Death by the Book - Lenny Bartulin [30]
‘Does that include my grandmother?’
Peterson smiled, like a croupier about to take all Jack’s chips. ‘Only if she’s capable of sending a guy around with a knife.’
‘Well, she always says I never come around. They can get crazy, old people.’
‘We’ll be in touch, Mr Susko.’
Jack looked over at the uniformed police officer. ‘Can I grab a lift to the hospital?’
‘Can’t you drive yourself?’
‘Not without a car.’
The police officer glanced at Peterson.
‘You could always lend me one,’ added Jack.
The detective frowned but nodded to the officer. ‘Okay.’
‘Oh, thanks ever so much,’ replied Jack.
The officer walked off. Detective Peterson came over and stood beside Jack. He carefully buttoned the middle button of his coat. Without looking at Jack, he said: ‘Susko. That’s an interesting name. Be hard to forget.’
Jack drew on his cigarette and then tapped it into the ashtray. ‘Cost me my job in espionage.’
‘Kind of rings a bell for me.’
Jack looked up at Peterson and watched him pull at his tie a little, loosening it. He noticed a shaving rash just above the detective’s collar. He hoped it had been irritating him all day.
‘That’d be my uncle,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Harry Susko and the Sausage Boys. They were big in the seventies. Cabaret. They had a fantastic piano accordion player.’
‘No, I don’t reckon that’s it.’ Detective Peterson shook his head. ‘It’s right on the tip of my tongue. But I just can’t remember. Susko. Susko.’ He scratched his chin. ‘I suppose it’ll come to me later.’
Jack put a hand on the counter and slowly stood up. ‘Hope it doesn’t keep you up all night.’
Peterson rubbed his hands together. ‘Goodnight, Mr Susko. Careful with that cut.’
The officers were finishing up. Jack walked gingerly behind the counter and looked into the rubbish bin. He glanced at the police and then carefully reached in. His copy of Entropy House. The bottom corner was lightly singed black from the bite of a flame. He brushed at it, then rubbed the greasy stain between his fingers. It smudged grey. He wondered if Hammond Kasprowicz would notice. Jack would be sure to point it out.
It was after 11.00 p.m. There were two other people in the waiting room at St Vincent’s Hospital Emergency ward. A dark-haired twenty-something, dressed in a sweaty white T-shirt and faded jeans, sat passed out in one of the plastic chairs, star-fished, his limbs and head spilling awkwardly over the edges as though he had been shot. His friend — obviously still buzzing from whatever they had taken — nodded his head and drummed his knees and chewed gum beside him. Occasionally he leaned over to his comatose friend and said: ‘You’ll be right. Just breathe.’
Good advice.
Jack stared at the double doors that led into the surgery. Finally, they swung open. A nurse called out: ‘Mr Susko?’
Jack followed her through. On the other side he found a few more people sitting around, waiting: some blank-faced, some worried, a couple asleep. He wondered if Monday nights were always like this. A handful of hospital staff milled around the narrow hall and walked in and out of doors. An orderly wheeled a machine down the corridor. A middle-aged woman in a pale blue uniform was refilling a water dispenser with plastic cups, while another mopped the area around it. And a little further down, Celia Mitten sat on a chair, flipping through a magazine.
The nurse told Jack to wait. He nodded and remained on his feet. As the nurse disappeared into a cubicle, he walked down towards Celia Mitten.
‘Hello.’
Celia looked up and swallowed a quick gulp of air. ‘My God, what are you doing here?’
‘Gang fight. What about you?’
She glanced behind her through an open door. The bed in the room was unoccupied. ‘It’s my father. He’s had a turn. I think it was a heart attack.’
‘Is he okay?’
Tears rose in her eyes. Jack noticed she was wearing the same clothes as when he had seen her earlier that day.
‘I don’t know,’ she said, a little breathless. ‘They