The Grifters

seem to be sick. No fever or- Where do you hurt? Did someone hurt you?'

He didn't hurt. There had been no pain since the day of his slugging. But…

'Hit…' he mumbled. 'Three days ago…'

'Three days ago? How? Where were you hit? What-Wait a minute, darling! Just wait until mother makes a phone call, and then-'

In what was record time for the Grosvenor-Carlton, she got an outside line. She spoke over the phone, her voice cracking like a whip.

'… Lilly Dillon, doctor. I work for Justus Amusement Company out of Baltimore, and- What? Don't you brush me off, buster! Don't tell me you never heard of me! If I have to have Bobojustus call you-! Well, all right then. Let's see how fast you can get over here!'

She slammed down the receiver, and turned back to Roy.

The doctor came, out of breath and looking a little sullen; then, forgetting his wounded dignity, as his eyes drank in Lilly.

'So sorry if I was abrupt, Mrs. Dillon. Now, don't tell me this strapping young man can be your son!'

'Never mind that.' Lilly chopped off his flattery. 'Do something for him. I think he's in a pretty bad way.

'Well, now. Let's just see.'

He moved past her, looked down at the pale figure on the bed. Abruptly, his light manner washed away, and his hand moved quickly; testing Roy's heart, probing for pulse and blood pressure.

'How long has he been like this, Mrs. Dillon?'- curtly, not turning to look at her.

'I don't know. He was in bed when I came in about an hour ago. We talked and he seemed to be all right, except that he kept getting weaker and-'

'I'll bet he did! Any history of ulcers?'

'No. I mean, I'm not sure. I haven't seen him in seven years, and- What's the matter with him, doctor?'

'Do you know whether he's been in any kind of accident during the last few days? Anything that might have injured him internally?'

'No…' She corrected herself again. 'Well, yes, he was! He was trying to tell me about it. Three days ago, he was hit in the stomach-some barroom drunk, I suppose…'

'Any vomiting afterward? Coffee-colored?' The doctor yanked down the sheet, nodding grimly at sight of the bruise. 'Well?'

'I don't know…'

'What's his blood-type? Do you know that?'

'No. I-'

He dropped the sheet, and picked up the phone. As he summoned an ambulance, breaking the hotel's outside call record for the second time that day, he stared at Lilly with a kind of worried reproach.

He hung up the phone. 'I wish you'd known his blood type,' he said. 'If I could have got some blood into him now, instead of having to wait until he's typed…

'Is it… He'll be all right, won't he?'

'We'll do all we can. Oxygen will help some.'

'But will he be all right?'

'His blood-pressure is under a hundred, Mrs. Dillon. He's had an internal hemorrhage.'

'Stop it!' She wanted to scream at him. 'I asked you a question! I asked you if-'

'I'm sorry,' he said evenly. 'The answer is no. I don't think he can live until he gets to the hospital.'

Lilly swayed. She got hold of herself; drawing herself straight, making her voice firm. And she spoke to the doctor very quietly.

'My son will be all right,' she said. 'If he isn't, I'll have you killed.'

7

Carol Roberg arrived at the hospital at five in the afternoon, an hour before the beginning of her shift. The mere thought of being late to work terrified her, and, by coming so early, she could get a bargain-priced meal in the employee's cafeteria before going on duty. That was very important to Carol-a good meal at a low price. Even when she wasn't hungry, which was seldom, even in America where no one seemed ever to be hungry, she was always subtly worried about when she would eat again.

Her white nurse's uniform was so stiffly starched that it gave off little pops and crackles as she hurried down the marble corridor. Cut overlong, in the European fashion, it made her look like a child dressed in its mother's clothes; and the skirt and cuffs flared upward at the corners, seeming to set a pattern for her eyes, her mouth, her brows, and the tips of her short bobbed hair. All her features had an amusing turnedup look, and no amount of inner solemnity could conquer it. In fact, the more solemn she was, the more determinedly severe, the greater was the effect of suppressed laughter: a child playing at being a woman.

Entering the cafeteria, she moved straight to the long serving counter. Blushing self-consciously; careful to avoid looking at anyone who might be looking her way. Several times, here and elsewhere, she had been drawn into joining other diners. And the experience had been painfully awkward. The men, interns and technicians, made jokes which were beyond her limited idiom, so that she never knew quite what her response should be. As for the other nurses, they were nice enough; they wanted to be friendly. But there was a great gulf between them which only time could bridge. She did not talk or think or act as they did, and they seemed to take her ways as a criticism of theirs.

Carol took a tray and silverware from the serving counter, and studied the steamy expanse of food. Carefully, weighing each item against the other, she made her selections.

Potatoes and gravy were eight cents. Then the twoorder would be fifteen, yes? A penny less.

'The two-order-?' The fat counter woman laughed. 'Oh, you mean a double?'

'A double, yes. It is fifteen?'

The woman hesitated, looked around conspiratorially. 'Tell you what, honey. We'll make it the same price as a single; hmm? I'll just go a little bit heavy with the spoon.'

'You can do this?' Carol's turned-up eyes rounded with awe. 'It would not cause trouble?'

'For me? Hah! I own this joint, honey.'

Carol guessed that that made it all right. It would not be stealing. Her conscience comfortable, she also accepted the two extra sausages which the woman buried beneath her order of knockwurst and sauerkraut.

She was hesitating at the dessert section, about to decide that she could have a strudel in view of her other economies, when she heard the voices back down the line: the fat woman talking to another attendant.

'… Kosher Kid can really put it away, can't she? '

'When she gets it for nothin sure. That's how them kikes get ahead.'

Carol froze for a moment. Then, stiffly, she moved on, paying her check and carrying her tray to a table in a distant corner of the room. She began to eat, methodically; forcing down the suddenly tasteless food until it once again became tasteful and desirable.

That was the way one had to do. To do the best one could, and accept things as they were. Usually, they did not seem so bad after a while; if they were not actually good, then they became so by virtue of the