SOMEONE TO COME WHEN YOU CALL
From the outside, Springtown Hospice Center
is all clean lawns, brickwork, and gangling young oak trees; inside it is
pastel institutional surfaces, constant muted lighting, and muggy heated air.
It always gave Duke Fisher the willies, as he told anyone who would listen, but
when he got down to his duties as an orderly he could usually set aside his
dislike of the assisted living complex and focus it on his needy charges. And,
after all, it was a lot cushier than some of the jobs he had run.
It was a bleak Monday in November when Dr.
Osborn (his degree was in business administration, but the title impressed)
called Duke from the registration desk where he was signing in to the private
office in the back. Duke seemed to fill the file-cramped room like a blue-clad
mountain. Even in scrubs he seemed more like a biker than a nurse's aide, with
his bulging forearms, neatly trimmed goatee, and lank black hair. There was
something in the ripple of muscle as he crossed those arms that made Osborn cough
and shuffle papers a little longer than necessary before he started talking.
"Well, Duke, you know Mrs. Clarence in
4C passed away last Friday night," he began, lacing his fingers.
"Yes, sir. A damn shame," came
the rumbled reply. "A really nice lady."
Osborn cleared his throat. "Yes, well,
there was a bit of unpleasantness when her family came to collect her
belongings. It seems a rather expensive ring, her wedding ring, in fact, ah,
wasn't with her when they went to view her remains. The medical examiner and
funeral parlor both claim they never saw it."
Duke said nothing, a look of polite inquiry
on his face. The administrator ran a hand over his balding head, and continued,
babbling slightly.
"So they hoped it was here, among her
personal effects. It was, of course, the logical place to look, and when a
thorough search of her room showed it wasn't there, they hit the roof. The
daughter in particular raised a hell of a stink." He shuddered.
"Yes, I suppose she would," Duke
said mildly.
Osborn sighed and leaned forward on his
elbows. "The point I'm getting to, Duke, is you were on shift last, before
we found her. Did you ... ah ... happen to notice if she had her ring on?"
"I don't remember if she did or
not." Duke stroked a reflective finger around his goatee. "Can't say
that I noticed."
The administrator seemed to deflate, and
shrank back in his chair. "All right," he said. "It pains me to
say it, but there has been a series of incidences in this facility that began
shortly after you joined us. Circumstantial evidence places you on the spot
each time. The disappearance of valuable personal items, missing medical
supplies, complaints of intimidation..."
"Oh, come on sir! You can say that
almost every other employee here, is here constantly, cramped as the schedule
is, and that includes you, sir!"
The tone was jocular, but there was a hard
edge that made Osborn answer quickly. "I know, I know, Duke, but it looks
bad. We would hate to lose you: you're prompt and you do your job and it's hard
getting someone strong enough to handle our more, ah, heavy guests. But if
Springtown gets a bad reputation, well ... heads might roll."
"Well, I'd hate to go," said Duke
sweetly, rising to his feet. He leaned over and put both hands on Osborn's
desk. "Because if I got fired without a shred of evidence, why, I'd have
to file a lawsuit against you for wrongful dismissal. Besides feeling very,
very bad about it. Personally."
Osborn blanched and tried to shrink even
further away. Duke straightened up and gave a theatrically deprecating laugh.
"I love my job," he said. "And you know how jittery some of
these old people are. My looks are against me, I guess. Of course I make some
nervous."
"Well, no-one is, you know, accusing
you, or anything. It could have been the ambulance or funeral parlor,"
Osborn back-pedaled desperately. "It's just that appearances are against
you, as you say, and we want you to know that we are aware of it and we want
you to be aware of it, and ... well, be careful."
Duke backed off a step. "Oh yes, sir.
I always am. Very careful." He smiled. "Can I get back to work, sir?
I'm a little behind schedule as it is."
"Oh, yes, of course," Osborn
waved him out, relieved. "That's all. I'll tell Mrs. Clarence's family
that I've looked into things. According to their written contract we're not
responsible, but I had to check."
"Oh, I understand, sir. Well, I'm
gone."
"Good-bye and, uh, keep up the good
work."
Duke closed the door with a gentle click
behind him. Osborn sat back in his chair and wondered quietly to himself just
when he had lost control.
The Pepper Tree Mill had been a good bar,
fifty years ago, a place for couples to dance and drink on the edge of town.
Age and urban sprawl had crept up on it, the decent side of town and newer
places moving and blooming in the east. One or two old regulars still came in,
drinking in nostalgia and desperation. The rest were people like Duke.
He slid into the shabby booth, its seats
patched with silver duct tape, two cold beers in hand, and smiled at the
skinny, flinching man on the seat opposite him.
"Hello, Larry," he said. "So
how's Jim? How'd the business go?"
"Pretty ... pretty good." The
other swallowed, and pulled out a wrinkled envelope from his shirt pocket, damp
with sweat. He reached for one of the bottles and grabbed it. He watched as
Duke opened the envelope. It almost disintegrated in his fist, showing the
gray-green inside.
Duke looked up. "Is this all of it,
Larry?" he asked gravely. The skinny man took a nervous swig before
answering.
"Yeah, that's it. Except for my cut.
Jim said he'd give me my cut in product, when it came in. It ain't come in.
Jesus, it ain't come in." He was whimpering.
"Larry, my friend, you know the first
rule of the business. You don't give something for nothing. And this money
you've handed me? That's too damn close to nothing. How big was your cut in the
deal?"
"Just a quarter, like we agreed. Just
a quarter. It ain't come in. He owes me. I'm sweating, Duke, I'm
sweating."
"A quarter of nothing is
nothing," Duke said severely. The big man tucked the money away in the
inner pocket of his leather vest.
"There's three thousand dollars
there!" Larry hissed in surprised jealousy.
Duke's head went up and he looked around.
There was only one ancient drunk at the bar, and he was immersed in a re-run of
Cheers on the TV over the bar. Duke stared at him a moment, then leaned
in on Larry.
"That ring at pawn was worth eight
thousand, easy. I deal with your brother because of the friendly discount he
gives to me, not the one I give to him, and I wouldn't do that 'cept you and me
been friends since elementary."
Duke reached out and grabbed Larry's
scarred, skinny arm with his meaty fist. A silvery steel skull ring gleamed in
the blue and red light of the bar sign.
"Because we're old friends, I'll let
it slide for now. But I want these perks; they're the fat on the bone of this
shit job. Next deal, I get what I want, or no deal, savvy? No matter how hard
you're jonesing." He let the arm go. It was already bruising. "In the
meantime, you'll just have to get by on Jimmie's promises without any help from
me."
"Sure, sure Duke." Larry took a
bolstering gulp of beer. Duke sipped his own bottle, as if that sealed the
understanding. Larry gabbled on, to change the subject. "I don't see how
you can take it around those oldies, I really don't. That'd drive me
crazy."
"Hell, you're half-crazy anyway,"
Duke grinned. He settled back philosophically. "It isn't so hard. Makes me
money, and keeps me on parole. I'm not going back in, Larry, even if
Springtown's almost as bad as doing time. But I do get out at night, though.
And, like I said, there's perks." He frowned. "I don't like being
cheated out of my perks. They're what get me through, Larry."
"Of course, Duke. Of course." The
skinny man looked at his old friend and sipped his beer, thinking about his
life. He wondered when he had lost control.
Mary Lee Jenner was an eighty-six year old
woman with a body like an over-ripe piece of fruit. Her skin was covered with
bruises that never seemed to heal, especially on her hands and arms, where
intravenous tubes and diabetic sticks routinely pierced her baggy skin. One
thing she still had going for her, that many of the inmates of Springtown
lacked, was the ability to get around on her own with relative ease. Every day
she did her rounds leaning on a pair of mismatched canes that worked well with
her arthritis and uneven legs. She was there when the new tenant of 4C was
being moved in.
She rounded the corner of the hall, and
there was that Duke bastard with the luggage trolley, all oil and honey,
unlocking the room. Next to him stood a shortish skeletal gentleman, dressed to
the nines in an old-fashioned black suit, watching intently with hooded eyes
while the big attendant went through the procedure with a computerized plastic
key.
Mary Lee had seen some old men in her time,
especially since coming to the hospice, and some had been very unpleasantly
sick, but this old man took the cake. Without being noticeably infirm, he gave
her the feeling that he had already outlived his time on earth, and should have
been in the ground some time ago. Still, as he turned to watch her approaching
steps, his eyes were purposeful and his movements sure. Mary Lee noted that,
and hoped she'd found another card player worth her salt.
Duke looked up as she approached. He
grinned sourly.
"And that's Mary Lee," he said,
as if she couldn't hear him or he didn't care if she did. "She's our
little busy bee. Always buzzing around. She'll buzz your ear off if you're not
careful."
"You should talk," she said,
shuffling closer. "You need to watch out for this one, mister, he's a
bully and a thief. Better count your gold teeth after you finish talking with
him."
"Now that's slander, Mary Lee,"
he said, feigning hurt. "Sorry, Mr. Horne. Some of our older patients
develop paranoia. Don't pay her any mind." He rolled his eyes to indicate
the state of the old woman's mind. The door finally opened with a harsh
electric bray, and Duke began wrangling the trolley in. It rolled and turned as
if the ancient leather cases on it were quite heavy.
The old man came forward and offered a
courtly hand.
"I do nut minet some company
occasionally," he said. He struck his sibilants hard. "It kips life
interesting, does it nut?" He lowered his voice and bowed
conspiratorially. "Ant I appreciate ze varning." He straightened up, bones
clicking into place. "My name iss Simon Horne," he said loudly.
"Mary Lee Jenner." She shook his
hand. Up close, he was even more repellent. His lifeless hair was obviously
rinsed in a cheap, metallic hair-dye, giving him a faint chemical odor. The
wrinkles of his skin looked unnaturally deep, the top thick and dry, and the
creases red and bloody looking, as if he might any minute break apart and leak
like a lava flow. His lip was a dried piece of liver that split to show jammed
yellow teeth.
Despite that and his Bela Lugosi accent,
she found herself somehow approving of the man. He dressed well and appeared compos
mentis; maybe he could be another ally in her struggle with Springtown
Hospice Center, Incorporated. As long as he didn't try any of the geriatric
romantics so many of the other old goats attempted, going for one last hurrah.
Hari-kari by hanky-panky, they called it.
"What brings you to our little corner of
Purgatory, Mr. Horne?" she asked.
"Alas, I am getting veak," he
said. "Zere comes a time ven ze most important think iss to haf someone
close to you, ant someone to come ven you call."
Duke stuck his head out of the room.
"Come on, Simon," he wheedled.
"Let's get you settled down, then you can play with your new friends as
much as you want." He popped back inside.
"How I hate that boy," Mary Lee
said. Her voice shook. "I hate him so. I hate this whole stinking place.
And you'll hate it, too. Give it time." She was almost crying.
"Neffer unterestimate ze power of
hate," the old man said. "Especially for us old vuns. It is a lifely
emotion; it kips the brain yunk. Holt onto your hate. Embrace it."
"Come on, Simon," Duke said,
coming out into the hall. He stood looming over Horne like a cloud over a
withered tree. "You can talk to your new girlfriend as much as you want to
after you unpack."
"Indeet." The old man bowed to
Mary Lee again. "So gut to alreaty meet somevun so, hm, vifacious, in zis
place." He turned and went into the room. Duke stood a few seconds by the
doorway, giving her an expressionless stink-eye, then went in and shut the
door.
Mary Lee stood alone in the hallway. She
shivered instinctively in revulsion at the thought of the old man's attentions,
and shook with gathering anger at the goateed hulk's calculated assessment of
her impotence. She was surprised at the strength of her emotions. She wondered
when she had lost control.
Rebecca Dixon had a lot in the Shady Oaks
Trailer Park, right next to the lopped and leaning stump of one of the namesake
trees. She had invited Duke to come live with her after their third date. He
seemed sweet and stable, a kind of rough teddy bear. She knew his history, and
thought that all he needed was a good woman to guide him. Since then, her
expectations and her standards had been sinking, almost imperceptibly. Rather
than confess to herself she had made a mistake, she came more and more to accept
Duke's view of the world.
She knew what to expect when he showed up
roaring in on his motorcycle with a couple of boxes of pizza and a bottle of
wine. It meant he was in high spirits and ready to relieve one of his elderly
charges of their unnecessary valuables, in what he called his Robin Hood act.
"Hello , darlin'," he said
amiably. "No cooking for you. Tonight, we feast!" He looked at the
table, still covered in dishes and newspaper from breakfast, and wrinkled his
nose. "Jeez, what do you do all day?"
"I was working," she said,
hastily gathering the paper and dumping the plates in the sink. "I got a
call in to babysit today. I just been home since five, you know."
He plopped angrily into a chair.
"You shouldn't be working that
part-time shit. You should either get a decent job again or just be a goddam
housewife."
"That would work if I was a goddam
wife." She took down a couple of wine glasses and set them on the table
with a clunk.
"God, not that bullshit again. Why
should we mess around with what's working fine?" He sighed. "Let's
just eat supper, and then when we're full we'll feel better. It's probably all
blood sugar. You should hear the oldies bitch when it's running low. And get
the ranch dressing."
She got the dressing out of the mini-fridge
and he poured the wine, and for a few minutes they ate in silence except for
the scratch of crust on paper plates. After a while Duke began to smile.
"Hey, Becca, guess what? We got a new
old coot named Simon Horne in 4C, and I bet you he's just lo-oa-ded."
"Oh, yeah? How you figure?" she
asked, unbending, interested in spite of herself. She took a sip of wine.
"Well, you should have seen this guy.
Basically he's a walking corpse, but he dresses all fancy, three piece silk
suit and everything. If he had a cape, he'd look like Dracula. Talks like him
too, in this weird accent."
"So what? Prolly ready for his
funeral. That's what all them oldies are there for anyway, you said, just
waiting out their time."
"No, no, but get this. I'm helping him
unpack and there are more silk suits and a bunch of these crumbly old books, in
German and Latin and stuff --"
"How do you know what Latin looks
like?"
"Shut up. I just do." He frowned.
For a moment distant memories of being an altar boy flashed through his head.
He hurried on. "Real old, probably worth a lot in the right place to the
right people. And a bunch of bottles, full of powders and plants and shit that
he made me put up in the medicine cabinet. But the one thing he wouldn't let me
open was a leather case, a real heavy case, heavier than it should be for its
size. You know what I think is in there?"
"What?" Rebecca smiled. "His
truss?"
"Gold." Duke was solemn.
"Nazi gold."
"What? Pfft! Nazis?" She smirked.
"It's been fifty years!"
"It fits! It all fits!" He said
eagerly. He pounded the table happily with a heavy fist. "His accent, the
books, his age! I checked his records, and that's a forged birth certificate if
I ever saw one. Look, even if he's not a Nazi, there's gold in that case. I can
smell it in the way he treats it!"
"So you're just gonna take it?"
Rebecca took another, deeper swig of wine. "Duke, I worry about you, baby.
What if you get caught? It doesn't seem safe. It doesn't seem .. right."
"What would be right? That Osborn got
it when the old man pops off? The government? Hell, even he don't need it.
There's not any family this time. And when I check into that bag tomorrow
during the night shift, if it's just another pile of shit, I'll leave it where
it lays, and none the wiser."
"What if he wakes up and catches
you?"
Duke laughed.
"I got something from one of the
chronic pain cases. He'll have a hard night, but I don't think old Simon will
wake up for anything. Hell, as decrepit as he is, he might not wake up at
all!"
"Baby!" she said, shocked, and
then laughed a little, pretending that, after all, it must be a joke, couldn't
happen.
"Trust me, it's the kindest thing to
do for those people, putting them out of their misery," he said
off-handedly. Then he started to laugh. "Think what we could do with that
much gold. We'd move out of this shit-hole, for starters!"
"Yeah. Yeah," Rebecca said
quietly, looking around the cluttered, shabby trailer. She had been so proud of
it when she had moved out of her mother's house and set up on her own. It used to
be so neat, before Duke moved in. She wondered how she had lost control of
things.
Duke loved the night shift. No Osborn, no
bossy nurses commandeering him, just old Millie on duty at the front desk,
reading her romance novels, ass stuck in her chair until the sun came up.
Meanwhile he prowled the corridors, making his rounds, moving silently,
smoothly, despite his muscled bulk. For all his lowly status, he was master of
the Center on nights like these. He was in control.
He moved stealthily up to 4C, taking no
chances. The dose he had slipped the old man at supper probably had him out
cold, but ever since his time in jail, he knew that 'probably' didn't cut it.
Always be prepared, always have a story to cover your butt, don't leave
anything to chance. He took the plastic key card out, slipped it in the slot,
and tapped in the code that disabled the door buzzer. The door opened silently
and he slipped in.
""Simon?" he called, in a
voice slightly above a murmur. "Mr. Horne? Did you ring? Do you need
something?" In the room, dimly lit by the blue light of the call button,
Duke could see an immobile lump under the covers of the bed.
"Simon!" he said, loudly.
Nothing, just the sound of heavy breathing in the room. He pulled out a little
flashlight, aiming it at the floor, and stepped noiselessly to the closet door.
With a practiced hand he slid it open at just the right speed, to minimize the
rolling sound.
Inside, even its limited space was
pitifully filled. Only three black suits, and at the bottom, the mysterious
case. Duke took his wallet out, drew a pick from its secret lining, and knelt
down before the heavy leather box. He shifted the flashlight to his mouth, and
began slowly and methodically to work on the lock.
It opened with absurd ease, as if it were
merely for show. Duke put the pick away carefully. Then, eager as he was, he
started to lift the lid up a bit at a time, mindful of any creaks or squeaks.
It opened in well-oiled silence until it stopped, held back by two ancient
accordion arms. Duke gazed inside in wonder.
His instinct for the gold had been correct.
It lay there in thin bars, unmarked except for a carat stamp. But there was
also a tray of cut and uncut gems, sparkling in the flashlight beam; diamonds,
mostly, and a scattering of bloody-looking rubies. There were a couple of
bricks wrapped in plastic that he would bet was pure cocaine, and half a dozen
passports on top. He picked them up and examined them. They were in Spanish and
Russian and several Asian languages, and from what he could make out they all bore
different names. But the picture on each was of the man calling himself Simon
Horne.
Here were riches that would take him out of
this shitty way of life. Away from the hospice, away from Becca, away from
Springtown, hell, away from the goddam U. S. of A. The sunny beaches of Mexico
were calling. He closed the case with a quiet click, and made to stand up, one
hand on the handle.
"Gut efening, Mr. Duke," came a
voice from the darkness. "To vot do I owe ze pleasure uf zis visit?"
Duke let the handle go, and rose slowly,
turning, until the flashlight beam reached the bed. The covers were still up,
the lump under them suspiciously quiescent. He moved the light a little to the
left. There sat the old man, in a dark satin dressing gown, his hands tented
together, eyes glinting in bitter humor in their network of wrinkles.
For a few seconds Duke thought of
apologizing, offering excuses, worming his way out. But something in the smug
knowingness of the little man's expression rubbed him the wrong way. His back
stiffened.
"Simon. Simon. Simon," he said,
shaking his head. "You've been a bad boy. You should be sleeping right
now. You're not all that you seem to be, are you?"
"No, I am nut," the old man said
calmly. "You, howeffer, are eggsactly vat you appear. A thief, a sneak,
ant a cowart."
"Now, that's not a nice way to talk to
a friend," Duke purred, taking a step forward. "And I think we should
be friends now, don't you? With me knowing the stuff about you that I know
now?"
"You know nuthink."
"Oh, I think the police would like to
know what I know. And maybe Mossad? Them Jews got a long, long memory."
Horne smiled.
"No lonker zan mine. But zey bother me
nut. My ... oblikations lie elsevere."
Duke came and stood right in front of
Horne, looming over him, cracking his knuckles, cutting off his escape.
"Look, why don't you just give me a
little present, right now, to forget the whole thing. Maybe one of those gold
bars, or a diamond maybe. Then we'll be square, until I need something else. We
don't want things getting ugly, do we?"
"It does nut come to your minet, does
it, zat I have somevun to come ven I call?" He waved vaguely in the
direction of the bed and the call button, glowing in the shadows.
"Old Millie?" Duke grinned.
"Do you really think she could get here in time to save you?"
"No," the old man said. "But
He can." He slammed his ancient palms on the chair arms. "Take
him!"
The covers flew off the bed, and a single
red eye bloomed in the darkness. There was a low growl, and something writhed
hungrily on the bed. Duke froze in horror.
"Do nut vorry," the old man
chuckled. "He vill nut take all uf you."
Before the thing pounced, Duke panicked and
lost control, soiling his scrubs.
Next morning two of the regular nurses,
Maggie and Dolores, sat in the communal kitchen.
"Can you imagine Duke just running off
in the middle of the night like that?" asked Dolores in wonder.
"Good riddance," said Maggie. She
was older, and far more straightforward.
"That girlfriend of his was in here,
asking for him. Apparently he's just clean gone." Dolores sipped her
coffee.
"You ask me, it was a long time
coming. That man was an asshole and a jailbird."
"How long to we have to watch this
guy?" Dolores said, pointing. "What's he frying, anyway?"
Maggie looked over to where Simon Horne
stood over the stove, simmering something in a pan. Already she noted that he
was looking healthier, better fed than when he arrived two days ago. As she
watched, he deftly flipped something brown over with the spatula.
"Kidneys," she said. "God
knows where he got them. Says they're full of what keeps him young." She
shrugged, standing up, and Delores followed. They pushed their chairs under the
table. "I guess we can leave him be. He seems to be in control of
things."
