Joe Gores - 32 Cadillacs

“Whazzis?” he mumbled in his overmedicated way.

“Just a release,” oozed Hawkins. “So your medical bills will be paid and you can stay here in this nice hospital until you’re all better.”

Staley had taken the pen, but now it slipped from his lax fingers and his head tilted down to one side as if he suddenly were dozing off from his medications. He gave a snore.

“Here, don’t do that. Just sign the form...” Victory seemed near and Hawkins made the mistake of grabbing an ancient shoulder and shaking him. “Hey, old man, wake—”

Staley reared up screaming. Hawkins jumped back, startled, to carom off the solid bulk of Lulu, who had been waiting in the bathroom for Staley’s shriek to bring her charging out.

“What you do to my husband?”

As she grappled with the dumbfounded adjuster, the door burst open and in rushed Crichton and the redheaded, freckled nurse who accompanied him on rounds.

“What’s going on in here?”

The nurse had Lulu by the arms to hold her back from Hawkins, who was exclaiming, “This crazy old broad attacked—”

“I was in bathroom, came out, he was shaking my Karl—”

“ Shaking him?” Crichton, livid, shoved the adjuster back across the room. “You’re shaking him? This man has a spinal injury from a fall down an escalator and you’re shaking him?”

Staley moaned loudly from the bed. All eyes turned. “Want me to sign some paper,” said his wan old-man’s voice.

Crichton knew Hawkins only all too well. “A release form?”

“My Karl is not gonna sign no release forms,” Lulu said in loud abrupt tones. “The lawyer told me that he shouldn’t—”

“Lawyer?” cried Hawkins in alarm. “What lawyer?”

“The lawyer who said I should sign a paper with him. ”

“Don’t do that,” said Hawkins with a terrible intensity. He’d had a shitty litigation loss-ratio last year, he didn’t need this. “Don’t sign any contracts with any lawyer—”

“Why not?”

“Well, ah, he’ll, ah, take half of what you get from us. He’ll, ah, cheat you. Just let us make you an offer and—”

Staley groaned again from the bed. Lulu said immediately, “My Karl in too much pain to be thinking about anything like that right now.”

“Out,” snapped Crichton, “everybody out. The nurse is here to give the patient a sponge bath.” He laid a gentle hand on Lulu’s shoulder. “You too, Mrs. Klenhard. Go get a cup of coffee at the cafeteria. Come back in half an hour or so.”

Outside in the corridor, Hawkins glowered after Lulu’s retreating form. “Y’know her old man’s faking it, Doc.”

“Nonsense.”

“I tell you he’s faking it.” He riffled the papers in his hand. “Not one X ray here that’s worth a damn.”

“Not unusual; patients with acute pain can’t lie still for X ray. I’ve conducted manual physical exams that more than—”

“Manual exams don’t cut it with me, Doc.”

“The man is nearly eighty years old! He fell down an escalator in a store you insure—”

“I want a spinal tap.”

After a long, angry pause, Crichton said icily, “ I make the determination of which tests should be run on my patients.”

“Oh yeah? We’ve been through this before, Doc. I always go to the hospital chief administrator, and he always says...”

“The bottom line,” finished Crichton hollowly.

The bottom line. If the insurance company refused to pay Klenhard’s running medical expenses, the hospital would transfer the old man to a county-run facility that Crichton regarded as little better than a snake pit. He sighed in resignation.

“He has to agree to the spinal tap.”

“Okay. But right now. Before that wife of his gets back.”

The two men stared at one another with cordial mutual loathing. Crichton sighed and turned away. Hawkins smiled at his back. The old woman was the steel in the combination. With her out of the way, the old man would be putty in his hands.

The nurse had finished both Staley’s sponge bath and that amazing nurses’ feat, changing his sheets with him still in them.

Crichton dismissed her, said gently, “We’ve been discussing your case, Mr. Klenhard. We want you to submit to a spinal tap.”

“What’s that?” Staley was looking apprehensively from face to face for those answers not found in words alone.

“I draw fluid from your spinal cord to test whether—”

“Draw? What’s that, draw?”

“Siphon off,” put in Hawkins impatiently.

“Like with a needle?”

“Yeah.”

“A big needle?”

“Yes,” said Crichton suddenly, “a very big needle.”

“It’s gonna hurt, ain’t it? A lot?” Staley’s chin had gotten determined and his eyes had gone mule-stubborn. “I ain’t gonna do it, I can’t stand no more pain.”

“Mr. Klenhard—”

“No.”

Staley looked straight ahead as if alone in the room. Crichton took Hawkins to the window. Outside, April showers had come their way to bring the flowers that bloom in May.

“You heard. He can’t stand any more pain.”

“He wouldn’t have known about any more pain if you hadn’t tipped him off,” snarled Hawkins. “A little needle prick—”

“Have you ever had a spinal tap, Mr. Hawkins?”

“No, but—”

“I thought not. I sincerely hope I get a chance to give you one. Meanwhile, I can’t chance it over his objections.” He amended, “I won’t chance it. With his sensitivity to any added pain, the tap could result in further permanent injury.”

“Further? I’m telling you, Doc...” The adjuster paused for a moment. Then he said in a low voice, “Okay, I’ll accept reflex tests if administered right now in my presence.”

“The same objection applies,” said Crichton in equally low tones. “Any added pain—”

“If he’s as bad off as he’s claiming, he won’t feel a thing. If he does inadvertently show pain, Doc, either we got us a miracle right here in River City... or he’s been faking it all along. Right?”

Crichton hesitated. There had seemed no way Klenhard could profit from faking serious injury, but now the store manager had brought in his insurance company with the possibility of a settlement. Might not a destitute septuagenarian looking at a penniless old age be motivated to attempt insurance fraud?

“Okay,” Crichton said abruptly, “I’ll go along with it.”

They turned from the rain-streaked window back to the bed, where Staley seemed to have fallen asleep again.

“Mr. Klenhard.” No reaction. Louder. “Mr. Klenhard .”

Staley stirred and opened his eyes. “Mama?”

“No. It’s Dr. Crichton. We won’t have to do the spinal tap after all, Mr. Klenhard, but we are going to have to perform some alternative tests on you right here in your bed.”

“Like the last time? Bendin’ an’ standin’ an’—”

“No. This will be with... sharp instruments.”

“Needles?”

“ Little needles. Like straight pins. And scrapers.”

“See if I feel ’em, huh?” said Staley surprisingly, then added, more surprisingly, “Okay, if it’s gonna help...”

Crichton put down the covers and bared Staley’s legs and feet. He scraped them, seeking reflex reaction. Then, at Hawkin’s insistence, he jabbed needles into the soles of the feet. Through it all, Staley lay on his back, motionless and relaxed, staring at the ceiling. He finally spoke.

“You can start anytime you want, Doc. I’m ready for it.”

“We’re finished,” said a triumphant Crichton. He added to Hawkins, “Faking it, huh?” as Lulu appeared.