health bulletins, and bilingual exhortations to nurture, vaccinate, and abstain from alcohol and dope.
A dozen or so examining rooms were in use, their chart-racks brimming over. Cat-cries and the sounds of comfort seeped from under the doors.
Across the hall were files, supply cabinets, and a refrigerator marked with a red cross. A secretary tapped a computer keyboard. Nurses hustled between the cabinets and the exam rooms.
Residents spoke into chin-cradled phones and trailed after faststepping attending physicians.
The wall right-angled to a shorter hallway lined with doctors' offices.
Stephanie Eves' 5 open door was the third in a set of seven.
The room was ten by twelve, with institutional-beige walls relieved by bracket shelves filled with books and journals, a couple of Miro posters, and one cloudy window with an eastern view. Beyond the glint of car-tops, the peaks of the Hollywood hills seemed to be dissolving into a broth of billboards and smog.
The desk was standard hospital-issue phony walnut and chrome, pushed up against one wall. A hard-looking chrome and orange-cloth chair competed for space with a scuffed brown Naugahyde recliner.
Between the chairs a thrift-shop end table supported a coffee maker and a struggling philodendron in a blue ceramic pot.
Stephanie sat at the desk, wearing a long white coat over a wineand-gray dress, writing on an outpatient intake form. A chin-high stack of charts shadowed her writing arm. When I stepped into the room she looked up, put down her pen, smiled, and stood.
Alex.'
She'd turned into a good-looking woman. The dull-brown hair, once worn shoulder-length, limp, and barretted, was short, frosted at the tips, and feathered. Contact lenses had replaced granny glasses, revealing amber eyes I'd never noticed before. Her bone structure seemed stronger, more sculpted. She'd never been heavy; now she was thin.
Time hadn't ignored her as she entered the dark side of thirty; a mesh of feathers gathered at the corners of her eyes and there was some hardness at the mouth. Makeup handled all of it well.
'Good to see you,' she said, taking my hand.
'Good to see you, Steph.'
We hugged briefly.
'Can I get you something?' She pointed to the coffee machine, arm jangling. Gold vermeil bracelets looped her wrist. Gold watch on the other arm. No rings. 'Plain old coffee or real cafe ax lait? This little guy actually steams the milk.'
I said no thanks and looked at the machine. Small, squat, black matte and brushed steel, logo of a German manufacturer. The carafe was tiny two cups' worth. Next to it sat a petite copper pitcher.
'Cute, huh?' she said. 'Gift from a friend. Gotta do something to bring a little style into this place.'
She smiled. Style was something she'd never cared about. I smiled back and settled in the recliner. A leatherbound book sat on a nearby table. I picked it up. Collected poems of Byron. Bookmark from a store named Browsers up on Los Feliz, just above Hollywood. Dusty and crowded, with an emphasis on verse. Lots of junk, a few treasures.
I'd gone there as an intern, during lunch hour.
Stephanie said, 'He's some writer. I'm trying to expand my interests.'
I put the book down. She sat in her desk chair and wheeled around facing me, legs crossed. Pale-gray stockings and suede pumps matched her dress.
'You look great,' I said.
Another smile, casual but full, as if she'd expected the compliment but was still pleased by it. 'You, too, Alex. Thanks for coming on such short notice.'
'You piqued my interest.
'Did I?'
