Hex and the Single Girl (14 page)

St. Vincent’s Hospital was on the corner of 11th Street and Seventh Avenue, about ten minutes by foot from Waverly Place. Emma jogged uptown and got there in six. Hot, she took off the cardigan and put it over her arm. Emma

marched purposefully through the emergency room waiting area. At that hour it was relatively vacant. Only a dozen seats were claimed.

For some unknown reason, every eye in the room landed, and stuck, on Emma. Painfully self-conscious, she rushed for the set of double doors to the triage area. She pressed the wall plate; the doors opened automatically. She went inside.

Emma rounded a tight hallway corner, following signs with arrows to the triage area. To penetrate that layer of security she needed a prop. On an unattended checkpoint dais, Emma spotted an empty manila folder. She snagged it and

studied it with great absorption as she churned her orthopedic shoes past the next security desk. No one stopped her, but she felt eyes boring into her back.

A narrow hallway opened cavern-like into the ER staging area. The room was sectioned off with curtains into several dozen stations. Each station had a number, a bed, and a chair. Some of them also had patients. Pretending to study the folder as if it contained the knowledge of good and evil, Emma did a lap around the ER, having to walk past the nurses’ island in the middle. Five nurses sat in and around the island—all black or Hispanic women in boxy

monochrome checked or striped pastel-hued tops.

None of them were dressed anything like Emma with the white poly dress and triangular cap.

So hospital uniform codes had relaxed since Emma bought her get-up. She’d purchased it at a novelty store years ago, along with her French maid costume. So what if she was a bit retro? Nothing wrong with old school. Emma smiled nervously at the nurses. They stared at her, their mouths round with what appeared to be astonishment. A couple of them put on their glasses to get a better look.

Emma hurried along. Station Six: an old man snoring loudly. Station Ten: an old woman snoring loudly. Station Fifteen: a young woman, ripped panty-hosed feet peeking from under her blanket. Station Three: a man with twenty wires attached to his chest. When he spotted Emma peering around the curtain, he shouted, “I need a doctor!” Emma jumped back.

Station Twenty: a young man, his face a map of bruises and cuts. He was grimacing and clutching his ribs.

“Oh, Hoff!” she said at the terrible sight, tears pooling in her amber eyes. The glasses got foggy.

“What the…” he said, one eye widening at the sight of her. “Is this some kind of twisted
joke?
I’m not in the mood.”

“It’s me, Emma.” She removed her glasses.

Hoff gaped at her, then started to laugh. Then stopped laughing and started moaning.

“Hurts when you laugh?” she asked.

“Hurts when I breathe,” he said. “Did you, by any chance, look at yourself in the mirror before you went out in that get-up?”

In her rush to get to his side in his hour of need, she hadn’t paused in the mirror, no. She said, “I realized the uniform is a bit dated…”

“It’s a bit diaphanous,” he said. “More than a bit.”

Emma looked down. “You mean you can see…”

“Everything,” said Hoff, his smile spreading, despite the gash on his cheek. “Black bra with a tiny ribbon on the front.

The black bikini panties, ribbons on the sides. Do you always wear black underwear? You were wearing a black lace bra under that red dress the other night. Oh, no.”

Hoff pitched a tent with the hospital bed sheet. He moaned.

“Hurts when you get a hard-on?” she asked, sympathetically.

“Since puberty,” he said.

She remembered the cardigan on her arm. Slipping it on, she asked, “Who did this to you?”

Hoff shook his head, wincing at the movement. “I did most of it to myself, unfortunately. I was downtown for a lunch meeting at Union Square Café. A man I’d never seen before called my name. I turned around. He came up to me,

smiling. I was trying to place him, and he pointed a gun at me. He directed me into a deserted loading dock and then started asking questions. When had I last heard from ’the man whose name won’t be mentioned’? Was I working with Connie Quivers? I insisted I didn’t know any Connie Quivers. But the mugger said the doorman at the Four Seasons saw me talking to her. That’s when I realized: he meant you. I didn’t tell him anything, though. Don’t worry.”

“He tried to beat it out of you?” she asked.

“Not quite. During a lull, I screamed, ’Look! A rat!’ and then I ran, tripping over a forklift on the way out, falling on my face.” He touched his eyes and lip. “Then I scrambled to my feet, ran into a garbage can, and fell on top of it.” He touched his ribs. “I suppose you could say I mugged myself.”

“How did this guy know where to find you?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. I gave the Four Seasons doorman my business card. To give to William Dearborn, should he ever show up. The doorman must have given it to the mugger. The card has my name and office address.

The Ransom House website has my photo.”

“I’m so sorry this happened,” Emma said, leaning over the bed to kiss his non-bruised cheek.

“Ouch!”

“Your cheek hurts, too?”

“It’s the hard-on again,” said Hoff. “Listen, Emma, I knocked some sense into myself today. Whatever popped into my head that night at your place, it wasn’t real. It couldn’t have been. When that bastard pointed the gun at me, I thought of you. Not Dearborn. You’re the one I want. Take off that wig. Let me see you.”

He reached for her wig, and she grabbed his wrist.

If she couldn’t be honest with the man she wanted, she’d at least tell the truth to the man who wanted her. It was a start anyway.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “Do you see the man who mugged you?”

She pulled an image of Jeff Bragg out of her memory: His angry face when he’d pinned her against the soda machine.

She concentrated on the details. Jeff’s flat eyes. His straight nose. The tiny cleft on his chin.

Hoff said, “Interesting.” He opened his eyes. “The mugger’s face popped into my mind. But without the Yankees cap he was wearing. Why would I conjure a memory of him that I don’t have?”

“You wouldn’t,” she said. “I put that image in your head.”

He squinted. “How could you do that?”

“And I put the image of William Dearborn in your head too.”

“That doesn’t make any…”

“I have this skill. My brain waves are like radio signals. But, as I’ve recently learned, thanks to you, I slip sometimes, sending images by accident. When you saw Dearborn in your head that night, it was because I had him in my head too.

He’s still there, Hoff. If it’s any comfort, I’m haunted by that night too.”

“I don’t believe this,” he said.

She took his hand, closed her eyes, and pumped a slide show into his head. “Yorkshire terrier,” she said. “Golden retriever. Schnauzer. French poodle. Llasa Apso. Great Dane.”

Hoff said, “Enough.” He took his hand back. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

“I tried to tell you,” she insisted.

“Most women withhold the truth about their adolescent acne, college weight gain, and string of regretful one-night stands.”

“I withheld those, too.”

Hoff sighed. “I’ll have to get used to this if we’re going to be together.”

“We’re not going to be together,” she said softly.

Hoff looked into her eyes. She sent him a message the old fashioned way without tricks and cheats. He said, “I see.”

They sat uncomfortably for a moment. “Are you going to be admitted to a room?” she asked.

“No need. They’ve done all they can. I’m waiting for a prescription for Vicodin, and then I’m free to go. I’ve already spoken to a police officer when I first came in. I’ve got his card somewhere.” He had her search in his wallet. She found the card for a Detective Marsh. “You should call him and tell him what you know about the man who attacked me.”

“His name is Jeff Bragg,” she said. “I followed him for a client. We had two conversations. He thinks I’m spying on him. He seemed kind of nuts, but I’m surprised he followed you and pulled a gun. You’re sure it was real?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“Even if the gun was fake, he’s not the average, everyday loopy paranoiac I took him for.” Emma thought of Jeff’s puzzling secrecy around Susan. How he’d never let her see his place or introduce her to his friends. “I’ll call the cops as soon as I leave,” she said, slipping the card into her bra. She’d have to call Susan, too. “Do you think Bragg knows where you live?” she asked.

“I’m listed,” said Hoff. “It’s possible.”

Emma stood up. “You can’t go home until he’s caught. Where are your apartment keys?”

Hoff said, “In my jacket pocket.”

“When are you getting out of here?” she asked, fishing for the keys.

“I’m just waiting for paper. I’m sure it’ll arrive sometime this month,” said Hoff.

Emma looked at the wall clock. It was after three. She’d missed the call from Dearborn and had only two hours to get home, dress, get to his office, and hit him before his dinner with Daphne.

“I have to leave,” she said. “But I’ll make arrangements for someone to take you straight to the Tribeca Grand Hotel from here. I’ll go to your place, get some clothes, and meet you at the hotel later.” Bragg had only seen Emma in costume. If he were staking out Hoff’s building, would he recognize her as herself? It was a risk, but she’d take it.

She kissed him on the forehead. “I’ll see you soon,” she promised and left.

As she was walking by the nurse’s island, a fat nurse with a pink smock chewed her gum in Emma’s direction. “What are you supposed to be?”

“I’m a nurse,” she said. “From the psych ward.”

“Nurse Ratched,” read Ms. Pink. “From psych.” The other nurses burst into riotous laughter.

“That’s right. And I want to know what the hold-up is on releasing the man in bed twenty.”

“Oh, that was good. Very forceful. Authoritative. I was almost convinced for a second.” Ms. Pink looked Emma in the shades and said, “Do it again.” Her colleagues hooted.

Emma said, “I’m serious.”

“I’m sure you are,” said Ms. Pink. “That’s a very serious
uniform
you’re wearing.”

“Where is orderly Armand Chicora?” demanded Emma.

“On break.”

“When is he coming back?”

Ms. Pink said, “I’m not his mother.”

Another nurse in an orange smock said, “He’s over there.”

Emma turned. A lumbering caramel-skinned man in a white smock and green pants entered the ER. He had long hair, tied back in a pony, and a hard bone structure. Part Native American, part Latino, she guessed. Emma walked over to him. He must have liked what he saw. He didn’t smile or do anything overtly friendly. But he stopped and gave her his full (and intense) attention.

Emma said, “Armand Chicora?”

He nodded.

“Follow me, please.” Emma led him out of the cuckoo’s nest, through triage and waiting room, and outside the

hospital. He followed behind her obediently and didn’t ask questions.

Once outside, Emma removed the hundred dollar bill she’d tucked into her ortho. She handed it to Armand and said,

“I’m Emma Hutch. You called me about Hoffman Centry? I’m giving you this money for two reasons: First, to thank you. Second, to pay you for a job.”

Tucking the bill into his pocket, he waited for her to speak. So she did. “Keep an eye on Mr. Centry until he’s discharged. Then take him by cab to the Tribeca Grand Hotel. Help him check in and get settled in the room. Then call me with the room number. I’m going to his apartment to pack him a suitcase.”

Armand said, “Two hundred.”

“One fifty.”

“I’ll miss dinner,” said the orderly.

Emma sighed. “Okay, two hundred. But cab fare comes out of it. And be careful with him,” she said.

He put his mitt-sized hand on her shoulder. The heft made her slump. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m sensitive to the fragility of the human body. I’m orderly. Especially for an orderly.”

She looked into his intense eyes and believed him. Then Emma hoofed south, quite sure without checking that Armand watched her go.

At home, Emma dared to look in the full-length mirror at her disguise.
I’m a Naughty Nurse, just like it said on the
box,
she thought.
I look like I’ve just stepped off the set of
Horny Hospital IV. Cheeks flaming with post-traumatic embarrassment, Emma shed her dress, tights, and orthos. She checked the time. Four o’clock. That gave her only one hour to change into a disguise, get to midtown, locate Dearborn, and hit him. She’d never make it. Not unless she had a flying broomstick. Fuck it, she thought. So she wouldn’t get paid tomorrow. She’d tell Daphne what happened, although Emma doubted “I was visiting my friend in the hospital” would fly with the blond crusher.

Emma put on jeans, a black crew-neck cashmere sweater and her boots. She fluffed her hair, cleaned her blue-tinted shades on her sweater, and dropped Hoff’s keys into her bag. Without checking her answering machine, she left the building. On the street, Emma didn’t need super vision to spot the long, black limousine idling out front.

Before she could lift her arm to hail a cab, the limo’s rear door opened. From inside, a man said, “Can I give you a lift?”

Emma slouched to look inside. William Dearborn was perched on the edge of the bench seat, one hand on the door handle, the other beckoning Emma to come over, have a seat right next to him, don’t make him wait all night.

She blinked rapidly; the surprise of seeing him made her eyes water. She stood there, uncertain what to do. He seemed amused by her indecision and said, “What are you waiting for?”

Another echo from her daydreams. She said, “Take me to Gramercy Park?”

“Yes, Gramercy Park. Tower of London. Mount Rushmore. Just get in here. Make yourself comfortable.”

Emma slid in, pulled the door closed, and settled into the bench seat. She gave William Hoff’s 20th Street address. He repeated it for the driver.

The limo pulled into early rush-hour traffic. Emma’s stomach lurched. She was finally alone with him—without a costume to protect her. Nervously, she checked her cell phone, fiddled with her hair. She turned toward William and he was beaming at her.