After a short rest I put one corner of the cloth in my mouth and slung it around my neck. Using teeth and my right hand, I rigged up a decent sling.
I staggered out of bed, trying not to move the left shoulder more than I had to, and opened the narrow lockers by the entrance. My clothes were in the second. The black pants were torn at the knees and the jacket was stiff with dried blood. Nuts. One of my favorite outfits. I pulled the pants on with one hand, ignoring underwear, and was tying to figure out what to do about the top when Lotty came in.
“Glad to see you’re feeling better, my dear,” she said dryly.
“The nurse said I shouldn’t be excited. Since she was agitating me so much I thought I’d better get home where I can rest.”
Lotty’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile. She took my right elbow and shepherded me back to the bed. “Vic, you must stay here another day or two. You dislocated your shoulder. You must keep it still to minimize the tear on the muscles. That’s the point of traction. And you hit your head against the door as your car turned over. It’s badly cut and you were unconscious for six hours. I’m not letting you take chances with your health.”
I sat on the bed. “But, Lotty, I’ve got so many people to talk to. And the Lucella sails at seven—I’ll miss them if I don’t get through soon.”
“I’m afraid it’s after seven now … I’ll get the phone back in and you can make your calls. But really, Vic, even with your constitution, you must keep this shoulder in a stationary position for two more days. Come.”
Tears of frustration pricked my eyes. My head was throbbing. I lay back on the bed and let Lotty undress me and reattach my arm to the pulley. I hated to admit it, but I was glad to be lying down.
She went to the nurses’ station and returned with the phone. When she saw me fumbling with the receiver she took it from me and placed the call herself. But the Lucella had already sailed.
12
Bedside Stories
The next day I entertained a stream of visitors. Charles McCormick, a sergeant from the Traffic Division, came to report to me on the accident and to find out my version of what had happened. I told him as much as I could remember. As I suspected, the semi that was bearing down on me had hit a car when it moved into the left lane. The sedan’s driver had been thrown into the windshield and killed. Two passengers were on the critical list, one with spinal cord injuries. I must have looked as horrified and guilty as I felt, for he tried to reassure me.
“They weren’t wearing seat belts. I’m not saying it would have saved them, but it might have helped. It certainly saved your life when your car went over on its side. We arrested the truck driver—not a scratch on him, of course—reckless driving and involuntary manslaughter.”
“Did you inspect my car?”
He looked at me curiously. “Someone had emptied all the brake fluid for you. And cut through the power steering cables. You had enough left to get you going, but moving the wheel would have worked through the last bit of the cables for you.”
“How come I could stop at the lights down on 130th?” fluid left in the lines to hold you. But if you slammed on the brakes you wouldn’t get anything … Now who would do a thing like that? Where had you parked your car?”
I told him. He shook his head. “Lot of vandals down in the Port. You’re lucky you got out of this alive.”
“There’s a feeble excuse for a guard down at the Tri-State yard. You might have somebody talk to him and see if he noticed anything.”
McCormick said he’d think about it. He asked a few more questions and took off.
Someone brought in an enormous bouquet of spring flowers. The note read:
Vic:
So sorry to read about your accident. Speedy recovery.
Paige
That was kind. Bobby Mallory’s wife sent a plant. Murray Ryerson came in person, carrying a cactus. His idea of a joke. “Vic! You must have cat blood. Nobody ever gets hit by a semi and lives to tell it.”
Murray is a big guy with curly reddish hair. He looks sort of like a Swedish Elliott Gould. His hearty voice and forty-six-inch shoulders contracted the hospital room into half its size.
“Hi, Murray. You read too many sensational newspapers. I wasn’t hit by a semi—it got off my tail and ran into some other poor bastard.”
He pulled a vinyl-coated chair over to the bedside and straddled it backward. “What happened?”
“Is this an interview or a sick visit?” I asked crossly.
“How about an interview in exchange for the story on Paige? Or are you up to that sort of thing?”