Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [62]
HALF-HOUR UNTIL shift change. Lina Spurling gulped down her Tab and fumbled for a cigarette. Five-minute breaks—when was this hospital going to join the twentieth century? You can’t run your fanny off for nine hours with a five-minute break here and there. Then they wonder about the turnover. Jesus. Kathy called in sick tonight, as usual. Leave me with pediatrics and orthopedics. Terrific. Thanks, pal. Shit, Lina thought, I’d have called in, too. If I’d had a date. Just try to find a straight guy in Key West who doesn’t smell like fish guts. Just try.
Lina unlocked the pharmacy and loaded up the syringe. She lay it on her tray, next to the doctor’s prescription, and padded quietly to Room 307. On the way, she doused her cigarette in a bedpan in the hallway. Some wise guy put it there. Very subtle, Lina thought. Wait your turn, pal. Sick people can be so pushy.
Lina whisked into Room 307 and braked, her rubber soles squeaking on the floor.
“Sir?”
The man said nothing. He sat in a darkened corner, hunched in a chair. His skin was chestnut; a mottled rag was knotted around one arm. His salt-and-pepper hair was moist and matted; a purplish gash glared up from his scalp. He wore the white boots of a commercial fisherman. Lina Spurling could not see his face: it was buried in his arms. Nor could she see precisely how large a man he really was, for he was folded so compactly that his arms were on his knees. He appeared to be sleeping.
“Sir?” the young nurse repeated.
Breeze Albury raised his head. He looked lost.
“It’s past visiting hours,” Lina said.
“He’s my boy.”
“He’s going to be fine. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow when—”
“What’s that?” Albury was out of the chair, standing at the foot of Ricky’s bed. “Is that for him?”
Lina spun and headed for the door. Albury seized her elbows and lifted her off the floor. He put her down in the far corner, then closed the door quietly.
“I asked you a question.”
“It’s Demerol. To help him sleep.”
“He is sleeping.”
“He won’t be for long, not if you don’t lower your voice. Look, I know you’re upset. Why don’t you let me call the doctor? He’ll explain everything.”
Albury examined the syringe. “Seventy-five milligrams,” he read out loud. “This is for pain.”
The nurse looked at Ricky. The boy stirred slightly. His right arm, encased in plaster, hung from a pulley. His fingers, orange from the iodine, poked like carrot tips from the end of the cast.
“Sit down,” Breeze Albury said tiredly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
Lina Spurling did not sit down. She held her ground, eyeing the intruder. He was a wreck. Looks like he went ten rounds with Joe Frazier. Contusions, lacerations, the look of the dead in his eyes. He could use a doctor himself, Lina thought. Suppose I could dress that cut on his head.
“Tell me what happened,” Albury said.
“I’ve got to give him the shot.” Lina moved to Ricky’s side and pulled back the blanket. Albury watchfully stood behind her as she inserted the needle into a pale hip.
“His arm is broken,” Lina said, “in two places.”
“The same bone?”
“Two different bones. The ulna and the humerus. Right about here.” The nurse touched Albury’s forearm lightly, then his upper arm, midway between the elbow and the shoulder. Jesus, she thought, he’s certainly got the arms of a boxer. Be nice if he’d change his shirt every couple weeks.
“Were the police called?”
“What for?” Lina replied. “It was an accident. That’s what your son told the ambulance driver. Fell off his bike or something. Didn’t anyone call you when it happened?”
“I was out of town,” Albury muttered. “Just got back.”
“Sir, I have to go now. I’ve got thirty-one other patients on this floor, and I’m supposed to look in on all of ’em before I get off…”
Albury nodded toward the door. “Sure. Sorry if I scared you.”
Lina Spurling scampered out.
“Is it all right if I sit with him?” asked Albury to no one. He moved a chair to the left side of Ricky’s hospital bed. He reached under the blanket and took his son’s hand in his own. The boy’s rhythmic