"Or what," Remo said instantly, spinning his rear wheels until they sent up clouds of lung-stinging rubber smoke. He reached for the parking brake.
The intersection suddenly cleared. The light changed and Remo zoomed through.
There were homeless sleeping on the grounds of St. John's Hospital and Health Center. They had taken every free patch of lawn and were making inroads into the parking lot.
Remo found a space in the handicapped zone. No sooner had he slid in than a disreputable man called up from a sterno fire in another space.
"Hey, you! You can't park in no handicapped zone!"
"Why not?"
"That's for Charlie One-leg. He sleep there."
"Tell Charlie I'm only here for an hour."
"Squatter!" the man yelled. "I'm gonna call a cop on you! "
"Scare me some more," Remo growled. He collected abuse all the way to the hospital entrance, where he stepped over a snoring Mexican and entered.
He walked up to the admissions desk, noticing that every waiting room chair was filled.
"I'm looking for-"
"Hush," the admissions nurse hissed. "Do you want to get us closed down?"
"Huh?"
The admissions nurse pointed to the patients slumped in chairs. Remo noticed that most were asleep, their mouths hanging open. One slid off his seat and slipped to the floor, where he continued to snore enthusiastically.
"It's against the law to wake them during the Nap Hour."
"Nap Hour?"
"Sir," the admissions nurse said sternly, "I will be forced to have you ejected if you persist in flaunting Santa Monica Public Ordinance 55-Z. '
Remo sighed and attempted to communicate his needs. First, he showed his Secret Service ID card. The admissions nurse nodded her understanding. Then he took her over to a California map and pointed to the town of Ramona.
The admissions nurse nodded.
Finally, Remo tore a sheet of paper in two while pointing at the map.
"Ramona Tear?" she mouthed.
"Rip," Remo mouthed back.
"Rip Ramona?" the admissions nurse mouthed, her face blank.
"Rona Ripper," Remo snapped in exasperation.
In a corner a sleeping man made a snuffling sound, and the admissions nurse's eyes went wide in horror.
"Tell me which room she's in, or I'll wake them all," Remo threatened.
"Four seventy-eight! Third floor!" the admissions nurse bleated.
Remo wasted a minute waiting for an elevator. When it arrived, it was occupied by a trio of Chileans playing threecard monte.
"Do you mind?" one asked.
"I'm, beginning to," Remo grumbled. He took the stairs.
On the third floor, he passed the same game in progress in the same elevator.
"Cause of you I'm losing!" one of the players shouted at him. "Broke my concentration!"
"Sue me," Remo shot back, working his way to Room 478. He was beginning to look forward to meeting Rona Ripperif only because she probably bathed more than once a month.
Rona Ripper lay on her stomach like a beached whale, her chin on a fluffy pillow, her intensely black eyes on the TV screen set on a high wall shelf opposite her hospital bed. She looked like the Goodyear version of Elvira.
The room smelled hospital-clean. But it was not clean enough for Rona Ripper. The window fan was busy sucking out the offending odor of disinfectants. She had ordered the keyhole of the door sealed with wax, so that no disagreeable smell of sickness or blood or pus could find its way into the pristine environment of her room.
After the physician had changed the dressing on her wound, she had ordered him banished.
"You can't banish me," the doctor had complained.
"You're a smoker. I can tell."
"That's none of your business. Besides, I'm not smoking now."
"Your clothing reeks of tobacco. You get out, or I'll sue you for every penny."
"On what grounds?" the doctor asked.
"Spreading second-hand smoke."
"Miss Ripper, at best there are trace elements on my smock."
"Carcinogens are insidious. The smaller they are, the more damage they do. Out!"
The doctor had withdrawn in a huff. Another sign of a chronic tobacco fiend. They were ill tempered. When Rona Ripper became governor of California, she vowed, no one would smoke. All billboards would be replaced with giant No Smoking signs. Tobacco products would be outlawed. Smoking fines would run to five figures. Per violation.
"It will be," Rona Ripper had said, when she'd announced her candidacy before a packed meeting of the Southern California branch of the American Civil Rights Collective, "a paradise on earth."
The ACRC had applauded wildly. They already thought California was a paradise on earth. But they knew it was not a perfect paradise. For one thing, there were too many Republicans.
"I intend," Rona had shouted, "to run on a strict no-smoking platform. Smoking is at the root of all our troubles in this wonderful progressive state of ours."