“Those are symptoms of mercury poisoning.”
“So we’re talking foul play, definitely.”
“Very likely.”
“How?”
“How does the poem go? ‘Let me count the ways…’”
“I don’t buy that-I set up the security here myself. We put a lid on this joint.”
Graaf sighed. “Mr. Heller-mercury could enter the body through an alcohol rub, the likes of which Mr. Ragen has gotten daily; by enema; by intravenous or intramuscular injection, or absorption through the skin from an ointment.”
“But not orally?”
“That’s the easiest way of all. A tablet the size of an aspirin would contain approximately twice the dosage it would take to kill a man.”
“That’s the only other way-in a pill?”
“Hardly. The mercury could have been administered in coffee, milk, or tomato juice, or sprinkled on food. It would’ve been as tasteless as it was deadly.”
“You’re saying they’ve killed him.”
Graaf looked at the floor. “We don’t make judgments like that, not when a patient is still breathing. Tell me, Mr. Heller. In your line of work, do you ever take on a job that’s more or less hopeless?”
“Never,” I said, and shook his hand, and ground the cigarette out with my heel, and went back up the hall.
Sapperstein was leaning against the wall, standing next to the seated uniformed cop, who was awake now. Frankly, I trust Chicago cops more when they’re sleeping.
“It’s a poisoning, all right,” I said to Lou. “Somebody on the hospital staff, most likely.”
Sapperstein nodded. “I know. I already started poking around-they got twelve hundred people on staff, and in the menial areas, a lot of turnover.”
“Yeah, but we got a restricted guest list.”
Sapperstein gestured down to the clipboard leaned against the wall. “Sure we do, and that may help us find out who slipped your friend this killer Mickey Finn-but the damage is done, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. It is. Damn.”
“He’s a tough old bird, Nate. I like him. I hate to see it end like this.”
“He’s an idiot. Banging his head up against the wall and expecting not to get it bloody. Goddamnit, I should never have played along on this one!”
Sapperstein, not much given to such demonstrations, put his arm around my shoulder and said, “We did what we could, Nate. I don’t think anybody could’ve done any better. He’s your friend, and your girl’s uncle, and this is a tough one to lose. But you been right all along-there was no winning this game. It was rigged from the start.”
I nodded. Smiled at him and rubbed my fingers over my eyes and got rid of the moisture.
Then I went into the room. Jim was asleep, all right; he already looked dead, only you could see his chest moving some. He looked skinny. Pale as milk but nowhere near as healthy. You could smell death in the room. Death and flowers.
Peg was sitting next to him, leaning in toward him, holding his hand as he slept. She was crying; not making any sound, just tears flowing. She hadn’t cried at all today, before now- when she hadn’t been sleeping, in the window seat next to me, she’d been angry. Not really saying anything about anything, just balling fists and shaking them at the air, face balled up, too. That expression “You’re so beautiful when you’re mad” didn’t apply to her; she was a lovely girl, but anger looked ugly on her.
She wasn’t mad now. She was merely devastated. It hadn’t been that long ago that she’d lost her father to a stroke. Now the man she’d put in her father’s place was slipping away from her, water through her fingers.
Jim, Jr., sat in the flowery chintz lounge chair, but he didn’t look very comfortable. He was in his shirt- sleeves, tie loosened, complexion gray, expression blank.
I went over to the boy-boy, hell he was probably my age- and squeezed his shoulder. “How are you holding up?”
“Okay,” he said, with a small, brave, entirely unconvincing smile. “My dad sets a good example. He never gives up, does he?”
“No. It’s not in him.”
Jim, Jr., swallowed. “Sometimes I wish it was.”
“Yeah. Me, too. Let’s step out into the hall and talk. I don’t want to wake your father.”
He nodded and rose; lost his balance momentarily, and I helped him. He’d obviously been sitting in that chair for hours.
We walked down to the lounge area; Dr. Graaf was no longer around. We sat.
“How’s your mom doing?”
“Terrible,” he said. “Just terrible. She’s so devoted to him. She’s not at all well herself, even without this.”
“Have they got her under sedation?”
“No-she refuses that. She wants to be able to go to Dad’s side, if he takes a turn for the worse.”
“I think he’s taken that turn.”
“I know. He’s going to die, isn’t he?”
“I think so. He’s tough, but…”
“He’s been poisoned. The doctors admit they ‘suspect a metallic poison has been introduced.’ They think if they make it sound formal, it makes them sound like they’re on top of things. That’s a laugh.”
“I’m sorry, Jim. The sons of bitches got to your father, and I wasn’t even here to try to stop them.”
“Heller, you’ve done everything anybody could. You put your life on the line more than once. And as for not being here-my father
“I’m nuts about her myself. But this is going to be hard on her. Like it’s going to be on all of you.”
He shook his head. “Even Danny-I didn’t think he cared that much-he sat here this afternoon just telling Dad how much he loved him. Crying like a baby. Dad just patted him on the head, saying, ‘There, there, my lad,’ comforting
“Yeah. I can. You’re going to be under a lot of pressure to sell out, you know.”
He bristled. “Do you think I’d do that? Do you think after all my father’s been through, I’d…” He buried his face in his hands, bent over. He wasn’t crying. He was past that. “I’m so frightened, Mr Heller…I’m so very frightened…”
I patted his back. I couldn’t think of anything to say.
“We’re going to lose him, aren’t we? And I’m going to be left to try to stand up to those people.”
I put my hand on his shoulder again. “When your father is dead, and the responsibility falls to you, and your brothers, then you’re going to have to make your mind what the right thing is to do.”
He lifted his head and narrowed his eyes. “You’re not…telling me to
“I’m telling you when your father’s gone, the responsibility is yours, and so is the decision. Nobody could tell Jim Ragen how to live his life. I don’t think it’s fair for him, even in death, to tell somebody else how to live theirs.”
The flesh around his eyes tensed, momentarily, and I could see his father in his face, so clearly. Then he reached into a pocket and handed me a card. “What do you make of this, Mr. Heller?”
It was white, about the size of an index card but without lines. On it was a crude but unmistakable image: a yellow canary. The card was unsigned.
“Where did you get this? When?”
“In the mail today. What does it mean?”
“What do you think it means?”
“I…I think it’s the underworld’s way of saying my dad shouldn’t have ‘sung.’”
“That’s right. It’s a warning. For nobody else to get vocal. But it’s more than that.”
