William Kienzle - Deathbed

Most hypnotic were the traffic lights regularly signaling nonexistent traffic to stop or go. Cox, with a quiet wish that nothing exceptional would happen this night and that the Free Press would not summon him to report a fast-breaking story in a slow-moving city, had almost drifted off.

“Whatcha thinkin’ ’bout?”

Called back from slumber, Cox looked over his shoulder. “For a change, not a thing. I was letting the city lights put me to sleep.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Cox rolled over on his back. He looked appreciatively at Pat.

She was propped against a couple of pillows, working a crossword puzzle. She looked as if she were ready to attend a concert rather than retire for the night. Her hair was spread alluringly over the pillow as if it had been carefully arranged. It hadn’t.

She was working the puzzle with a pen.

“I swear, someday I’ll see you doing a puzzle on the typewriter.”

“What was a typewriter?”

They both chuckled. Neither was sold on the Word processor. As often as possible they would hammer out their stories on typewriters before transferring them to the compulsory processor.

“How was your day? I haven’t gotten around to asking.” She continued to fill in squares.

“The ordinary. They’re dragging out that Cobo Hall incident. As usual, they’re trying to nail the mayor on this one. Some on the city council are charging that Maynard Cobb should have insisted on more police protection for that rock concert.”

Lennon gratefully recalled that if she hadn’t in effect assigned herself to the hospital story, she would be covering the Cobo Hall incident. “ Was it poorly policed?”

“Not really. But who can say? The usual contingents of cops and security guards. The problem is the muggers forgot to tell the cops that it was going to be their night to howl.”

“At least nobody got killed. How many injured?”

“I forget. I think about thirty or forty—two or three rapes—less than ten still hospitalized. All in all, a bad show.”

Lennon reflected that the whole nasty incident had occurred less than a couple of miles from this, their apartment. The sort of affair that contributed mightily to Detroit’s less-than-savory reputation. But that reputation had become a self-fulfilling prophecy. Detroit wins the World Series, and the aftermath, due to a few flare-ups, is described by the nation’s media as a riot. San Francisco wins the Super Bowl and the aftermath, despite a great number of flare-ups, is termed a celebration.

“Business as usual,” she said. “Everybody wants all the cops in the city at the trouble spot. Yet when there’s no one to respond to a 911, all hell breaks loose. How much longer you think this story’ll run?”

“A few more days. Cobb will certainly respond to the council’s criticism. Then that should pretty well be that. Unless some of the injured decide to sue this city.” Cox rolled back facing the window. “How’s your hospital story coming?”

Absently, Lennon touched Cox’s shoulder and began lightly massaging it. “Okay. The nice thing about one of these magazine pieces is that nobody’s in much of a hurry to get it. Compared with the average news story they want yesterday, there’s a kind of eternal air to a magazine piece.”

“That nun must’ve been grateful when you told her you weren’t going to get into the contraceptive lead.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Probably the nicest present she’s gotten since Christmas . . . wait a minute: They’ve got a vow of poverty, haven’t they? Kill that and write: nicest present she’s gotten since she was a kid.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lulled by the gentle massage on his shoulder, Cox began to once more drift toward sleep.

“Funny thing, though,” Lennon said, “there’s something going on in that hospital.”

“Huh? Sure, sick people get better or they die.”

“No, something to do with the nun—Sister Eileen.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure. But I’ve got this feeling.”

“Your spider-sense tingling, Spider Woman?”

Lennon chuckled. “No, seriously. Like when she took me to the cafeteria for lunch. She introduced me to some of the staff—by the way, I didn’t tell you: Father Koesler is filling in for the regular hospital chaplain.”

“Koesler . . . Koesler . . . where have I heard that name?”

“Friend of Walt Koznicki. We’ve covered him a few times in some homicide cases. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh, yeah . . . chaplain to the homicide department.”

“He is not.”

“I know. It’s my mnemonic for him.”

“It doesn’t work very well: You forgot him.”

“Then I remembered him again. What about the staff you met?”

“Well . . .” Lennon set aside her puzzle and pen on the nightstand. “. . . it was in the atmosphere when we sat down to eat with them. Very stilted.”

“What do you expect? You were the new guy on the block. Having you sit in killed their normal conversation.”

“No, I expected that. It was something more. And if I’m right, it wasn’t directed at me; it was aimed at the nun.”

“So? Deference to a superior.”

“You’re not getting the drift, Joe. Please hear me out.”

“Okay.” Cox pulled the quilt up. This would have to be a pretty interesting story or he would soon be asleep.

“There was an air of hostility toward the nun. It was palpable. It was coming from several people. I don’t know what they’ve got against her, but I’m going to find out.”

“You’re serious. You really think there’s something going on?”

“Yeah. It’s a physical thing. Like someone is out to get her.”

“Get her? You mean harm her?”

“I think so.”

“Okay. But if something like that should happen, it’s open season on this story.”

“I know.”

“You know Nelson Kane—you should, you worked for him long enough. You know how he salivates when somebody comes up with a crying statue or the figure of Christ in a burning chicken coop. He is just not the type of city editor to overlook a hospital nun under attack.”

“Nelson Ka—you didn’t tell Nellie about the contraceptive angle of this story!”

“Of course I didn’t. He’d have my ass in a sling if he knew about our nonaggression pact. Matter of fact, I think he kind of suspects. But if he knew for sure . . . wow!”

“Well, anyway, at the moment, it’s just a feeling. I’ll have to check it out. There may be nothing there.”

“Backing away, are you? Just remember: If you come up with an injured or dead nun . . .”

“Heaven forbid.”

“Okay, heaven forbid. But if you do, then it’s open warfare, no holds barred.”

“Joe, you wild and crazy guy, you never get it straight, do you?”

“Huh?”

“It’s not when making war, it’s when making love that there’s no holds barred.”

“I lie corrected.”

Lennon smiled, turned off the lights, and slid beneath the quilt and Cox.

8

“You did what!”

“Easy!” the First Man cautioned. “You’ll attract the guard.”

“You did what?” the Third Man repeated, more quietly but just as furiously.

“We all heard him,” the Fourth Man said. “He said he made a mistake. What kind of mistake, Bruce?”

“An honest mistake,” Whitaker replied.

“What mistake?” the Third Man said through clenched teeth. “What the hell did you do, you idiot?”

“Now, now, there’s no need to drop lugs on poor Bruce,” the Fourth Man tempered. He turned to Whitaker. “Tell us what you did, Bruce.”

“Well, I made a mistake . . .uh . . . instead of altering IUDs, it turns out I mutilated several boxes of curtain hooks.”