“You mean the Vatican will know what we’ve done?”
“You mean we’ll be that famous!”
“Absolutely!”
“But what in hell are we going to do?” the Third Man wanted to know.
“How about blowing up the clinic?” the First Man suggested.
“Sounds good to me,” the Third Man agreed.
“No, no,” the Fourth Man protested. “That would just win sympathy for them.”
“Well, then, what?”
“It’s a matter of doing something that will get St. Vincent’s Hospital into the news. And not in any complimentary way, either. Something that will get their evil practices publicized.”
“But how can we do that?”
“I have a plan,” said the Fourth Man, to the relief of the others.
“Before you get into your plan,” Whitaker said, “I just thought of something else.”
“What?”
“When you asked if I’d been recognized by anyone—”
“Yes?”
“Well, no, not really. The disguise seems to be effective. But there is one girl . . . she didn’t recognize me, but she noticed me.”
“Noticed you?”
“Well, we met earlier in the day.” Whitaker neglected to mention that their meeting had involved a collision that resulted in someone’s lunch ending up all over the floor and wall. “And then we met again later in the pharmacy.” He didn’t mention that this meeting was occasioned because his white coat was slowly being dyed blue. “She used my name. But I’m pretty sure she read it off the identification tag.”
“Was she the only person you met?”
“Yes, just the girl—twice.”
“You’d better check up on her,” the Fourth Man advised. “If she does know who you are it could ruin what we’re trying to do.”
“How do I do that?”
“Get to know her a little bit better. Find out what she knows.”
“All right. I’ll do it. Now, what’s your plan?”
“Wait a minute,” the Third Man said. “I smell something.”
“Yeah,” Whitaker agreed, “so do I. As a matter of fact, I’ve been smelling something peculiar for a long time now.”
“What is it?” the Fourth Man asked. There was a moment of silence as each of the men looked at one another.
“I guess it must be me,” the First Man confessed.
“You!”
“Well, you know we’re not supposed to take any food out of the Big Top. . . .”
“Yeah, we all know that.”
“Well, I did.”
“What in God’s name did you take?”
“Some cheese.”
“Cheese! My God, man, you might just as well have left an Indian trail to follow. Where is it?”
“Under my armpit.”
“On second thought,” said the Third Man, “that’s just about the best place you could have hidden it. There won’t be that much difference in the smell.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Listen, it won’t be long before one of the guards notices it’s beginning to smell like a cheese factory in here. You’ve got to do something.”
“But what?”
“I’ve got an idea,” the Fourth Man said. “There are only three guards in here so far. And there’s only one anywhere near us. I’ll go over and talk to him . . . distract him. Meanwhile, see that heat register near the floor there? You go over, slip the cheese out of your shirt and stick it behind the grate. See? The thing’s loose; you won’t have any trouble. You’d better come with me,” he said to the Third Man.
“But what about my cheese?” the First Man protested.
“Never mind the cheese!” said the Third Man. “You’ll be lucky not to lose any good time. Let’s do it. Now!”
It must be some law of physics, thought Whitaker. Probably the Seesaw Principle. Some sort of natural law that states that when a weight is abruptly removed from one end of a plank that is unevenly balanced, the other end of the plank goes down. In any case, as the Third and Fourth Men stood up, the First Man hit the floor hard, with the bench clattering down with him.
The guards tensed. But when they recognized who was responsible for the commotion, they relaxed. It was by no means unusual for that bunch. Then, while the Third and Fourth Man engaged the nearby guard in conversation, the First Man did manage to slide his slab of cheese behind the heating grate. Following that, the Fourth Man barely had time to explain his plan for the hospital before the gym was evacuated while the guards searched for an errant skunk.
* * *
The Detroit News was rare if not unique among big-city newspapers. The present building was erected in 1917 and had not been substantially altered in the intervening years. If, in the spirit of a young Mickey Rooney and Judy Garland, some kids had wanted to stage the 1928 classic, The Front Page, they could have credibly used the city room of the News as their set. Not that much would have to be changed.
The ceilings were anachronistically high. Genuine wood paneled the walls. There were no cubicles, no partitions separating one desk from another. Not one desk was decorated with a word processor terminal.
Install some outdated phones, restore some of the old oak furnishings, bring back a few of the old-fashioned desks and one could be in the Roaring Twenties.
Adjacent to the city room was the sports department and the news room, with desks positioned in claustrophobic proximity. In an outside row that provided a bit more breathing room, was seated Patricia Lennon. On her desk were several open files she seemed to be studying. Actually, the files were no more than props, permitting her active mind the luxury of wandering over a number of potential stories she might develop.
Gradually, Pat became aware of someone standing beside her. She looked up. It was Leon London, city editor of the News. He was smiling at her. It was difficult not to.
“Pat, if you’re not working on anything else right now, we could use some help developing that story on the disturbance at Cobo Hall last night.”
“As a matter of fact, I am, Leon.” Her mind raced through the stories she’d been considering. Any one would be better than covering the Cobo Hall incident. That story could write itself. Bring in a top rock group, provide less than adequate law enforcement personnel, and you’re likely to get a riot. That was about the size of what had occurred the previous night at Cobo Hall.
London was now genuinely interested. “Oh? What’ve you got going?”
It was the moment of truth. She would have to pick one of the many possibilities she’d been considering. “I’m developing a piece for the Sunday magazine.”
“Oh?”
Which one? “Old St. Vincent’s Hospital, downtown.” The die was cast. “It’s coming up on its one-hundred fiftieth anniversary, and it’s a really interesting place with a fascinating history. It was the original hospital in the city and, of course, the first Catholic hospital. And it’s one of only two Catholic hospitals remaining in the city.”
“That old! I hadn’t realized.”
‘And it may not be there an awful lot longer. As far as I’ve been able to tell, it’s on really hard times. Without some more research, I couldn’t tell you how it’s managed to stay alive as long as it has.”
“Really!”
“I think it must have something to do with that nun who runs it. We’ve done a few stories on her over the past few years. But nothing in any kind of depth. I think she may very well be the story of St. Vincent’s survival.”
“Interesting.”