Deadlock (14 page)

A nurse came crisply into the room. “Oh, you’re awake now. That’s good. We’ll take your temperature.”

“I don’t want my temperature taken. I want to see the police.”

She smiled brightly and ignored me. “Just stick this under your tongue.” She was poking a plastic-wrapped thermometer into my mouth.

My fury was mounting, fueled by the helplessness of lying there attached to the ceiling while being ignored.

“I can tell you what my temperature is: it’s rising by the second. Will you kindly get someone to call the police for me?”

“Now let’s calm down. You don’t want to get excited: you’ve had some concussion.” She forced the thermometer into my mouth and started counting my pulse. “Dr. Herschel will be by later and if she feels it’s wise for you to start talking to people she’ll let us know.”

“Were there any other survivors?” I asked her over the thermometer.

“Dr. Herschel will tell you what you need to know.”

I shut my eyes while she solemnly wrote my vital statistics into the chart. Patient continues to breathe. Heart operates. “What’s my temperature?”

She ignored me.

I opened my eyes.

“What’s my pulse?” No answer. “Come on, damn it, it’s my body—tell me what it’s doing.”

She left to spread the good news that the patient was alive and disagreeable. I shut my eyes and fumed. My body was still weak. I went back to sleep.

When I woke up the third time my mind had cleared. I sat up in bed, slowly and still painfully, and surveyed my body. One problem shoulder. Knees covered with gauze—doubtless badly scraped. Bruises on the right arm. There was a table at the bedside with a mirror on it. Also a telephone. If I’d been thinking instead of yapping earlier I would have realized that. I looked at my face in the mirror. An impressive bandage covered my hair. Scalp wound: that accounted for the headache, though I didn’t remember hitting my head. My eyes were bloodshot but my face wasn’t damaged, thank the Lord—I’d still be beautiful at forty.

I picked up the telephone and stuck it under my chin. I had to raise the bed to use it, since I couldn’t prop the phone against my right shoulder while lying down as long as the left one was attached to the ceiling. Pain shot through my left shoulder as I moved but I ignored it. I dialed Mallory’s office number. I had no idea what time it was, but my luck was in: the lieutenant was there.

“Vicki, you’d better not be calling to sweet-talk me. McGonnigal told me about you horning in on the Kelvin investigation. I want you out. O-U-T. It’s just my bad luck it happened in Boom Boom’s apartment.”

Ah, Bobby. It did me good to hear him ranting. “Bobby, you’ll never believe this, but I’m in the hospital.”

There was silence on the other end as Mallory collected his thoughts.

“Yup. Down at Billings … Someone else wanted me out of this case, too, and they took out my brakes and steering while I was at the Port yesterday. If it was yesterday. What day is today?”

Bobby ignored the question. “Come on, Vicki—don’t fool around with me. What happened?”

“That’s why I’m calling you—I hope you can find out. I was coming home around ten-thirty, eleven, when the steering went and then the brakes, and I ended up running
into a sedan. I think a Mack truck had hit it and knocked it into my lane.”

“Oh, nuts, Vicki. Why can’t you stay home and raise a family and just stay the heck out of this kind of mess?” Bobby doesn’t believe in using bad language in front of women and children. And even though I refuse to do woman’s work I count as a woman with him.

“I can’t help it, Bobby; trouble follows me.”

There was a snort at the other end.

“I’m lying here with a dislocated shoulder and a concussion,” I said plaintively. “I can’t do anything—get involved in a mess or raise a family—for a while, anyway. But I would like to know what happened to my car. Can you find out who scooped me off the Dan Ryan and see if they examined my car?”

Bobby breathed heavily for a few minutes. “Yeah, I guess I could do that. Billings, you say? What’s the number?”

I looked at the phone and read him the number. I asked him again for the day. It was Friday, 6:00
P.M
.

Lotty must have gone back to her clinic on the North side. She’s the person I list to call in case of emergencies and I guess she’s my doctor, too. I wondered if I could persuade her to release me—I needed to get going.

A middle-aged nurse popped her head through the door. “How are we doing?”

“Some of us are doing better than others. Do you know when Dr. Herschel is coming back?”

“Probably around seven.” The nurse came in to feel my pulse. If there isn’t anything else to do, make sure the patient’s heart is still beating. Gray eyes twinkled with meaningless jollity in her red face. “Well, we’re certainly a lot stronger than we were a few hours ago. Is the shoulder giving us any pain?”

I looked at her sourly. “Well, it isn’t giving me any—I don’t know about you.” I didn’t want anyone throwing
codeine or Darvon at me. Actually it was throbbing rather badly.

When she left I used the phone again to call Pole Star and ask for Bledsoe. The helpful woman in his office told me he was over at the
Lucella
, which had a ship-to-shore line. She gave me the number and told me how to get an operator to connect me. This was going to be complicated—I’d have to bill it to my office phone.

I was in the middle of giving the operator the dialing and billing instructions when my middle-aged nurse came back. “Now, we’re not to do anything like this until Doctor says we’re up to it.”

I ignored her.

“I’m sorry, Miss Warshawski: we can’t have you doing anything to excite yourself.” She pulled the phone from my outraged grasp. “Hello? This is Billings Hospital. Your party is not going to be able to complete the call at this time.”

“How dare you? How dare you decide for me whether I can talk on the phone or not? I’m a person, not a sack of hospital clothes lying here.”

She looked at me sternly. “The hospital has certain rules. One of them is to keep concussion and accident victims quiet. Dr. Herschel will let us know if you’re ready to start phoning people yet.”

I was wild with rage. I started to get out of bed to wrestle the phone from her, but the damned pulley kept me attached. “Quiet!” I shouted. “Who’s getting me excited? You are, pulling that phone away!”

She unplugged it from the wall and walked away with it. I lay in bed panting with exhaustion and fury. One thing was clear—I couldn’t wait for Lotty. After my breathing returned to normal I raised myself up again and inspected the pulley. It was holding my shoulder steady. Again I explored it with my right fingers, this time gingerly. The plaster was hard. Even if my shoulder was broken, the cast
would keep it in place without traction. No reason I couldn’t go home as long as I was careful.

I undid the wires with my right hand. My left shoulder relaxed against the bed with a spasm of pain so strong tears ran down my cheeks. After much ungainly fumbling with the bedclothes I managed to pull the left arm forward again. But helplessness compounded my frustration and I felt momentarily like abandoning the struggle. I shut my eyes and rested for ten minutes. A sling would solve my problems. I looked around doubtfully and finally found a white cloth on the bottom shelf of the bedside table. It took a lot of effort to move around and I was panting and red in the face by the time I managed to turn on my side, reach the cloth, and pull it up to bed level.

After a short rest I put one corner of the cloth in my mouth and slung it around my neck. Using teeth and my right hand, I rigged up a decent sling.

I staggered out of bed, trying not to move the left shoulder more than I had to, and opened the narrow lockers by the entrance. My clothes were in the second. The black pants were torn at the knees and the jacket was stiff with dried blood. Nuts. One of my favorite outfits. I pulled the pants on with one hand, ignoring underwear, and was tying to figure out what to do about the top when Lotty came in.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better, my dear,” she said dryly.

“The nurse said I shouldn’t be excited. Since she was agitating me so much I thought I’d better get home where I can rest.”

Lotty’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile. She took my right elbow and shepherded me back to the bed. “Vic, you must stay here another day or two. You dislocated your shoulder. You must keep it still to minimize the tear on the muscles. That’s the point of traction. And you hit your head against the door as your car turned over. It’s badly
cut and you were unconscious for six hours. I’m not letting you take chances with your health.”

I sat on the bed. “But, Lotty, I’ve got so many people to talk to. And the
Lucella
sails at seven—I’ll miss them if I don’t get through soon.”

“I’m afraid it’s after seven now … I’ll get the phone back in and you can make your calls. But really, Vic, even with your constitution, you must keep this shoulder in a stationary position for two more days. Come.”

Tears of frustration pricked my eyes. My head was throbbing. I lay back on the bed and let Lotty undress me and reattach my arm to the pulley. I hated to admit it, but I was glad to be lying down.

She went to the nurses’ station and returned with the phone. When she saw me fumbling with the receiver she took it from me and placed the call herself. But the
Lucella
had already sailed.

The next day I entertained a stream of visitors. Charles McCormick, a sergeant from the Traffic Division, came to report to me on the accident and to find out my version of what had happened. I told him as much as I could remember. As I suspected, the semi that was bearing down on me had hit a car when it moved into the left lane. The sedan’s driver had been thrown into the windshield and killed. Two passengers were on the critical list, one with spinal cord injuries. I must have looked as horrified and guilty as I felt, for he tried to reassure me.

“They weren’t wearing seat belts. I’m not saying it would have saved them, but it might have helped. It certainly saved your life when your car went over on its side. We arrested the truck driver—not a scratch on him, of course—reckless driving and involuntary manslaughter.”

“Did you inspect my car?”

He looked at me curiously. “Someone had emptied all the brake fluid for you. And cut through the power steering cables. You had enough left to get you going, but moving the wheel would have worked through the last bit of the cables for you.”

“How come I could stop at the lights down on 130th?”
fluid left in the lines to hold you. But if you slammed on the brakes you wouldn’t get anything … Now who would do a thing like that? Where had you parked your car?”

I told him. He shook his head. “Lot of vandals down in the Port. You’re lucky you got out of this alive.”

“There’s a feeble excuse for a guard down at the Tri-State yard. You might have somebody talk to him and see if he noticed anything.”

McCormick said he’d think about it. He asked a few more questions and took off.

Someone brought in an enormous bouquet of spring flowers. The note read:

That was kind. Bobby Mallory’s wife sent a plant. Murray Ryerson came in person, carrying a cactus. His idea of a joke. “Vic! You must have cat blood. Nobody ever gets hit by a semi and lives to tell it.”

Murray is a big guy with curly reddish hair. He looks sort of like a Swedish Elliott Gould. His hearty voice and forty-six-inch shoulders contracted the hospital room into half its size.

“Hi, Murray. You read too many sensational newspapers. I wasn’t hit by a semi—it got off my tail and ran into some other poor bastard.”

He pulled a vinyl-coated chair over to the bedside and straddled it backward. “What happened?”

“Is this an interview or a sick visit?” I asked crossly.

“How about an interview in exchange for the story on Paige? Or are you up to that sort of thing?”

I brightened up considerably. “What’d you find out?”

“Ms. Carrington’s a hardworking girl—excuse me, young woman. She has one older sister, no brothers. She had a scholarship at the American Ballet Theater when she was fifteen but wasn’t good enough for them in the long haul. She lives in a condo on Astor Place. Father’s dead. Mother lives in Park Forest South. Her family doesn’t have a lot of money. She may have a rich friend helping her out, or the ballet people may pay her a lot—you’d have to sic a detective on her to find out for sure. Anyway, she’s lived at the same place for several years now.”

I wrinkled my face. “Park Forest South? She told me she grew up in Lake Bluff.”

“Maybe she did. That’s just where her mother lives … Anyway, about her and your cousin. There was some talk about her and Boom Boom the last month or so before he died. They didn’t go to any of the celebrity hot spots, so it took Greta a while to catch on—someone spotted her with him at the Stadium back in March. If it was serious they kept it mighty quiet. We talked to some of the other hockey players. They seemed to think she was pursuing him—he wasn’t so involved.”