Trap Line - Carl Hiaasen [63]
They were alone for fifteen minutes before Ricky shifted and moaned. Albury stiffened.
“Ricky?”
The boy’s eyes opened and he saw his father through a Demerol gauze. “Hey,” he said with a weak smile. “You’re back.”
Albury squeezed the kid’s hand.
“So how was fishing?” Ricky asked.
“Shitty.”
“My throat’s so dry.”
Albury filled a styrofoam cup with ice water and held it to Ricky’s mouth. Half of the water dribbled down his hospital gown.
“You too tired to talk?”
“Naw,” Ricky said. “Just feel a little weird. They gave me all kinds of drugs. What time is it, dad?”
“I don’t know. What the hell happened? Some nurse gave me a horseshit story about you falling off your bike.”
“Oh. Yeah.”
“What’s left of your bike has been rusting under the trailer for two goddamn years,” Albury said. “Tell me what happened.”
“Coupla guys grabbed me after work. Didn’t say much except that you cheated ’em out of something. I figured it was money, but they didn’t say.”
Albury asked, “Who?”
“Tom Cruz and some other guy. They took me over to some crawfish boat on Stock Island. El Gallo, it was called.”
Ricky told Albury exactly how they had mangled his arm.
“My God.”
“It hurt, sure, but it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. Think I passed out before it was over.” The words came like syrup. Ricky took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Dad, can I take a rest?”
Albury raised the blanket to his son’s neck. “I’ll be back in the morning,” he whispered. Before leaving the hospital room, he refilled the cup with ice water and left it on the nightstand where Ricky could reach it with his good arm.
LINA SPURLING punched her timecard into the wall clock. Great, she thought, only ten minutes late tonight. Could have got off on time, for once, if it weren’t for Captain Ahab back in 307. She thought about what to do next and decided on the Casa Marina; there was a rock band down from Fort Lauderdale. All oldies. Supposed to be pretty good.
“Excuse me, are you Miss Spurling?” The question came from a tall, attractive woman. She wore a forest-green dress that buttoned at her neck under a small bow. Here was another one who didn’t belong in a hospital in the middle of the night.
“My name is Christine Manning,” said the woman, holding out some kind of glossy identification card. “I’m with the Governor’s office.”
“Are you a cop or something?”
“No. An investigator is more like it,” Christine said. “I have some questions about one of the patients on the floor.”
“Lemme guess. The boy in three-oh-seven?”
Christine shook her head. “No. I don’t know anything about him. It was another patient. A young girl.”
Lina pointedly glanced at her Timex. “I’d like to help you, lady, but I’m already late getting off. I got a date, believe it or not—”
“Her name is Julie Clayton,” Christine said.
“Lord.” Lina walked to the nurses’ lounge. Christine followed her inside.
“I don’t know what I’m allowed to say,” Lina began. “The hospital has got rules. Privacy rules.”
“And the state of Florida has laws,” Christine interjected. “Obstruction of justice is one of my favorites …”
Lina raised a hand. “Save the speech. I don’t know that much. The ambulance from Miami showed up this afternoon. Said they were supposed to move the girl to a hospital up there. Thing is, Mrs. Clayton, the mother, didn’t know anything about it. She started crying that she wouldn’t be able to visit the girl if they moved her from Key West. There was a big stink. The administrator, Jenks, he finally came up to the floor and took Mrs. Clayton to his office. A few minutes later, Mrs. Clayton comes out and says it’s OK. Jenks hands me the discharge papers, but I tell him the girl’s doctor hasn’t signed her out yet. Jenks says he’ll handle it. The ambulance is waiting downstairs, he says.”
“Is it so unusual to transfer a patient up to Miami?”
“Of course not,” Lina said. “But the Clayton girl was an overdose case, a bad one. She was vegged out in a coma. I heard one of the neurologists say she didn’t have a prayer. That’s why I was a little surprised that they’d bother