typea_all (25 page)

     Tonight the place was crowded. There must have been thirty people in line all the time, not counting 45 screaming kids and assorted significant others. And, wouldn't you know it, each one of them had some problem. There was no price tag on the item, the price was wrong, the charge card was rejected, they wanted to use a check, or the money had the wrong president's pictures.

     By the time we got out of there, I swore Wing wanted to get an assault rifle and kill them all. Wing had to bang on the car to wake up Beebe, and chase away two little kids who were trying to get into their trunk, but I think he had a good time anyway.

     "Do you want to stop at the Seaside Diner for a cup of coffee?" I asked them.

     "We're not supposed to do that," they said in unison.

     "Oh come on, loosen up a little. I hate to ask this, but are you guys new at this?"

     "No." Beebe.

     "Yes." Wing.

     "Which is it?"

     After a pause, Wing admitted "This is our first assignment since the Academy, more like a training mission."

     "So they didn't really expect anything serious to happen. It was like to keep you busy."

     "I suppose."

     "Then why don't you join me for a cup of coffee at the diner? I promise I won't tell."

     Wing looked at Beebe then said, "Let's roll."

     We drove down Tilton to the diner, one of those all-night places that caters to the over-60 crowd for dinner, and truckers and perverts most other times. The lot had a few cars and two large trucks with their motors running.

     Seaside doesn't bother with a hostess after dinner, so we just sat ourselves in a large booth in the non-smoking section and ordered coffee. Beebe also ordered apple pie with vanilla ice cream; the kid was having so much fun.

     Both of them were recent graduates of the FBI Academy at Quantico, Virginia. They had been in different dorms and didn’t meet each other until their assignment in Atlantic City. They seemed like nice guys, and I felt sorry for all of the things I had yelled at them earlier in the day, but they didn't seem to hold it against me.

     "What did they tell you about this assignment?" I asked.

     "Just to stick with you overtly and keep an eye out. Report any suspicious activity. We're done when you get home tonight."

     "That's all?"

     "That's it."

     "Didn't that seem a little strange to you? I mean no other details?"

     "We figured it was busywork, but you have to start somewhere."

     Okay, so the FBI doesn't take me seriously. They're in good company.

     We made small talk. They wanted to know what I did for the hospital; I asked them about their training. They wouldn't tell me any details about Quantico itself, but they were friendly. We left when the waitress started giving us nasty looks, and they followed me home.

     It felt good to finally get home. After I cleaned the car, I showered, put on a nightgown, and then I checked the messages and mail. The messages were just a few hang-ups, and the mail was mostly bills. There was one blank envelope, though, without an address or stamp that contained a handwritten note.

     "We see that you're meeting Reynolds and Bruno so we know something is going on. We warned you already; don't make us have to warn you again."

     Gee, they didn't bother to sign it.

     I thought about calling Agent Jackson but decided not to. Either these guys weren't taking me seriously or they thought I was some sort of crime lord. I figured I'd hold off just a little longer before calling in the cavalry.

     Wing and Beebe weren't parked outside in the morning; two other guys were. The FBI must have been using me for their intern program or something, giving each set of fresh recruits a chance to sit in the hospital parking lot.

     I wasn't in a particularly good mood. I had a rotten night’s sleep, with hot spells that were worse and more frequent than normal. Once during the night, I went into the kitchen and filled a plastic bag with ice, then I went back to bed holding the bag against my face. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew I woke up in a puddle of cold water. I pulled off all of the sheets to let them dry, then took a blanket and tried to sleep on the sofa. When I woke up in the morning my neck and shoulders hurt from sleeping in some weird position.

     Because I didn't feel very attractive that morning, I picked out very subtle earrings, each with a rhinestone cable car hanging down from a gold heart. They're called Snack-A-Roni.

     I still tried to make the most of the day. On the way out, I stopped at the agent's car with a piece of cake but they wouldn't take it. All business these guys, not a smile or a "thank you ma'am," even after I promised I wasn't trying to poison them.  I hate guys with no personality or sense of humor, so I didn't even ask their names. They were real serious, they even followed me into the lab and over to the cafeteria at lunchtime.

     In the lab, one of them stood by the door while the other walked backed and forth patrolling.

     "Do you want to tell me what's going on?" Joan asked. "Gert said she asked these two guys outside what they wanted, and they flashed FBI badges. I don't mean to pry, but since you started working here, we've had all sorts of strange visitors."

     "It's really nothing, Lipschitz knows all about it. I'll fill you in sometime when it's all over."

     "Well, it's bugging the hell out of Gert."

     "I'm really sorry about that."

     "Hell, don't be. It's about time someone got back at her. She's been bugging us all for years. If brains were taxed, Gert would get a rebate, so good for you, girl."

     About an hour after I got in, Mr. Mathison came in, another first for me. The guy had a degenerative disease that caused one arm to be bent up all of the time. He was real handsome, in his low twenties.

     I tried to get blood from the good arm but couldn't get a vein.  To use the other arm I had to pull it down, but every time I let go the arm would snap back up again like it was held with rubber bands.

     I tried it a couple of times, even asked the guy to use his other arm to hold it down, but he didn't have enough strength, and I didn't want to turn him over to Joan for another leg-job.

     I finally forced the arm down and, since I was wearing slacks, used my leg to hold it down. I lifted up my knee and bent it over the table, trapping his arm. It was a very uncomfortable position, bent over so my chest was practically in this guy's face almost smothering him, with my behind sticking out facing the door.

     "Are you okay?" I asked him.

     "I'm fine, you can stay this way all day if you want."

     I got the tourniquet on and found a good vein, when I heard someone whisper, "Are they having sex or something? She's got her chest in his face."

     "Who's there?" I yelled.

     It was Joan. "Just me and Gert. Do you know what that looks like from this direction? Exactly what are you doing?"

     "It probably looks like I'm attacking this guy. Can't a gal have some fun?"

     "Well, have it in private next time," Gert humphed.

     "She's just kidding, Gert. You are kidding, aren’t you Brooke?"

     "Of course, I'm kidding. If I wanted to do anything like that, I'd take him over to the in-vitro lab."

     Joan came in and walked around so she could see what was happening. "So tell me, again, what are you doing?"

     "This gentleman has a muscle disorder that won't let his arm lay straight. Only thing that works is to use my leg to hold it down."

     "If you say so," she chuckled. "Do you need any help?"

"Oh no," I said sarcastically. "Of course not. My leg has at least another ten minutes before it becomes totally numb."

"Well, okay then," Joan said, and she walked out before I had a chance to explain sarcasm to her.

     I still had my leg up on the chair and Mathison was resting his face directly on my chest.

     "Kid, if you so much as move your face one millimeter or make any moaning sounds you’re dead meat."

******

     At lunch, both agents followed me to the cafeteria. One of them stood at the entrance, the other walked around inside. As I walked by him with my tray, I said "Psst. Pass the word: the macaroni and cheese looks very suspicious, and the meatloaf may contain contraband."

     One the way out after lunch, I went up to him. "Come on, didn't you think the macaroni and cheese line was funny?"

     He ignored me.

     "I mean, really, suspicious macaroni and cheese. Don't you get it? You're with the FBI and looking for suspicious things. It’s a play on words, or something like that."

     I kept badgering him all the way back to the lab.

     "I thought it was funny. Don't you have a sense of humor? How about the meatloaf line, now that was funny. Contraband in the meatloaf. I think that was hysterical. God, don't they have a comedy club or do improv at the academy?

     "Want to hear a great FBI joke I got over the Internet? Did you hear about the FBI agent who was told to chalk an outline around a body? He asked if he should start with an I or an A. Come on, that's funny!

     "Okay, maybe it was a little too intellectual for you. Try this one. How about the FBI agent who thought his bulletproof vest protected him from projectile vomiting. You're not laughing, and that was funny."

     "Maybe you're sensitive to the FBI thing, so try this one. Did you heard about the guy they found dead with his head in his cornflakes? The police called it a cereal killer. Okay, I know that one's old, but you got to chuckle."

     "One last try. I love this one. What do you get when a French pastry chef passes gas? Petit farts. Come on, that's hysterical. You know, like petit fours, those little cakes?"

     I couldn't even get a smile out of these guys.

******

     The rest of the day went fine until Gert yelled in "Can someone answer the phone in there. It’s Lipschitz."

     As usual, Joan vanished so I picked up the phone. "Outpatient lab."

     "Brooke, it’s John."

     "Hi John, what can I do for you?'

     "Can you check for results for Mr. Stern? He's a member of the hospital board."

     "Sure, hold on."

     I ran into the other lab and went through the out basket. Sure enough, there were two pages for Stern. High cholesterol, normal PSA, everything else okay.

     "John, I have them here."

     "Great. Bring them up to Rossini's office when you have a chance. Okay?"

     "Uh, Rossini? Can I call them into him?"

     "No, hand deliver them. No problem, is there?

     "Well to be honest, last time I went up there Rossini was a little, forward, if you know what I mean."

     "That's just a bad rumor, he's not like that."

     "Listen, I'm telling you. He pulled me down on his lap."

     "Come on, be a big girl. He's just an old man, both feet in the grave already. He's harmless."

     How do you tell your boss that his boss got an ancient hard-on for you?  "I'm not sure how harmless he is, John."

     "Don't be silly. The guy's so old he farts dust. I bet he doesn't even remember what a woman really looks like. Just do it." He hung up.

     Joan walked in as soon as I hung up.

     "I got to ask you," I said. "How do you do that?"

     "Do what?"

     "Vanish instantly just at the right times?"

     "I'm good at it, aren’t I?"

     "Yeah, I thought I was the champ at that. It used to be my thing."

     "Kid, you're just an amateur. Now you're in the big leagues. What did Shitty want?"

     "He wants you to take these results to Rossini."

     "He specifically said my name?"

     "Yes. Well, not exactly."

     "Not exactly, uh?  Come on, you go. You like a challenge, right? See if you can tame old man Rossini's little gherkin."

     I walked over to the hospital and went up to Rossini's office. This time his secretary wasn't in the outer office so I just knocked on the inner door. "Dr. Rossini?"  I whispered. No answer. I planned to ask one more time then leave the results and get out of there.  "Dr. Rossini?" I whispered even lower, without knocking.  Still no answer.

     I turned, dropped the results on the secretary's desk, and was about to walk out when the inner door opened.

     "I'm here dear, sorry it took me so long. Please bring them in."  He was wearing a white lab coat with dark pants underneath, but no shoes or socks. I looked down.

     "Oh, my feet were hurting, so I took off my shoes. You have to forgive me, dear, one of the problems with age. Please, come in."

     I picked up the results and went into the office. He followed me and closed the door.

     "Your name is what again, dear?”

     "Brooke. Brooke Castle."

     "Yes, Brooke, That's right. Very attractive young woman."  To this guy my granny would be a young woman.

     Instead of sitting behind his desk, he stood in front of it.  "Read me the results, please dear."

     "You don't want to look at them yourself? I could have phoned them in and not disturbed you."

     "That's no problem, my dear. No problem. You are not disturbing me."

     "Okay. Glucose, 80. Urea Nitrogen, 14. Creatinine, 1 point zero."

     I looked up and he had removed his lab coat, wearing nothing except his black pants. It was truly one of the most disgusting sights I had ever seen. He had a scrawny sunken chest, covered with pimples, with a huge scar across his chest, probably from heart surgery.

     "Dr. Rossini, I don't think that is appropriate."

     "Oh, don't think anything of it, dear. I'm just changing into my shirt."

     Okay, so I'm like flypaper for freaks. I put by head down and continued reading the results.

     "Let’s see, where was I?  Sodium, 143. Potassium, 4 point one. Chloride, 104."

     "My dear?"

     "Yes."  God, he was wearing nothing but his underpants – big, baggy, yellow-stained underpants over two emaciated crooked legs.