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“I only have a few minutes,” he said. “How can I help you?”
Craig Fish was a bland man in his mid-fifties. He had steel gray hair, a round cherubic face, and his blue and white striped dress shirt was stretched tight across his belly. He wasn’t fat, but he wasn’t fit either. He had some family photos on his desk. His two kids on a beach somewhere, smiling at the camera. And a picture of himself getting cozy with a blond woman who looked on the short side of thirty. She was spilling out of her slinky dress, and she had a diamond the size of Rhode Island on her finger. I assumed this was his latest wife.
“Did Geoffrey Cubbin give any indication he intended to leave early?” I asked him.
“No. He didn’t seem unusually anxious. The operation was routine, and his post-op was normal.”
“Do you have any idea where he might be?”
“Usually when patients leave prior to discharge they go home.”
“Apparently that wasn’t the case this time. Does this happen a lot?”
“Not a lot, but more often than you’d think. People get homesick, dissatisfied with care, worried about expenses, and sometimes it’s the result of a drug reaction and the patient isn’t thinking clearly.”
“Has Cubbin made an appointment for a recheck?”
“You’d have to ask my receptionist about that. I only see my patient list for the current day.”
His intercom buzzed and his receptionist reminded him Mrs. Weinstein was in Examining Room 3.
I stopped at the desk on the way out and asked if Geoffrey Cubbin had scheduled a post-op appointment. I was told he had not.
Lula was idling at the curb when I left the medical building. I buckled myself in next to her and looked into the Dunkin’ Donuts box on the floor. It was empty.
“Where’s my donut?” I asked her.
“Oops. I guess I ate it.”
Lucky me. Better on Lula’s thighs than on mine. Especially since I was going to have to squeeze into a cocktail dress tomorrow night.
“Now what?” Lula asked. “Are we done for the day? I’m not feeling so good after all those donuts. I was only going to eat two, but then I lost track of what I was doing and next thing there weren’t any more donuts. It was like I blacked out and someone came and ate the donuts.”
“You have powdered sugar and jelly stains on your tank top.”
“Hunh,” Lula said, looking down at herself. “Guess I was the one ate them.”
“It would be great if you could drive me to my parents’ house so I can borrow Big Blue.”
Big Blue is a ’53 powder blue and white Buick that got deposited in my father’s garage when my Great Uncle Sandor checked himself in to Happy Hills Nursing Home. It drives like a refrigerator on wheels, and it does nothing for my image. Only Jay Leno could look good driving this car. In its favor, it’s free.
THREE
MY PARENTS LIVE in a small mustard yellow and brown two-story house that shares a wall with an identical house that is painted lime green. I suppose the two-family house seemed like an economical idea forty years ago at the time of construction. And there are many of them in the Burg. Siamese twins conjoined at the living room downstairs and master bedroom upstairs
, with separate brains. The house has a postage stamp front yard, a small front porch, and a long, narrow backyard. The floor plan is shotgun. Living room, dining room, kitchen. Three small bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs.
My Grandma Mazur lives with my parents. She moved in when my Grandpa Mazur’s arteries totally clogged with pork fat and he got a one-way ticket to God’s big pig roast in the sky. Grandma was at the front door when Lula eased the Firebird to a stop at the curb. I used to think Grandma had a telepathic way of knowing when I approached, but I now realize Grandma just stands at the door watching the cars roll by, like the street is a reality show. Her face lit, and she waved as we drove up.
“I like your granny,” Lula said. “She always looks like she’s happy to see us. That’s not something happens every day. Half the time we knock on a door and people shoot at us.”
“Yes, but that’s only half the time. Sometimes they just run away. See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow, Kemo Sabe.”
“How’s business?” Grandma asked when I got to the door. “Did you catch anyone today? Where’s your car?”
“My car got blown up.”
