Creepers (15 page)

What he saw last night had happened! He'd told the cops, told them everything. They said they didn't believe him. But who would? Who would believe the story of some drugged-out black kid who talked of monsters killing his pals? Lester wouldn't have believed it if he hadn't been there. But someone had. Why else was he shackled to this hospital bed with a police guard outside? Why else was he told he couldn't have visitors or make any calls? They believed him, all right. And they were keeping him prisoner because of it.

As his eyes closed and he drifted off to sleep, Lester thought to himself: Jes' let 'em try to keep my friends away. I already put in a word with the right person. I'll have visitors soon. I'll tell 'em what happened last night. I'll tell 'em.

An hour later the door opened and an orderly carrying a tray with a basin of soapy water, a washcloth, and towels stepped gingerly into Lester's room. He put his equipment on a wheeled table near the door, then pulled it over to the bed. He then roused the sleeping patient.

"Hey, man, rise and shine." The orderly peered closer, and when Lester's eyes began to flutter open, he asked, "You awake enough to talk, or what?"

Lester's eyes flew open now. The horrible dreams had just begun, and for a second the orderly's face hovering so close might have been that of any one of his friends--except that they were all dead.

"Time to get washed up, my man," the orderly said with unnatural good cheer.

"Willie?" Lester refocused his eyes, thinking the dope the nurse had given him was some fine stuff. "Willie Hoyte?"

"None other than. I got your message." Willie's eyes darted quickly to the door. "We got to talk soft, man. There's one big muthafucker of a cop outside."

"The place is crawling with them," Lester said lazily. "So Bimbo got through to you." Washington "Bimbo" Calhoun was an orderly in the emergency room. He'd been on duty when Lester was secretly transferred from Columbia Presbyterian. Although the two men had known each other since childhood, they had gone their separate Ways--Bimbo to work, Lester to play. Still, blood and heritage were thicker than water, and when Bimbo saw his old pal in the hands of the police, he wanted to know why. It didn't take long to discover that Lester Baker was one special patient--he was locked away on the geriatrics floor with a twenty-four-hour guard, his name didn't appear on the official patient list, and the floor staff and receptionist had been told to report anyone who inquired after him. No matter what they called it, Bimbo knew Lester was being held prisoner. He'd gotten in to see him, then passed along the message to Willie. He also provided Willie with one of his extra uniforms and an identification tag to get him past the security.

"Bimbo said you was in trouble." Willie dipped the washcloth in the soapy water, then wrung it out.

"What you aimin' to do with that washrag, Willie?"

"I'm here to wash you up, El Bee. What else?" Lester started to protest, but Willie silenced him. "Shit, man, you're in a heap o' trouble and I may be the only one to get you out. So if I gotta wash you to make it look good, you'd better smile and say 'thank you.'" He untied Lester's "johnny" top, slipped it off, and began .to wash his chest. "Now, what's up?"

"They's all dead, Willie. All my boys--Ronny, Jackson, Roy, and Sammy." He squeezed his eyes shut and tears seeped through and rolled down his cheeks. "I saw them all die, one by one. Those things got them." His voice rose in a quivering vibrato.

"Keep your voice down. Want that pig in here?" Willie warned. "Now, tell me everything."

Lester's obvious fear had prepared Willie for the worst, but he wasn't prepared for the devastating story that followed. While he carefully worked, keeping a close watch on the door, Willie listened, wondering if El Bee's brain hadn't finally turned to Swiss cheese with all the marijuana and coke he'd pumped into it over the years; it should have gone a long time ago. But Willie quickly discarded the idea. Drug dreams come and go, but hell, even an acid flashback was never this severe. Lester Baker was clearly scared as hell. Willie recognized real fear when he saw it, everyone from uptown did. But a story about monsters?

Willie didn't get much chance to pursue this thought further, for the cop walked in and shouted, "What's going on in here?"

"Jes' finishin' up, sir," Willie said meekly.

"You're doing one hell of a lot of talking. I can hear your voices through the door." He stepped forward and looked from Willie to Lester, then back to Willie. The cop looked like the kind of guy who would beat the shit out of you first and ask questions later. He stood well over six feet tall and had to weigh 225 if he weighed an ounce. Unlike the standard paunch-bellied, slovenly New York policeman, this guy was solid muscle, tensed, ready to spring. His eyes looked perpetually skeptical and mean. "Just exactly what are you talking about?"

"Who are you? My mother?" Lester asked insolently. "This dude and I are just strikin' up an acquaintance. That ain't so strange, seein' how he's washin' my privates."

The cop blushed at the answer and averted his eyes from the bed. "If you know what's good for you, you'll save your smart-ass answers." He stationed himself inside by the door, arms folded across his massive chest. "I want you, boy, out of here...now!" he spit at Willie.

Willie felt a cold rush of fear slither up his spine, cross his shoulders, and race down each arm. If the cop got too nosy, the shit would really hit the fan. Impersonating an orderly wasn't so bad, but talking to a prisoner the cops wanted out of the way was. He quickly dried Lester, pulled the table away from the bed, collected the tray, and sailed out of the room past the cop.

Halfway to freedom, the cop called to Willie. "You! Stay right there. I want to talk to you."

Willie froze. The hospital whites and Bimbo's name tag were a good cover, but the wallet in his pocket said he was Willie Hoyte. Why the fuck did he bring the wallet? How could he have been so dumb? If the cop searched him, the jig was up.

The cop loomed up over Willie, planting his feet widely apart, his hands on his hips, while the fingers of his right hand played a soft tattoo on the worn leather of his holster. "Now, you want to tell me exactly what you and your friend were talking about?"

"I--" Willie began, but he never finished.

"Jesus, help me!" Lester screamed from his room. "Oh, my God, no!" The half-closed door obstructed the cop's view of Lester, and for one fleeting second he hesitated, unsure whether to grab Willie or to run back into the hospital room. Lester screamed again, and the cop darted into the other room.

Willie heaved the soapy tray onto a nearby chair, where it tilted wildly, then clattered to the floor, spilling its contents everywhere. Willie pulled the door open and ran out into the corridor. At the far end, at the nurses' station, a lone nurse bent over a chart, writing a medication report. Willie slowed down and walked away from the station, hoping his fast exit hadn't caught her attention. The nurse did look up momentarily, but then she returned to her work.

He had no idea where the corridor led, but as long as it was away from that cop, it was okay. At best, Lester's diversionary screams gave him only a minute's head start. He stayed close to the wall, eyes down, until he reached the end of the corridor, where he turned right. He passed through double doors into another corridor that was dotted with elderly patients. Some were in wheelchairs; others walked along at a snail's pace, supported by metal walkers. Yet others sat motionless, staring off into space. Willie tensed as he saw he was approaching another nurses' station, this one populated by several nurses and a black security guard.

"Afternoon," Willie said cheerfully as he strolled past the station toward a red exit sign halfway down the hall.

"You working here?" a gray-haired nurse inquired after looking him up and down with obvious distaste.

"No, ma'am. I'm working down in Pediatrics." The moment he said it Willie wished he'd kept his mouth shut Saying too much always got him in trouble.

"Then you're going the wrong way. Pediatrics is in the north wing." The nurse shook her head and turned to the guard. "Pediatrics doesn't use a staff orderly, do they, Lem?"

"You've got a point there," the guard agreed. He now looked suspiciously at Willie, who still continued to walk away from them despite the nurse's imprecations. "Come over here a second, will you, boy?" The guard pulled himself up straight and squared his shoulders.

At that precise moment the cop who guarded Lester rounded the corner, saw Willie, and shouted, "Stop that motherfucker!"

If the suddenness of the outburst hadn't stunned the group at the nurses' station, the epithet did. They all--security guard included--stared at the red-faced cop barreling down the corridor like a maniac escaped from the locked ward. "Grab that cocksucker!" the cop yelled in desperation.

By the time the security guard snapped to and started down the hall, Willie was through the exit door, leaping down stairs three at a time. His only chance was to make it to the main floor, then back out to the street before anyone had a chance to contact the hospital's main security force. He needed to stop and catch his breath; his heart pounded in against his chest and the blood rushed to his head, flashing against his eyes in spurts of white and red. He needed to stop, but the sounds of clattering footsteps behind him kept him running.

On the ground floor Willie pushed against the steel door that led into the main lobby. It was locked! He leaned full against it, shoving with his shoulder--the door stood fast. The sounds of the cops grew closer, and with one final desperate push Willie ran against the door. It sprang open into the busy hallway and knocked over a dietitian carrying a food tray. At the same time, it set off an alarm that rang ferociously down the corridor.

Willie spun into the hallway from the force of his run, nearly tripped, but quickly righted himself and ran full-out toward the exit out onto Fifth Avenue. Once outside, he halted on the sidewalk, temporarily blinded by the sun. Which way should he go? The cops were sure to be converging on the hospital from all directions. Only Central Park across the street seemed a safe escape. He'd run through the park and exit on the West Side. Then he'd decide what to do about Lester.

As he stepped into the street, a car screeched to a halt in front of him and the driver leaned out. "Going somewhere, Mr. Hoyte?"

Willie's throat constricted so tightly he choked. He peered into the car, his eyes wide with fright. He expected a cop. He expected to be hauled off to jail, then to disappear like Lester Baker because he, too, now knew too much. He expected all that, but what he found was Frank Corelli sitting as impassively as the Cheshire cat in Alice's nightmare.

Without a moment's hesitation Willie leaped into the car and pulled the door closed. "Let's get the fuck outta here, Corelli!"

"Seems I'm in the habit of saving your ass, Willie." Corelli pulled away from the curb just as the cop and hospital security guard ran out onto the pavement. "Now, maybe you can start returning the favors."

Twenty minutes later they were silently seated over coffee at one of the many Greek-owned coffee shops that speckle the Upper West Side of Manhattan. Corelli's patience was about at an end. He was willing to allow Willie all the time he needed to explain why he'd flown out of the hospital like a cannon shot, but it was getting late and Willie was being evasive.

"Want to tell me about it, Willie?" Frank finally probed after ordering a third cup of coffee.

"Tell you about what, man?"

"Tell me why the hell you're dressed like young Dr. Kildare. And tell me why you left the hospital like the KKK was on your heels."

"Bug off, Corelli!" Willie replied sarcastically.

Corelli slammed his hand down on the tabletop, jarring the coffee cups and knocking over a napkin holder. Several other patrons, disturbed by the sound, looked up anxiously; then they turned away, pretending nothing had happened; they didn't want to get involved.

"It looks to me like you're in one hell of a mess, Willie. You're wearing someone else's uniform--Washington Calhoun, if I read correctly--and you're in trouble with the law."

"You don't know no such thing."

"Save the bullshit for your puppy dogs from hell. I'm a cop. I can smell it when someone's in trouble, and you stink of it! Now, do you want to discuss it here in this nice, friendly atmosphere, or do I take you back to the hospital and find out just what's up?"

Willie thought a moment, then relented. "Okay, okay. You proved your point, man. You're one big tough cop." He sipped his coffee, trying to ignore his grudging admiration for Corelli. He didn't treat Willie or his boys like scum, the way so many TA cops did. Corelli was willing to level with him. "I had to get into the hospital to see El Bee," he finally admitted, waiting for the policeman to ask just what that name meant.

"Did you see Lester?" Corelli, of course, knew Baker's nickname, had even met him a couple of times. But what got his ass was: just how the hell did Hoyte know where Baker was, when it had taken him all morning to find out? Of course, Washington Calhoun, the orderly. "Well, did you see him?" Willie reluctantly nodded. "And...?"

"They got Lester tied down in bed. He's so doped up he don't hardly know where he is. He got the word to Bimbo"--he pointed to the name tag on his shirt--"that he wanted to see me. El Bee and me go way back to Lenox Avenue."