Lonesome Point Page 5
Another right, past shacks and empty lots, and Patrick was lost.
The dirt road stretched ahead in the night. Only he and his father on the road, dust billowing on both sides. Patrick focused on the taillights.
When the brake lights flashed, he inhaled deeply and his mind started spinning.
How did he know he was about to see something he didn’t want to, that would change his life? He just knew. This was a knot in his heart that needed to be untangled.
He parked far away from the concrete, tin-roofed house where his father had stopped. He watched him get out of the car, open a wrought-iron gate, and enter the yard. In the driveway was a car Patrick recognized, the Reverend’s silver Jaguar. But this wasn’t the Reverend’s house.
Patrick stepped out onto the road, darkness all around, toads bleating in the bushes. There were no other homes nearby and a single streetlight shone where the road dead-ended up ahead.
He watched his father climb the stairs. The front porch light was on. A screen door opened and a young man Patrick had never seen before greeted his father. The young man put a hand on his father’s arm, they embraced. They went inside, the screen door slapped shut, and a wooden door closed after that.
Patrick sat in the car with the windows down. Music and men’s laughter filtered into the street. Lights in one part of the house blinked off, and a light in a bedroom window came on.
Five minutes later, the bedroom lights were out, the entire house in darkness, with Patrick watching it, alone with his fears.
6
CELL PHONE IN HAND, Patrick gazed at the lights of the downtown high-rises. No way was he like his father. He knew how to separate business from pleasure. How to detect false friends. When it was time to cut someone from your life. Where to find information so as to prevent rude surprises. He dialed and put the cell phone to his ear.
The old Cuban’s voice came on the line. “Good evening, Patrick.”
“Cómo estás, Oscar?”
“Very fine, considering the alternatives.”
“I’d like to discuss something that I found out this evening. Have a minute?”
Oscar said he did. Then, “But what kind of business is it?”
Patrick cleared his throat. “It’s that kind of business.”
“I thought as much. Give me a second, I’ll call you back.”
A minute later, Patrick’s cell chirped.
Oscar said, “Sorry, but one can never be too cautious. What can I do for you this evening, my friend? I’m staring at a Bolívar on my desk that’s begging me to wrap my lips around her, so please let’s make this quick, or failing that, interesting; you think you’ll do that?”
“A fellow by the name of Freddy Robinson paid my brother a visit yesterday at his work, Jefferson Memorial psych ward. It concerns a patient there. Somebody wants him out, wants my brother to let him out. If not, they, whoever these people are, are threatening to spill something about my past in Belize. Which I can’t go into right now, but that’s the situation. Needless to say, I’m troubled by this and I can’t just let it lie. I need to know what’s going on, who’s behind this. What I need, actually, is for Freddy Robinson to go away.”
Oscar breathed heavily into the phone. Patrick could picture him in his home office, the dark cherrywood chair and desk, a crystal ashtray, cigar cutter, and humidor on the desk next to a stack of manila folders of “paperwork”—Oscar’s name for it—of his diverse dealings with businessmen and politicos, detailed reports of meetings and conversations, all of it a record of his association with Miami’s movers and shakers and would-be leaders. Patrick heard the click of the lighter and lip-smacking as Oscar fired up the Bolívar.
After a slow exhale, Oscar said, “Freddy Robinson. Where have I heard that name before?”
“He’s the guy from Belize who I defended years ago, an aggravated battery case. He went to prison. Before that he worked off and on for our mutual friend, the late Alejandro Parra.”
“Oh? I don’t remember him.”
“You remember the Hialeah car-dumping scandal? Involved about a couple dozen cars bought from Parra’s son’s dealership. They were reported stolen and the owners all received insurance claim payments. But what investigators came to find out, young Bobby Parra was in money trouble so had hired this fellow, Freddy Robinson, to strip the cars, sell the parts to salvage yards, and Bobby, Freddy Robinson and the car owners split all the money from the insurance and car parts. You remember that?”
“Ah, yes, it’s coming to me. A stupid little business. But nobody was convicted for it, if I recall. So this Robinson is something of a small-timer?”
“That he is. But now he’s working for somebody else. Can’t be Bobby Parra because he’s in prison for racketeering. I hate to bother you about this, but I thought you might know, seeing as how Robinson once worked for Alejandro.” Patrick could hear Oscar sucking on the cigar.
“You hate to bother me? Don’t lie. You relish it because you’re a nervous man and you know I’ll calm your troubled mind. Too bad you can’t trust me enough to tell me the nature of this bad news that Robinson claims to know about you.”
“Did I say it was bad news, Oscar? I didn’t say that.”
“No, no. What you said, you used the word ‘spill.’ As in spill the beans. Or spill blood. You can’t discuss this thing in your past right now?”
“Certainly not over the phone.”
“When you came to me years ago, you said you wanted to win the Cuban vote and even though you’re not a Cuban running in a heavily Cuban district, we worked together, and what happened? Tell me.”
“We won, Oscar. I’m the first non-Cuban county commissioner my district has ever seen. I’m in your debt.”
“Yes, we won, and now it’s the mayoral race and we’re off to another great start. Why? Because we trust each other. In order for me to help, I need to know you keep trusting me and I need to know this isn’t something that will wreck our campaign. We must talk, mi amigo, sooner or later. I have too much invested in you. I’ve gotta be adamant about this.”
“We’ll talk, Oscar. I promise. But right now I need you to do two things for me.”
Oscar was silent.
Patrick wondered if he’d sounded too impatient. He’d never been skilled at ass-kissing.
“How can I help you, mi amigo?”
“Can you talk to the Parra family? Ask if Freddy Robinson is working for one of them?”
“And the second thing?”
Patrick took a moment. “Herman Massani. Ask the Parras who he is. That’s what I need to know. Who the hell is Herman Massani?”
7
LEO OVERSLEPT, then his car wouldn’t start and he had to race upstairs to beg a neighbor for a jump. He was running fifteen minutes late, no fuel in his system except a glass of milk and a side of stress adrenaline. Fortunately, 1-95 wasn’t too crazy that time of night, but he had to wait two years at a red light on Twelfth Avenue.
Once at work, he rushed up the stairs, clipping on his badge. By the time he stepped onto the floor of Annex 3, the change-of-shift meeting in the conference room was winding down, and Rose cut her eyes at him when he skulked in, slid into a seat.
The night didn’t improve when they informed him the three-to-eleven shift had received a late admission and had no time to sort through the patient’s belongings, so he’d have to do it. And don’t forget to make more patients’ charts, nurses were running low, and also, please, get Cenovia Delgado ready for a seven A.M. CAT scan, got that, Leo?
Yeah, you’re welcome. He knew why they “had no time” to sort through the patient’s clothes. Because they reeked and were caked with all manner of filth, which wasn’t unusual, but this patient’s garments were probably packing enough of a stench that they pawned the job off on the eleven-to-seven shift.
Later, pulling on the gloves, Leo said, “Hey, Martin, lemme show you the procedure for checking in patients’ belongings,” and motioned for Martin to follow him.
But Rose said no, she wanted Martin to get more practice filling in the charts. “Sit here, I want to show you something,” patting the chair next to her in front of the computer. “You know how to schedule appointments? No? Quick little lesson, then.”
Martin shrugged at Leo and sat in the chair.
Leo shook his head and walked out of the nurses’ station and down the hall. A few patients were up and about, two in the TV room, one weighing himself on the scale in the dining room. Leo opened the laundry room with one of his keys, found the drawstring plastic bag of clothes on a shelf above the washer. On the bag was a label with the patient’s name: Reynaldo Rivera. The guy police had brought into Crisis the night before, the spitter.
Leo was right about the clothes, sewer quality. Mud-caked jeans. Pissy underwear. Man, did he need this job that much? The actual shit he had to endure. He put the washer cycle on heavy soil, dumped in a half cup of Surf, and hustled out of the room for a gulp of air. Goddamn, the whole unit stank, pine oil hardly masking the urine. On the way to the kitchen for a cup of cold water, he saw Frankie Reyes sitting in the TV room with a hand down the front of his pajamas. Leo popped his head around the door. “Yo, cut that out.”
/> Frankie looked up at him all dreamy. He drew his hand out slowly and crossed his legs.
Frankie was at it again when Leo returned from the kitchen. Leo said, “Maaaan …”
Frankie said, “I ain’t never had none, that’s why. I ain’t never had none. I ain’t never had none.”
“Why don’t you go to your room anyway? It’s time for me to lock up.”
Frankie shuffled out holding up his pants by the front. “See you later, Leo. Hey, shoot some hoops down in the courtyard with me one night?”
“Maybe we can do that when you get discharged, all right?”
Frankie put out his hand for a shake.
Leo looked at the hand and patted him on the shoulder. “Night, Frankie.”
When Leo walked back into the nurses’ station, Rose’s palm was on Martin’s back, their heads close together at the computer monitor. Leo stood quietly a few seconds; they didn’t even know he was there. Rose’s fingers were gently kneading Martin’s shoulder. Small circular motions with the palm now. Martin sat stiffly .
“Yes, that’s it,” Rose just about cooed. “Make sure you enter the appointment time before you fill in anything else, and don’t forget the admitting floor. I like that cologne. And enter the doctor’s name right over there … uh-huh.” She was kneading his neck now, staring at his profile. “You’re so tense. Everything’s easier when you’re relaxed, don’t you know?”
Leo was beginning to feel embarrassed. Not that he didn’t want to see how far this would go, but he needed to act professional here. He tried. For two seconds. Then he said in a booming voice, “Anyway, so as I was thinking,” and walked toward them, and Martin jumped, while Rose removed her hand from his neck and coolly turned around. “Something the matter?”
A smile tickled Leo’s lips. “No, I was just, you know, thinking.”
“Wow, amazing.”
“I was thinking maybe we ought to keep Frankie out of the TV room, or get him a private room or something, since he’s always abusing himself like that. Guy should have a little privacy.”
Rose stared at him. “You know who deserves something? Mr. Massani in SR two needs his urine bottle changed. For some reason, he acted up this afternoon and they put him in two-point restraints. Looked almost like he wanted to go into seclusion. But anyway, since you missed just about the entire meeting you should read up on the evening shift’s notes, they’re over there on the clipboard. When you go to Mr. Massani, take him a cup of apple juice, too, and might as well change his sheets while you’re there.” She turned back to the computer.
Leo bit his tongue and walked out. One month. He was giving himself one month to find something else. That shouldn’t be too hard. Any job would be easier than having to face this busy-work bullshit night after night when he should be home sleeping instead. Yeah, boy, it was time to get serious and move the hell off the psych ward.
He took out his keys, opened the seclusion room door. The stink of piss hit him out of the darkness.
Massani’s voice said, “Quién es? Who is there, please?”
Leo flipped on the light.
Massani was stretched out on a sheeted plastic mattress, left ankle and right wrist cuffed with thick rubber restraints. A full bottle of urine stood by the bed.
Leo felt sorry for him. Such an old, frail guy, someone’s father or uncle. Then he remembered … or probably somebody’s henchman.
Leo said, “Who are you, Herman?” thinking out loud.
The old man said, “Tengo sed. Un vaso de agua fria, por favor.”
“So you don’t speak English?”
“No habla español?”
“No, I don’t hablo that well. But I think you understand me fine. We’re going to need to change your clothes and your sheets now, Herman. Afterwards you’ll get your agua fria or juice or something.”
“Please. Water now? I am very thirsty.”
Leo went to the kitchen, filled a Styrofoam cup with ice and water, and brought it back. Herman pushed up with a hand and sat up. He took the water, gulped it down, Adam’s apple bobbing. A week’s growth of white whiskers running down to his neck. Pale blue eyes. What kind of character shady enough to be hunted by Freddy Robinson and his ilk landed in a psych ward? People like that were sometimes stupid but they weren’t schizo—this guy’s chart said he was schizoaffective, even though there were no antipsychotics prescribed, but Ativan and Prozac, an antianxiety and an antidepressant. According to the chart, he’d been in and out of Rainbow Community Mental Health Center. So surely he didn’t have the kind of mind for organized crime.
If indeed the records told the truth.
Leo changed Herman’s pajamas, cleaned the floor with several towels and a disinfectant spray. Slipped a fresh sheet on the mattress, dumped all the dirty linen in a big plastic bag, and snapped the restraints back on Herman, right ankle and left wrist this time.
He went off the floor through a side door and down the hall to the laundry chute. He thought about sneaking downstairs for a quick cigarette, but Rose was in superbitch mode tonight and he didn’t want to push it. He hauled his ass back onto the floor and into the nurses’ station. Nobody there. That was odd; Rose was such a stickler. He wheeled the gerri chair from the dining room out to the hall, threw a sheet over it. Then he got Herman’s chart from the cart and kicked back.
Under the three-to-eleven shift’s notes section:
20:30: Patient showing signs of agitation, banging on glass. Patient refuses to heed staff’s instruction and continues to strike glass with hands. Patient paranoid, restless. Claims new male patient wants to harm him.
21:15: Patient placed in 2-pt. restraints. 2 mg. Ativan administered. Patient apologetic. Denies any intention to harm self. Remains paranoid about other patient wanting to harm him.
22:50: Patient sleeping.
Leo flipped through other sections of the chart but nothing out of the ordinary jumped out at him.
He heard a door open down the hall and here came Rose and Martin out of the supply closet, Martin carrying a cardboard box. Leo pushed down the footrest and set his feet on the floor, to look more professional.
Passing by, Martin said, “Mouthwash, toothbrushes, and stuff.”
Now, why’d he feel the need to announce that?
Rose waltzed by, strands of her black hair loosened from her bun. Leo wondered … Nah, that was normal. If a couple of buttons on her dress were undone, or she was perspiring a little, say, then yes, but otherwise, he’d give them the benefit of the doubt.
Rose stopped at the nurses’ station’s door. “You’ve got first break, you know that? You should go now.”
Leo said all right, he just wanted to write some notes on Mas-sani since he’d already dealt with him tonight. He pulled the pen from his pocket, uncapped it, kept his eyes on the page. Soon as Rose disappeared inside, he flipped to the Personal Information section and found Massani’s address of record. He wrote it on an old receipt from his wallet: 252 E. 49th Street, Hia-leah.
In the nurses’ station Rose and Martin were talking softly, close to each other while Martin stocked plastic-wrapped toothbrushes and small tubes of Crest in a high cabinet. Leo slipped the chart back in the cart and headed to the staff room, officially on break.
He wondered whether he should tell Martin about Rose, warn him about the shit he was going to step into. But then, he probably wouldn’t believe what Leo knew: that the shift head nurse was as off-kilter as the patients.
MORNING RADIO was busy with gasbags and bloviators, no matter the goddamn station he punched. Still chattering about nonsense like Tom Cruise jumping on Oprah’s couch and how very secretive and mysterious Scientology was. What was mysterious was how any sensible person could waste time listening to such trifle. Man, he was in a sour mood, and he knew what was bothering him: this Herman Massani situation. His gut telling him something was going to go down and he’d find himself in the middle of it. His chest was tense, his throat a knot. Patrick only had to give him the word and he’d let them have the old man and maybe he’d be able to breathe easy again.
Wasn’t like the old man meant anything to him. He’d been there less than a week, didn’t speak much; Leo didn’t really want to know him.
So why the hell was he driving to 252 East 49th Street, Hia-leah? Curiosity. Common sense. You just did not tell a man to risk his job and not expect him to ask the obligatory questions. Such as, Why? “Because we could blackmail your politician brother” was not really a satisfactory answer. Maybe the real answer had to do with the question Who? As in, who is this man Herman Massani that my shady former friend Freddy Robinson, representing certain people, wants off the ward?