installed the opening bars of Fats Waller’s “Your Feet’s Too Big.” Any complaint, he told me, and there would be vanity license plates and monogrammed sweaters in my future. Ooh, I said. Aaah.
I pulled over, flipped the phone open, but didn’t get Maryanne as expected.
“Sorry to bother you, Dr. Hale. This is Janet. I’m in charge today and in ER. There’s a woman here named Theodora Ogden. She asked that I call you. Says you know a Bobby or Brandon Lowndes—”
“I do.”
“He’s been shot.”
I stepped through the door and saw the top of Chester Wilde’s bald head with the bright lights bouncing off it. Chet to friends, Doc Savage to others, Doc had retired a decade ago but every few weeks couldn’t stand it any longer, brought in coffee for the ER staff, and hung around. He’d been there when they rolled Bobby through the doors, set down his cup without a word, and stepped up. Doc’s a kind you don’t see anymore, who could do a clean resection or bypass with a steak knife and a couple of C-clamps.
I’m forever amazed at how sloppy ER workers are—as though the presumed urgency of their ministrations gives them license. Same tools, much the same procedures as upstairs in OR. There, we place our packaging, detritus and bloody sponges in bins. Here, often as not, everything gets tossed on the floor. Guy comes in with a stab wound or sprained ankle, the place looks like a war zone by the time he ships out.
From the doorway I nodded to the nurses. “Bent over your work again, eh, Doc?”
“This back of mine, I’m bent over every gottdam thing. What are you waiting for—get over here.”
“Nowadays we tend to wash our hands first.”
“Youngsters and your newfangled ways. Go ahead, then, take your time. This boy ain’t gonna die anytime soon, with or without you.”
He had the bleeding stopped, I saw when I drew up bedside. Fluids going in for volume. Cleaning the wound of debris. Swabbing. Probing. Vitals good.
“That is one puny-looking GSW.”
“Shooter thought he was after squirrel maybe,” Doc said.
“Twenty-two?”
“Low caliber anyway. Round’s over there.”
“Who the hell shoots a man with a pea?”
Doc straightened. As close to straight as he gets. Looked like his glasses hadn’t been wiped since about 2000. “Someone who’s real good, would be my guess.”
Soon after, the OR crew showed up to transport, Gordie Blythe with them. Doc reported off, and I went out to where Agent Ogden waited, lavender blouse bright among dun-colored chairs and walls, head-to-head with her smartphone. She finished what she was about before closing the app and standing.
“That conversation couldn’t have gone well,” I said.
“It wasn’t much of a conversation. How is he?”
I heard her phone buzzing softly in the pocket of her suit coat. I waited. She didn’t answer.
“From what I saw in there, he’s been through a hell of a lot worse.”
Just then the automatic doors swung open, X-ray attendants bringing a patient back to ER, masthead of IV bags, body mummy-wrapped, oxygen cylinder like a small missile alongside in the bed. We looked up, a response as automatic as the doors, and saw Joel Stern standing by the wall. He’d pulled a second, flannel shirt over the one he wore when we met out in the parking lot four days back. The shirt’s long tails made him look even taller and thinner. And it hadn’t been the parking-lot lights that gave his skin that yellow cast.
“Sorry about the eavesdropping,” he said. “Professional habit.”
From Joel Stern, who had been half a block away, closing in on Bobby after pinballing behind him all over town, I learned that the shot was barely audible, recollected only afterward upon seeing Bobby fall, a light pop or crack, Joel said, like a stick breaking underfoot. Joel had placed the 911 call and done what he could by way of first aid.
From Andrew, whom I found in the cafeteria eating a slice ofpie that overlapped its plate
I pulled over, flipped the phone open, but didn’t get Maryanne as expected.
“Sorry to bother you, Dr. Hale. This is Janet. I’m in charge today and in ER. There’s a woman here named Theodora Ogden. She asked that I call you. Says you know a Bobby or Brandon Lowndes—”
“I do.”
“He’s been shot.”
I stepped through the door and saw the top of Chester Wilde’s bald head with the bright lights bouncing off it. Chet to friends, Doc Savage to others, Doc had retired a decade ago but every few weeks couldn’t stand it any longer, brought in coffee for the ER staff, and hung around. He’d been there when they rolled Bobby through the doors, set down his cup without a word, and stepped up. Doc’s a kind you don’t see anymore, who could do a clean resection or bypass with a steak knife and a couple of C-clamps.
I’m forever amazed at how sloppy ER workers are—as though the presumed urgency of their ministrations gives them license. Same tools, much the same procedures as upstairs in OR. There, we place our packaging, detritus and bloody sponges in bins. Here, often as not, everything gets tossed on the floor. Guy comes in with a stab wound or sprained ankle, the place looks like a war zone by the time he ships out.
From the doorway I nodded to the nurses. “Bent over your work again, eh, Doc?”
“This back of mine, I’m bent over every gottdam thing. What are you waiting for—get over here.”
“Nowadays we tend to wash our hands first.”
“Youngsters and your newfangled ways. Go ahead, then, take your time. This boy ain’t gonna die anytime soon, with or without you.”
He had the bleeding stopped, I saw when I drew up bedside. Fluids going in for volume. Cleaning the wound of debris. Swabbing. Probing. Vitals good.
“That is one puny-looking GSW.”
“Shooter thought he was after squirrel maybe,” Doc said.
“Twenty-two?”
“Low caliber anyway. Round’s over there.”
“Who the hell shoots a man with a pea?”
Doc straightened. As close to straight as he gets. Looked like his glasses hadn’t been wiped since about 2000. “Someone who’s real good, would be my guess.”
Soon after, the OR crew showed up to transport, Gordie Blythe with them. Doc reported off, and I went out to where Agent Ogden waited, lavender blouse bright among dun-colored chairs and walls, head-to-head with her smartphone. She finished what she was about before closing the app and standing.
“That conversation couldn’t have gone well,” I said.
“It wasn’t much of a conversation. How is he?”
I heard her phone buzzing softly in the pocket of her suit coat. I waited. She didn’t answer.
“From what I saw in there, he’s been through a hell of a lot worse.”
Just then the automatic doors swung open, X-ray attendants bringing a patient back to ER, masthead of IV bags, body mummy-wrapped, oxygen cylinder like a small missile alongside in the bed. We looked up, a response as automatic as the doors, and saw Joel Stern standing by the wall. He’d pulled a second, flannel shirt over the one he wore when we met out in the parking lot four days back. The shirt’s long tails made him look even taller and thinner. And it hadn’t been the parking-lot lights that gave his skin that yellow cast.
“Sorry about the eavesdropping,” he said. “Professional habit.”
From Joel Stern, who had been half a block away, closing in on Bobby after pinballing behind him all over town, I learned that the shot was barely audible, recollected only afterward upon seeing Bobby fall, a light pop or crack, Joel said, like a stick breaking underfoot. Joel had placed the 911 call and done what he could by way of first aid.
From Andrew, whom I found in the cafeteria eating a slice ofpie that overlapped its plate
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