“Probably,” she repeated.
“Well, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go check on her.” He left the waiting room. She watched him go, then sunk back into the orange chair. The woman, Rose, would live. She breathed a sigh of relief at that but the guilt still weighed heavily upon her. In one brief moment she had destroyed the young woman’s legs, in her mind possibly crippling Miss Grayson for life.
The sky was still dark when Veronica closed her eyes, fatigue threatening to claim her. Minutes later they opened again when her nose was assaulted by the scent of far too much cheap cologne.
“Cuz.”
“Hi Frank,” she said wearily as he plopped down in the seat next to her. “Did you take care of it?”
“All done,” he said proudly, holding out a set of keys. “Blue Mazda. Third level, dealer plates. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem. Always happy to do a favor for my favorite cousin.” He smiled, showing off teeth that were far too white to be real. “So what’d ya do? Hit someone?”
“Shut up!” she hissed through clenched teeth, amazed at the amount of stupidity that her cousin seemed to possess.
“Sorry.” He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Jeez, is it your time of the month or something?”
“Thanks for taking care of that, Frank. Do me a favor and make sure the Porsche is taken to my place. Park it in the garage. I’ll have Hans come over and fix it.”
“I don’t understand why you go to him instead of having Michael work on it. You know he owns”
“Michael owns a Toyota dealership. He works on twenty and thirty thousand dollar cars, not Porsches. Hans is the best mechanic I know. Just make sure it’s put in the garage, out of sight. Move the Jeep if you need room.”
“Fine,” he sighed, knowing that he would never win the argument. He looked around for something to occupy his interest.
“Is that it?” she queried, looking pointed at him and then at the door.
“You’re not gonna tell me why you’re here or why your car is all smashed up, are you?”
“Frank, what happened to my car or why I’m here, that’s my business, just like where all the profits from the car wash go are your business. Got it?”
“Got it.” He knew better than to piss off his cousin, knowing full well just how volatile she could be sometimes. He stood up. “You know my number if you ever need anything.”
“Yup.” She opened the People magazine and flipped through the pages, effectively dismissing him. She waited until he was out the door before heading to the nurse’s station to inquire about the young woman’s condition.
Veronica stepped out into the dreary grey of another day. The snow had stopped and now the streets were full of people trying to make their way to work through the frozen slush. She reached in her pocket and pulled out the library card. Morris Street. She tried to picture where the street was in relation to the hospital. Certain that it wasn’t far and that she could find it without a map, Veronica headed for the multi-level parking garage.
The small blue car was parked right where John had said it would be. The raven haired woman tossed her attache into the passenger seat and folded her long frame into the small space of the driver’s seat, fumbling around until she found the lever that allowed her to push the seat back so that her knees weren’t kissing her chin. She had to turn the key several times before the 323
would sputter to life. Veronica gunned the gas repeatedly until the old car seemed willing to continue on its own. “Frank, you son of a bitch,” she swore as the beat up excuse for a vehicle slowly put-putted out of the parking spot and headed down the ramp.
Veronica took a left out of the parking garage and drove up New Scotland Avenue heading toward the park. She went two blocks before the street sign she was looking for appeared. As she thought, Morris Street was a one-way, of course in the direction opposite the way she wanted to go. A quick turn on Madison and another on Knox put her at the other end of the block and finally she was able to go up the narrow street.
Morris street was once home to doctors and families of wealth but had long ago changed to a street known more for the occasional drive-bys and roaches than anything else. The homes were packed tightly together, usually with less than a foot between them. Veronica pulled over at the only open space she found, ignoring the red fire hydrant prominently standing on the broken sidewalk. Veronica grabbed her attache off the seat next to her and stepped out of the car. She briefly thought about locking the battered heap but decided that it wasn’t worth the effort. If a thief wanted to fight with the stupid thing to get it running, it was fine with her. She climbed over the snowbank and looked around for house numbers. Most buildings were missing one or both digits but eventually she found the place that Rose Grayson called home.
Veronica climbed the rickety and slippery steps until she reached the outer doors that led to the first and second floor apartments. A look at the three wall mounted mailboxes showed that Rose lived in the basement apartment. She pulled the small stack of mail from the box and stepped back out onto the landing. Cursing at the thought of negotiating the snow covered stairs again, the raven haired woman placed her gloved hand on the shaky metal railing and slowly made her way back to the street level. Under the stairs she found a door missing most of its paint. A small card taped to the glass said simply “Grayson”. Veronica knocked several times but received no answer. Perhaps the young woman lived alone. Reaching in her pocket, she pulled the key out of the worn sports wallet and wiggled it into the lock built in to the door handle. It took a few tries but finally the lock turned, allowing the executive entrance the small apartment.
To say that Rose lived in abject poverty would have been kind. The first room Veronica entered was most likely the living room, although no one would have known from the furniture. A lawn chair missing several strips sat in the middle of the room, books marked “Albany Public Library” piled up next to it. That was the extent of the furnishings. Not a single picture or poster hung on the walls. Not that a dozen pictures would have made a difference. The old, crumbly plaster was missing in several places, showing the dried out slats beneath. The ceiling was in a similar state of disrepair. Yellowed water stains formed jagged circles and in several places it sagged noticeably. Veronica doubted it would be long before the ceiling began to cave in. The apartment was extremely cool and a quick check of the thermostat showed why. Dust had settled on the dial, indicating that the temperature hadn’t been changed in quite some time. It was set at 60 but with the drafts coming from the old windows the room felt more like fifty. She set her attache
down on the rickety lawn chair, then reached into her pocket and removed the two letters that she had taken from Rose’s mailbox. The first was nothing more than junk mail announcing that if the winning number matched the one in the envelope that “Dose Graydon” would be the winner of eleven million dollars. The other letter was a yellow envelope from the power company. Although she knew she shouldn’t, Veronica slipped one well manicured fingernail under the corner and opened it. As she had suspected, it was a disconnection notice. She tucked that one back in her pocket and headed for the bedroom, hoping to find an address book or something that would indicate whom she should notify that the young woman was in the hospital.