Joan Hess - Arly Hanks 11 (12 page)

"Ruby Bee Hanks?" the nurse said. "Yes, she's in the cubicle right across from me."

I told her who I was and demanded details.

I may have been a bit brusque, because her voice turned chilly. "Hold your horses while I look at her chart. She was brought to the emergency room two hours ago, and transferred here almost immediately." She paused, humming to herself. "It says she was complaining of sharp pains in the abdomen region. She vomited in the ambulance. Skin clammy, blood pressure elevated, feverish, and hostile when asked for a history. We have to take a history, you know. It's standard procedure, even though we're not a big, bustling hospital like the ones on TV. Our care is every bit as good as you'd get there. What's more, we have -- "

"Could it be appendicitis?"

"The doctor ordered blood work first thing. Her white count is elevated, but not significantly. Red count was normal. EKG was within the acceptable range. She's scheduled for more tests, including an ultrasound in the morning. At the moment, she's resting as comfortably as can be expected."

"I'd like to speak to her doctor," I said.

"That's not possible. Dr. Deweese was at a stag party at the VFW when he was called, and he's gone back there. I can't page him unless there's an emergency."

Before I could argue, she hung up. I called Estelle and repeated what I'd learned, then watched a cockroach mosey across the floor while she faulted herself for everything that had gone wrong since the dawn of civilization, including Hiram's barn, Ruby Bee's abscessed tooth four years ago, and my failure to provide grandchildren.

When she ran down, I said, "I should be there in six hours or so, but I'll go by the hospital before I find your hotel. Call the desk and authorize them to give me a key to your room so I won't have to wake you."

"You think I'm going to get a wink of sleep tonight?" she said indignantly. "What do you take me for? I'll have you know that I'd have spent the night in the waiting room if they'd let me."

She was still expounding on her role as thwarted martyr when I replaced the receiver. I threw some clothes in an overnight bag, switched off the lights, and went down the stairs to my car. Only when I reached the county line did I allow myself to imagine Ruby Bee stretched out on a hospital bed, her face ashen with pain, needles in her arms and a tube in her nose.

Luckily, there was no other traffic. If there had been, I wouldn't have seen it through my tears.

7

I don't remember much about the drive from Farberville to Mississippi. I suppose I must have stopped for gas and coffee along the way, and crossed the bridge at Helena, but I was too benumbed to do much more than keep my eyes on the road and periodically search for new radio stations as I left old ones behind me.

The hospital was on the edge of town. It looked more like an elementary school than a towering medical complex, but I was damn glad to see it. There were only a few lights on inside, which was not surprising at that unholy hour. The main door was locked, the lobby dim and unoccupied. I tapped on the glass with my car key until a custodian shuffled into view and let me in.

Fifteen minutes later I was back in my car. Ruby Bee was asleep, her condition unchanged, her appearance no better or worse than I'd imagined. Dr. Deweese would be available in five hours. Hanging around the waiting room would accomplish nothing, and I needed sleep.

I headed north. The casinos were alongside the Mississippi River in a string of almost nonexistent towns. I spotted the sign for The Luck of the Draw and drove down a winding road that took me into a vast parking lot. I appropriated a space near the hotel entrance, grabbed my bag, and went into the lobby. Although it was better lit than the one at the hospital, it was not a good deal livelier. I fended off a bellman who believed with misguided optimism that he might earn a tip for carrying my bag fifteen feet, explained the situation to the very dim teenager posturing as a desk clerk, and eventually ended up with a plastic card that would allow me into Estelle's room.

I'd found the elevator and gone so far as to punch a button, when I realized I was too wound up to sleep. I was also reluctant to face Estelle and be treated to another round of self-incrimination. After six hours of time to brood, she might have regressed to the point of accepting blame for the unfortunate incident in the Garden of Eden, if not the annihilation of the dinosaurs or the Big Bang in all its cosmic splendor. Estelle is not one to take herself lightly.

It occurred to me that a nightcap might do the trick. I went to the end of the hallway and into the casino proper. It looked very much like the casinos I'd haunted a couple of times in Atlantic City. Acres of slot machines with bells and whistles promised instant wealth to players who'd long since gone to bed. Beyond them, the more sedate blackjack tables, a few sparsely populated. A group surrounded a craps table; volume indicated they were having a great time frittering away their hard-earned cash. Waitresses with skirts short enough to expose the bottoms of their buttocks glided between the tables, deftly balancing trays of drinks and empty glasses. Men in suits kept a prudent eye to make sure a good time was being had by all.

I stopped for a moment to watch an elderly woman on a stool in front of a slot machine. This was no one-armed bandit; the only thing required of her was to put a coin in the slot and push a button. She did so as if she were a robot on an assembly line, never pausing as the tumblers whirled or even glancing down when coins cascaded into a metal tray. Her face showed neither pleasure nor disappointment; she could have been feeding coins into a furnace vent. It seemed likely, if she kept up her rhythm, that her heirs would be disappointed when the will was read.

I continued in the direction of the blackjack tables. If the policy was like that of the Atlantic City casinos, drinks would be free to those who were gambling. A bit of cunning was in order. I found a table where two men were gazing intently at cards being flipped at them by a bored middle-aged woman in a tuxedo.

I sat on the stool at one end of the table and smiled brightly at them. "Is this what they call twenty-one?" I asked. "I used to play it when I was a kid, but I don't remember all the rules. Is anything wild?"

"Go play the slots," said a man with oily black hair and a cigarette dangling from his lip à la Humphrey Bogart. He scratched his fingernail on the green felt for an additional card, and then threw up his hands when the card, not to his liking, was tossed at him. "What is it with you dealers? Do you get a cut of my losings?"

I hoped he wasn't armed.

The second man, who had less hair but a kindlier disposition, nodded at me. "It's basically the same game, but it's called blackjack. In French,
vingt-et-un
." He nodded at the dealer. "Hit me, honey."

"Maybe I should watch for a minute," I said. "Could I possibly have a drink?"

"Drink!" yelled the dealer. She snapped down a card and waited without interest for further instructions.

A few minutes later, a waitress appeared at my side and agreed to bring me the classic Southern drink -- a bourbon and Coke. When she returned, I tipped her a dollar, wished the two men luck, and slipped off the stool to walk off the soreness in my own decorously covered buttocks.

I headed in the direction of the noisy camaraderie of the craps table. People stood two deep around it, pressing against each other, cheering or groaning with each roll of the dice. At least, I thought, they were getting something for their money. When they found themselves back at work Monday morning, they could relate melodramatic tales of fortunes that had slipped through their fingers like fistfuls of smoke.

The drink was watery, but it seemed to be easing the taut muscles in my neck and back. I was beginning to feel as though I might be able to fall asleep when I saw what I dearly hoped was a figment of my exhausted mind. Surely not, I told myself as I stared at Jim Bob Buchanon as he flung dice onto the table and shouted something unintelligible.

His next remark was crystal clear, if contextually obscure. "Aw, shit! I knew I should have stayed on the hard eight."

"May I help you, miss?" asked a satiny male voice from behind me. "Would you like to sit down?"

The voice belonged to a black man in a stylish gray suit. His tie was red, his teeth were white, and his eyes (brown, not blue) were as impenetrable as the surface of the interstate. When I merely looked at him, he added, "You must not be feeling well. I'll be happy to escort you to a table at the bar or outside for a breath of fresh air." He glanced down at the drink in my hand and frowned ever so slightly. "Or have a waitress bring you a cup of coffee."

"No, thank you," I said. "I just stopped to have a drink on my way upstairs. What time does this place close?"

"Close?" His smile grew wider. "Like the Pinkertons, we never sleep. You, on the other hand, probably should. I hope you'll visit again tomorrow. We have raffles and contests every day at The Luck of the Draw. This weekend's grand prize is a trip to Jamaica. Be sure and enter."

He took my elbow and led me toward the door back to the hotel. I was too annoyed to resist, although I did crane my neck for a parting look at the craps table. If I'd actually seen Jim Bob -- and I wasn't at all sure I hadn't been hallucinating -- he'd vanished like a stack of five-dollar chips.

Estelle was snoring vigorously as I let myself into the hotel room. I undressed in the bathroom and crawled into the other bed. Sleep eluded me for a long while, and when it finally came, it was riddled with visions of Ruby Bee stretched out in a casket and Jim Bob doing belly flops across a craps table.

Neither was a pretty picture.

The hotel room was noticeably lighter when I was awakened by the sound of a siren. Groaning, I burrowed under the pillow and willed myself to go back to sleep, but the siren grew louder. Car doors slammed. People began jabbering in the hall outside the room. A second siren shrieked the approach of yet another official vehicle.

"What's going on out there?" said Estelle, sounding as if her mouth was filled with gravel. "Maybe you ought should look out the window and see if the hotel's on fire. I am not gonna scurry down some fire escape without putting on lipstick."

I did as she'd suggested. Eight stories below in the parking lot, a police car was parked at an erratic angle, its blue light spinning. An ambulance was speeding toward it. Guests and employees had gathered in the driveway. A woman dressed in jogging clothes and high-topped athletic shoes sat on a curb, her head between her knees. A police officer squatted beside her.

"There's been some sort of accident," I said, "but I can't make out what happened." I pulled back the heavy drapes, opened the sliding glass door, and went onto a balcony large enough to accommodate two chairs, a small table, and no more than three pigeons. My toes curled as they met cold concrete, but I grabbed the rail and looked down.

"Well?" demanded Estelle from the warmth of her bed.

I retreated inside and closed the door. "It looks as if someone fell from a significant height. A jogger must have discovered the body."

"What a thing to wake up to," she said as she struggled out from under the blankets. "Why didn't you shake me when you got here, Arly? I meant to wait up for you, but I guess I must have dozed off. Did you go by the hospital?"

I described my brief encounter with the ICU nurse at the hospital, then went into the bathroom to take a shower and brush my fuzzy teeth. When I emerged, she was on the balcony.

"Can you tell what's going on?" I asked as I got dressed.

"The body's been taken away in the ambulance, but from the way the police are measuring and looking up this way, the poor thing must have gone off a balcony right close to ours."

I prowled around the room while she took her time in the bathroom. It was too early to catch Dr. Deweese at the hospital; he wasn't slated to make rounds until eight. I ordered coffee and toast from room service and mindlessly watched some wake-up network show in which people seemed to be congratulating each other for breathing. Eventually I went back out onto the balcony, but the activity in the parking lot had melted away with the early-morning frost.

Estelle came out of the bathroom with her hair firmly pinned in place and several layers of scarlet lipstick defining her mouth. "I can't believe I went to sleep before you got here," she said as she poured herself a cup of coffee. "Night before last was rough, though, what with the gunfire well into the wee hours. I didn't think Ruby Bee'd ever fall asleep. When she finally did, I spent the rest of the night frettin' like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I just want you to know that I did my level best to make her say what was wrong, but I might as well have been butting heads with Mrs. Jim Bob."

I squeezed her hand. "I'm sure you did whatever you could, Estelle. She'll be fine."

"What'll we do if she isn't?"

I couldn't bring myself to offer much in the way of blithe assurances, so I refilled my coffee cup and sat back. "What did you mean when you mentioned gunfire?"

"You would not believe the awful place we stayed? I fully expected to be murdered in my bed. Stormy said she saw drug deals going on all night right outside our rooms. And of course there was the bald man that had the audacity to follow us on the Graceland tour, and then Baggins ups and sez we're not staying the night in Tupelo, which sent Taylor into a hissy-fit, even though Todd was -- "

"Slow down," I said. "I have no idea who these people are."

"Folks on the tour, except for Baggins, who's the driver, and the bald man. I don't know who he is, unless he's Stormy's boyfriend. I was hoping Cherri Lucinda might know what he looks like, but she said she's never met him."

I held up my hands. "Forget I asked, Estelle. I drove half the night and I'm operating on three hours of sleep. You can tell me all the gossip and intrigue later."