to think about. .
BLOOD.TEST 79 –
‘”Fine. There’s no shortag of things for me to do
anyway. Go yourselL”
“I want Beverly along. Of anyone she’s got the
best feel for the family.”
“Fine, fine. Take Beverly. Take whomever you
want.”
He straightened his tie and smoothed nonexistent
wrinkles in the long white coat.
“‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, my friend,” he said,
straining to be cordial, ‘Tll be off to the lab.”
The Sea Breeze Motel was on west Pico, set amid
cheap apartments, dusty storefronts, and auto garages
on a dingy slice of the boulevard just before
L.A. surrenders to Santa Monica The. place was
two stories of pitted chartreuse stucco and drooP-lng
pink wroughtqron railing. Thirty or so units
looked down upon an asphalt motor court and a
swimming pool half-filled with algae-clogged water.
The only breeze evident was the steaming layer of
exhaust fumes that rose from the oily pavement as
we pulled in beside a camper with Utah plates.
“Not exactly five star,” I said, getting out of the
Seville. “And far from the hospital.”
Beverly frowned.
“I tried to tell them that when I saw the address
but there was no convincing the father. Said he
wanted to be near the beach where the air was
goOd. Even launched into a speech about how the
whole hospital should move to the beach, how the
smog was harmful to patients. I t01d you, the man
is weird.”
The front office was a glass booth on the other
side of a warped plywood door. A thin, bespectacled
Iranian with the numb demeanor of a habitual
i’–
80 Jonathan
l(etternmn
opium smoker ‘sat behind a chipped, hinged plastic
counter poring over the Motor Vehicle Code. A
revolving rack of combs and cheap sunglasses took
up one corner, a low able covered with ancient
copies of throwaway travel magazines squatted in
the other.
The Iranian pretended not to notice us. I cleared
my throat with tubercular fervor and he looked up
slowly.
“Yes?”
“What room is the Swope family in?”
He looked us over, decided we were safe, said,
“Fifteen,” and returned to the wondrous world of
road signs.
There was a dusty brown Chevy station wagon
parked in front of Room 15. Except for a sweater
on the front seat and an empty cardboard box in
the rear deck, the car was empty.
“That’s theirs,” said Beverly. “They used to leave
it parked illegally by the front entrance. One time
when the security guard put a warning sticker on
the windshield, Emma ran out crying about her
sick child and he tore it up.”
I knocked on the door. No answer. Knocked again
harder. Still no response. The room had a single
grimy window, but the view within was blocked by
oilcloth curtains. I knocked one more time, and
when the silence was unbroken, we returned to the
office.
“Excuse me,” I said, “do you know if the Swopes
are in their room?”
A lethargic shake of the head.
“Do you have a swtcnnoaro. Beverly asked-him.
The Iranian raised his ‘eyes from his reading and
blinked.
“Who are you? What do you want?”
was heavily accented, his manner surly.
“We’re from Western Pediatric Hospital. The
Swopes’ child is being treated there. It’s important
that we speak to them.”
“I don’t know anything.” He shifted his glance
back to the vehicle code.
“Do you have a switchboard?” she repeated.
A barely visible nod.
“Then please ring the room.”
With a theatrical sigh, he dragged himself up and
walked through a door at the rear. A minute later
he reappeared.
“Nobody there.”
“But their car’s there.”
“Listen, lady, I don’t know cars. You want a
room, okay. Otherwise, leave alone.”
“Call the police, Bev,” I said.
Somehow he must have sneaked in a hit of am–Phetamine
because his face came alive suddenly
and he spoke and gesticulated with renewed vigor.
“What for police? What for you cause trouble?
“No trouble,” I said. “We just need to talk to the
Swopes.”
He threw up his hands.
“They take walk–I see them. alking ‘that way.”
He pointed east.
“Unlikely. They’ve got a sick child with them.:’
To Bev: “I saw a phone at the gas station on. the