Perfect Match (20 page)

Roscoe pulled his wallet out. “How much for the delivery
service?”

“Since I was going off my shift, it’ll only be $7.00. So I
ain’t gonna charge you extra.”

Roscoe peeled off two tens. “Will a ten work for the tip?”

“Hey, man, you don’t owe me a tip. I got to thinking about
the other day. I felt bad about taking that twenty dollar tip from you.”

Roscoe laughed. “I felt bad about giving you that twenty.”

Ned laughed nervously, “Well, too late now. I done spent it
on my girlfriend.”

“Good investment.”

Ned pointed to Roscoe’s forehead. “That’s some new stuff,
ain’t it?”

“Fell in the shower. Hospitals are dangerous places.”

Ned looked over his shoulder toward the bathroom door. “Hey,
that reminds me; we picked up some buzz from the police scanner last night
about some guy on drugs attacking some patients in the hospital.” He slurped
his drink. “Know anything about that?”

Roscoe shook his head. “Beats me. I must have been fast
asleep.”

Ned shook his cup. “I’ll ask around the cab station, see
what I can find out. I’ll let you know about any scuttlebutt I pick up.”

“Probably just a Saturday night rumor.”

Ned looked around the room, from floor to ceiling, and wall
to wall. “Well, I better scat; see if I can get in trouble with my girlfriend
before the day’s over. And thanks for the drink, and the tip.”

“Before you go, what do you do on your days off?”

“Humph. When you drive a cab, you think more about shifts
than days. I work as much as I can, especially nights. I started building
wooden decks a couple years back, so I got a little business on the side, but
business has been slow as snail shit.” He stared at the floor. “Times are tough
out there.”

“Which do you like better, driving or building decks?”

“Building stuff. I’ve met too many freaky people driving a
damn cab.” He laughed. “And you’re one of ‘em.” He laughed again. “Naw, I’m
just jerking your chain Rocky. You’re an alright passenger.”

Roscoe laughed as he extended his hand. “We’ll do this again
sometime.”

Ned shook his hand, was on his feet, and at the door. “Like
I said, my shift alternates sometimes, but always ask for me if you need a
ride. I’ll treat you right. And I’ll let you know if I hear anything about the
ruckus in the hospital.” He waved, and hurried down the hall.

Roscoe was left thinking, the ruckus last night is out there
on the street, but hopefully I’m still anonymous.

While sipping the rest of his coffee, he scanned the Sunday
edition of the
Asheville Citizen-Times
. So far nothing in the paper
regarding the ruckus, or the arrest of Gregory Styles. Maybe hospital security
was able to suppress it.

He picked up the Business Section. The headline on the front
page caught his eye. New CEO Spurs Fallington Enterprises. The article was the
Business Profile of the Week feature, accompanied by two professional color
photos of Madison Winston. The first photo was a straight-on shot of her
smiling, looking into the camera. Her smile, face…attractive, he thought. The
second photo was a profile shot with her standing, looking at an angle through
the office windows at the Asheville skyline. The profile, striking…her
figure…um, does she really look that attractive…I never really gave her a
second look, did I, he asked himself.

He moved on to the article. He felt a wave of anger
stirring. He looked away from the paper reasoning that his anger needed to be
directed at himself, not Madison. Rodney had been right about her; she really
was a very smart woman.

But still, his financial status being turned upside down by
his grandmother gave fear a free reign with his emotions. He wanted out of the
hospital, but at the same time he felt very insecure stepping back into the
world outside the hospital. Yeah, he had some plans, on paper, but for all he
knew they might be just wishful thinking. He shook his head and told himself he
had no choice but to succeed. No choice.

He turned back to the article, chuckling at a couple of
Madison’s quotes. She was a feisty woman. He had to give her that. He looked at
her photos again, thinking, she is rather attractive. Well…
very
attractive.Thirty-four, he tilted his head at the photos, but she really
doesn’t look thirty-four…maybe twenty-eight? He breathed in between teeth on
edge. Twenty-eight? That’s a big number, well…

After finishing with the paper, he tossed it in the trash
can. All of the paper, except the article of Madison. He folded it carefully
and tucked it in his portfolio, after looking at her pictures one more time.

Another boring hospital lunch came and went. Visitor traffic
picked up in the hall. Maybe he should call Ned, his personal cabbie, to come
pick him up for a Sunday ride around the city. That would stir things up around
here.

He clicked on the TV, just as a local station was
announcing, “Our guest this week on North Carolina Business is Madison Winston,
newly appointed CEO of Fallington Enterprises, with headquarters in Asheville.”

The cameras were busy with alternating angles of the
interviewer and Madison. Roscoe was glued to the channel. She was dressed in a
medium dark business suit, bright blue blouse, and a string of pearls. The
cameras picked up her lustrous long, full tresses framing her smiling face. She
sat relaxed in the plush red studio chair, with her legs crossed.

He listened at the ease with which she responded to the
questions put to her by the lanky business anchor. “It’s known in the business
circles that D.R. Fallington, grandson of Edna Fallington, was ousted as CEO
and replaced quickly by you. Is there a rift at Fallington?”

 Madison gave a light laugh, and said, “Ousted would not be
correct. D.R. and his brother Rodney have played significant roles in
Fallington Enterprises. There is no rift, and I don’t have anything negative to
say about the Fallington brothers. Leadership transitions happen all the time
in business. I’m the current transition, and my job is to build upon past
accomplishments.”

Roscoe nodded, thinking how poised and smooth her answers
were. Why didn’t I see that she’s business savvy and talented, he questioned.

As the interview continued, he was impressed with Madison’s
performance. He put himself in her shoes, realizing that he would have fumbled
the questions. He felt tense just thinking about it.

As the program was coming to a close, the interviewer said,
“We have time for one more question, one that has stirred much talk in the
business community. Many business leaders believe your anti-globalization
position is really anti-business. How do you feel about that?

 Madison leveled her smile at the camera over the
interviewer’s shoulder, and said, “I’m not against globalization. That’s like a
person being anti-oxygen. The United States has been an exporter globally since
the first colonists in the early 1600s. Fallington Enterprises is pro quality
products, produced under quality working conditions and that can be bought and
sold for value.

“Ultimately if a customer is dissatisfied with a product, it
doesn’t matter where the product was made. The customer probably will not buy
the product again. Fallington will be searching the globe for quality in all
areas, and that does include products made in the United States. Quality up and
down the economic chain is the only thing that is pro-business at the end of
the day.”

The anchor, shaking Madison’s hand, said, “Thank you for
appearing on North Carolina Business,” then looking into the main camera, “and
thank you for watching business as it happens. Until next week, be sure
you…take care of business.”

Roscoe continued watching as the credits rolled up the
screen. He knew the show had been taped sometime this past week. Madison was
still gesturing, talking, smiling, and laughing with the anchor, although the
audio had been dropped. He kept thinking about how calm she was throughout the
thirty-minute broadcast. Very much in control, especially with the tough
questions the interviewer had thrown at her.

He remembered his grandmother arranging for him to appear on
a business show right after he took over as CEO. He realized how shallow his
comments were compared to Madison’s. He admitted again that she was a smart
woman. No wonder I felt intimidated by her.

Roscoe had checked the sunroom twice during the day but he
hadn’t seen Selena. Her door had remained closed all day. One of the nurses had
assured him that everything was normal. There had been less traffic in the hall
most of the day. Not as much hurry and scurry of personnel on the weekends.
He’d seen for the second or third day a lone young lab tech in a white coat in
the hall.

On his third trip down to the sunroom, the lab tech was
sitting quietly reading a technical manual. Roscoe decided not to bother him
with conversation. He wheeled over to the small reading table, and picked up a
copy of the Sunday paper, left behind by someone. As a good citizen he gathered
it up to put in the trash. As he shuffled the sections, he saw the photos of
Madison again. He tossed the rest of the paper, but kept the feature article of
her, took it back to his room, and carefully placed it in his portfolio. Now he
had two copies.

Around 8 p.m., he heard the steps of high heels, rounding
the corner, up near room 400. He hobbled on one leg and a crutch to his door,
peeking carefully, and caught only a side glimpse from the hips down, as the
figure leaned into Selena’s room. Maybe that’s her mom, he thought.

Later when he heard female laughter drifting from Selena’s
room he hobbled closer to the door. He heard a final “Bye”, and then the
tapping of high heels headed toward the elevators. He quickly peered around the
edge of the door. He saw only the backside of a woman with blonde spiked hair,
dressed in a dark green jacket and skirt. She was short, maybe a few inches
beyond five feet. She could lose a few pounds around the hips. Oh, well, who am
I to judge anyone about anything, he thought.

Rachel was off on Sunday. When one of the other nurses came
in to check on him, he asked, “Um…the lady who just came from room 400, about
fifteen minutes ago…I think I recognized her…think I remember her from some
business meeting…do you happen to know who she was…maybe jiggle my memory…

The nurse was half listening, but answered, “Oh, yes that
was Ms. Sanchez. She came to visit Selena.”

Roscoe snapped his fingers. “That’s right. Now I remember.
Oh, boy, my memory must be going quickly.”

The nurse looked at him. “Might be that bump on the head you
got last night keeping that drughead away from Selena.”

He mumbled, “Uh…I don’t remember much about that.”

“The nurses think you were mighty brave. They’ll probably
remind you.”

Roscoe slumped in his lounge. Anonymous? Ain’t going to
happen.

Monday

Front page headline:
Man Attacks Hospital Patient
.
Roscoe held his breath as he read the article hurriedly, looking for his name.
He exhaled when he read the quote by the Hospital Security Chief:
Because of
patient privacy laws we will not release the names of our patients. However,
one patient was responsible for subduing the intruder and alerting the security
staff. The assailant, Gregory Styles, 20 year old white male was quickly taken
into police custody, and charged with trespassing, illegal drug possession,
illegal use of drugs, and other charges are pending further investigation. I
wish to assure the public that all patients are safe
. Roscoe thought that
was sufficient, but all the authorities had to make the same obligatory
statements. Blah. Blah.

He put the paper aside, feeling some comfort that he’d
stopped Gregory Styles from molesting Selena.

The morning remained routine until Rachel and Dr. Milhouse
Stillwell entered the room, both looking somber. The doctor was carrying a
handful of loose sheets. He flapped them against his thigh as he stood, looking
down at Roscoe sitting in the lounge chair. The doctor shuffled through his
sheets again, studying each one as if he had unearthed some last minute medical
secrets.

“Well, D.R., you managed to aggravate your foot again.” He
blew out a breath of exasperation. “Luckily, you didn’t break anything or tear
anything loose, but banging around the other night with that hoodlum in the
hall will slow the healing again. There are some sensitive nerves and tissues
involved here…serious medical issues at stake. You’ve got to be more
cooperative.” The doctor continued with his stern reprimand another few
minutes.

Roscoe had listened patiently, trying not to be impolite,
but he’d had enough of being scolded once again about his damn foot. “With all
due respects Dr. Stillwell, if you’ll release me from the hospital, I think my
foot will heal. To be really technical about the issues, I fell the other day
on the hospital’s cracked sidewalk out front. Saturday night I was attacked in
the hall because the hospital’s security force was not able to keep me safe.”

The doctor’s mouth flew open in disbelief. His voice
squeaked out, “Are you blaming the hospital because your foot is injured?”

Roscoe stared at him. “You figure it out.”

The doctor looked at Rachel, as if to ask her for some
input.

Her eyes connected with the doctor’s, and then she looked at
Roscoe. She took a step and placed her hand on the bed railing. “I’ve worked
with enough patients to recognize frustration. Something is bothering you
besides your foot. What is it?”

She paused.

Silence flooded the room. The doctor stared at Roscoe.

Roscoe huffed. “You’re right. I’m concerned about Selena
Sanchez, but you all seem more concerned about my damn foot than her.” Pain
showed on his face and voice. “She’s dying. Why isn’t the hospital,” spreading
his arms, “more concerned about her? Looks like the whole staff should be doing
more for her. She’s too young to die. She’s too talented for her life to
just…just…end.”