after eight-thirty, Drury’s extra cops showed up; he’d actually told the trio to check in with me for deployment. That meant finding places for them to stand. I kept two of them with me at the double doors, and sent the other one outside, to maintain a patrol, particularly the side alleys.
Not long after that I was approached by the hospital’s medical director, Dr. Herman Siskin, a well-fed middle-aged doctor with salt-and-pepper hair and matching mustache. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit and shades-of-blue striped silk tie-no hospital whites for this boy.
“Mr. Heller,” he said, offering his hand, which I shook. “I understand you’re in charge of Mr. Ragen’s security.”
“That’s right.”
“The facts are these. Mr. Ragen’s wounds are extensive. He’s had five blood transfusions thus far, and penicillin has been administered. Whether or not his right arm can be saved, we don’t yet know. His age, the loss of blood, and the resultant shock condition…well, let’s just say he’s not in for a short stay here at Michael Reese.”
“I see.”
“We have a private room ready for Mr. Ragen,” he said, pointing down the hallway, “and we’re prepared to accommodate his and your needs.”
“Thanks. But let’s start by getting him on a higher floor than the second.”
“Why’s that?”
“You can throw a bomb through a second-floor window.”
That opened his eyes. “Perhaps he’d be better off outside the main building.” Then, as if to assure us both his concern wasn’t for his facility, he added, “Somewhere not as easily accessible to the general public.”
“How about a private wing, where we could maintain tighter security?”
He nodded down the hallway to the left. “I’d suggest the Meyer House-which a patient of Mr. Ragen’s means might prefer, anyway. It’s connected by an enclosed walkway between buildings. You’d have a stairway and an elevator to watch-and the connecting corridor. That’s all.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s have a look.”
Drury’s coppers stayed on duty and I let Dr. Siskin walk me down the hall, through an archway into the connecting corridor to the Meyer House, where we took the elevator to the third floor. Siskin led me down a well-lit, vaulted corridor and showed me to a spacious, warmly appointed room-maple furnishings, a lounge chair upholstered in flowery chintz, wall mounted electric fan, writing desk, chest of drawers, private bath with tub; it was fancy enough to make you sick, or anyway wish you were sick. From the window I saw a wrought-iron-fence- enclosed lawn, beyond which was Lake Park Avenue and the I.C. tracks. It seemed okay, from a security standpoint. The only drawback was a standing fire escape down the hall on the south end wall, maybe thirty feet from Ragen’s door.
“No getting away from fire escapes in a hospital,” the medical director said, with a little shrug.
“We’ll keep a man posted by it,” I said. “Does this building have a separate kitchen?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, the food service in Meyer House is its pride and joy. This wing was built to serve our wealthier patients-Mr. Ragen can, when he’s up to it, have lobster if he likes. Why do you ask?”
“They may try to poison him.”
He blinked. “I can give you my personal assurance that the head dietician herself will prepare Mr. Ragen’s meals.”
“Your personal assurance is just swell, Doc, but are you willing to prove it by tasting his food before he does?”
His mustache twitched; he found that a little impertinent, I guess, and I guess it was.
“I don’t mean to offend you, Dr. Siskin, and I appreciate your willingness to discuss security measures with me. But I must warn you I’m going to suggest that the Ragen family be extremely cautious. I’ll advise that they use their personal family physician, if possible. I’m also going to suggest that they hire private nurses.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a big staff here. If we don’t do it my way, then anybody in a white uniform will be able to get in that room.”
“And not everyone in a white uniform,” he said, nodding, “is necessarily a doctor.”
I nodded back. “We’ll put together a list of names. Nobody whose name isn’t on that list is going to get past the guards.”
“Mere association with the hospital won’t guarantee admittance, in other words.”
“If you want to put it that way, yeah. We got to be able to monitor who goes in and out of that room-just as carefully as you people are going to monitor his vital signs.”
“Understood.”
“Don’t feel insulted about my keeping the hospital staff out, Doctor. I’m going to try to keep the cops out, as well.”
“Well…I can understand that.”
I grinned. “Chicago born and bred, Doc?”
Under the mustache, a small smile formed. “Yes. And if I can be of help, where keeping the police at bay is concerned, say the word.”
“All you got to do is tell anybody official that Mr. Ragen isn’t ready to receive visitors yet. That he’s not up to the strain.”
“How long would you like me to maintain that posture?”
“Till I say otherwise. Or Ragen himself, of course. He’s the boss.”
Siskin nodded. Then he said, “I’m impressed, Mr. Heller. You seem to know your job. And I can assure you we know ours, as well.”
“I’m sure you do. And don’t be so impressed with me. I’m the schmuck who was bodyguarding him when the shit hit the fan, remember.”
He had to put some things in motion here, so I walked myself back to the main building, where I found Ellen Ragen and two of her sons waiting outside the double doors of the surgery, the two Drury-picked cops still on watch.
Mrs. Ragen was a small, pudgy woman with a lot of dark curly hair-undoubtedly dyed. I didn’t know who she’d been before she married Jim-just some simple Back-o’-the-Yards gal, or a chorus girl or what; but it was clear she’d been a looker once, before age and weight made her face puffy. Now she wore too much bright red lipstick and too much make-up in general, giving her the clown effect of the older woman who was once pretty and keeps trying to get pretty again by applying more and more pancake and rouge. A losing battle. So was the one she was having with her mascara, which was running down those heavily made-up cheeks like narrow black ribbons. Her dress was black, too-premature mourning weeds-with a small gray hat perched amidst the mound of hair and a sort of gray and black speckled vest with a big sparkly brooch.
Her son Jim was a younger (37 or 38, I’d guess) version of his father, minus the glasses and plus hair; he wore a dark suit and kept an arm around his mother. Younger son Daniel, in his early twenties, wore a blue sportshirt and slacks and looked like a college kid, which he was, at DePaul. Facially he resembled his mother, though he was taller. But then so was a fireplug. Daniel-or Danny, as the family called him-looked concerned enough but was fidgeting, hands in pockets.
“Mr. Heller,” Mrs. Ragen said, garish red lips trembling, “what am I going to do if I lose my dear husband?”
The formality of that sounded silly, or it would have if she hadn’t meant it so deeply.
“You’re not going to lose him,” I said.
Jim, Jr., released her and she came toward me, wanting to be hugged, so I hugged her. She smelled like face powder. Her cosmetic-counter efforts to forestall getting older were as ill-advised as her husband’s attempt to beat the Outfit, and just as futile. They had a lot of money, these people, and they were old enough to retire, and young enough to enjoy it. Why didn’t they? As I patted her in a “there, there” manner, she seemed very small, despite her bulk. Like a child.
It embarrassed me, holding this pudgy little woman who I barely knew; but I felt a strange affection for her at that moment. I don’t know how guys feel about their mothers, because I never knew mine. But maybe this was something like that.
