot act by his chief, probably with a
“La-la-la-la-la.”
She had her fingers in her ears.
“What’s all that?”
“Please. What I don’t know, Gus-boy, can’t hurt you.”
“What you do know can’t hurt me either, my fine sex object. I can arrange an underground nap in the New Jersey pine barrens for anyone.”
He saw her puzzled expression, indicating she was not quite sure how serious he was, and he liked that.
*
“Nurse, is this the way to room 441?”
The short, dark woman, encumbered with an armload of linens, pitched her neck forcefully toward a side hallway. “Don’t give up hope.”
“Thanks so much.”
Walt Roski made his way along the corridor of San Pedro’s Little Company of Mary Hospital. Tony Piscatelli’s wife had insisted on moving him here, only a few blocks from her sister’s home where she could stay. The San Pedro hospital had no burn unit, but they made do.
He knocked once on the wooden door and walked in. There were two beds in the pie-shaped room, which was against the recent American fashion for making all hospital rooms private. On the far bed, near the window, a figure was rising up under the covers and groaning, then falling flat, over and over.
“Piscatelli?”
“Over here.” The near bed, a dim figure lying on his side facing the door. The bed burred noisily all at once and pumped itself up to lift the man’s body.
Shit, Roski thought. So much for thinking the man was pretty much okay. “Can I turn on some light?”
“Use the local one. This doohickey. My roommate doesn’t like light.”
A spotlight came on overhead, pooling on Piscatelli’s face and chest. He was propped up on his side with pillows.
A groan, then another, from across the room. This was going to be a lot of fun.
“How you doing?” Roski asked.
“As well as can be expected, sir—etc., etc.” The mattress, pumping and hissing softly, seemed to tilt the man a bit further onto his back. “It’s like living on a tilt-a-whirl. But without the cotton candy.”
“That could be arranged,” Roski offered.
Piscatelli seemed to drift for a moment. “You’re Arson, right?”
“Captain Walter Roski, County Fire. I won’t offer my hand. They told me to stay back three feet.”
“Infections and all that. I just had my cocktail of antibiotics and morphine, so I’m ready to talk. I’m actually floating a bit.”
Roski checked his notebook. “I’ll go right to it. Was your partner religious, Mr. Piscatelli?”
“Routt was about as devout as a chair.”
“Are you religious?”
“Yes, sir. Very much so. I’m a deacon of the Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Vallejo. I was praying hard for both of us when the firestorm hit.”
“Do you have any idea why your partner would have a Catholic rosary with him in the fire shelter?”
A long pause. “Jerry Routt may have believed something, deep down, but he certainly wasn’t Catholic. I’ve known him for ten years.”
Walt Roski basically disliked religion. He’d arrested more than one young matcher over the years who swore that his beliefs required him to scourge the world with fire.
“Can you think of any reason your partner would be carrying a rosary? Maybe a new girlfriend gave it to him? We think it was made of amber beads and the heat ignited it.”
Piscatelli seemed to be trying hard to reclaim a memory from the abyss, but the sensation passed. “Honestly, sir, no. If something comes to me, you’ll be the first to know.”
Roski asked the rest of the questions from his notebook without eliciting anything useful, and then left his card on the far side of the bed table.
“My card is right there. Don’t touch it, it’s full of my germs, but you can have the nurse read my phone number if you think of anything. I’ll be in touch.”
“Thank you, Captain. God bless.”
“I can always use a blessing.” Particularly since he was about to be read the riot act by his chief, probably with a
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