underneath. Removing the entire wad, he shuffled through it and found
a white business card. Placing it on the table, he retrieved a blue
Bic from another pocket and wrote something on the card, then handed it
to me.
Snarling tiger logo, WVCC TYGERs circling it. Below that: WEST V~EY
COMMUNITY C~EGE DEPhIErMENT 0F ~IhL’sCIEIIc:Es (818)509-3476
Two lines at the bottom. He’d filled hem in using dark block letters:
CHIP JONES EXT.2359
“If I’m in class,” he said, “this’ll connect you to the message
center.
If you want me around when you come visiting at the house, try to give
me a day’s notice.
Before I could reply, heavy rapid footsteps from the far end of the
hall made both of us turn. A figure came toward us. Athletic gait,
dark jacket.
Black leather jacket. Blue slacks and hat. One of the rent-a-cops
patrolling the halls of Pediatric Paradise for signs of evil?
He came closer. A mustachioed black man with a square face and brisk
eyes. I got a look at his badge and realized he wasn’t Security.
LAPD. Three stripes. A sergeant.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, speaking softly but giving us the
once-over. His name tag read PERKINS.
Chip said, “What is it?”
The cop read my badge. It seemed to confuse him. “You’re a doctor?”
I nodded.
“How long have you gentlemen been out here in the hall?”
Chip said, “Five or ten minutes. What’s wrong?”
Perkins’s gaze shifted to Chip’s chest, taking in the beard, then the
earring. “You a doctor too?”
“He’s a parent,” I said. “Visiting his child.”
“Got a visiting badge, sir?”
Chip pulled one out and held it in front of Perkins’s face.
Perkins chewed his cheek and swung back to me. He gave off a
barbershop scent. “Have either of you seen anything unusual?”
“Such as?” said Chip.
Anything out of the ordinary, sir. Someone who doesn’t be~~~g,~
“Doesn’t belong,” said Chip. “Like somebody healthy?”
Perkins’s eyes became slits.
I said, “We haven’t seen anything, Sergeant. It’s been quiet.
Why?”
Perkins said, “Thank you,” and left. I watched him slowing for a
moment as he passed the pathology lab.
Chip and I took the stairs to the lobby. A crowd of night-shifters
crowded the east end, pressing toward the glass doors that led
outside.
On the other side of the glass the darkness was cross-cut with the
cherry-red pulse of police lights. White lights, too, refracting in
starbursts.
Chip said, “What’s going on?”
Without turning her head, a nurse nearby said, “Someone got attacked.
In the parking lot.”
Attacked? By whom?”
The nurse looked at him, saw he was a civilian and moved away.
I looked around for a familiar face. None. Too many years.
A pale, thin orderly with short platinum hair and a white Fu Manchu
said, “Enough, already,” in a nasal voice. All I want to do is go
home.”
Someone groaned a chorus.
Unintelligible whispers passed through the lobby. I saw a uniform on
the other side of the glass, blocking the door. A burst of radio talk
leaked through from the outside. Lots of movement. A vehicle swung
its lights toward the glass, then turned away and sped off. I read a
flash of letters: AMBULANCE. But no blinkers or siren.
“Whyn’t they just bring her in here?” said someone.
“Who says it’s a her?”
A woman said, “It’s always a her.”
“Dinja hear? No howler,” someone answered. “Probably not an
emergency.”
“Or maybe,” said the blond man, “it’s too late.”
The crowd rippled like gel in a petri dish.
Someone said, “I tried to get out the back way but they had it
blocked.
I’m like, this sucks.”
“I think I heard one of them say it was a doctor.”
“Who?”
“That’s all I heard.”
Buzz. Whisper.
Chip said, “Wonderful.” Turning abruptly, he began pushing his way
toward the rear of the crowd, back into the hospital. Before I could
say anything, he was gone.
Five minutes later, the glass door opened and the crowd surged
forward.
Sergeant Perkins slipped through and held out a tan palm. He looked
like a substitute teacher before an unruly high school class.
“Can I have your attention for a moment?” He waited for silence,