Each name tag had the logo of the SoCal Cosmetic Surgery Association, the name of a doctor, and today's date. I put on the larger of the sport coats; the other was a navy blue blazer. "Where are the owners?"
Coyote put his hands together beside his cheek and tilted his head to indicate night-night.
Even with a blazer, in his tattered ball cap, jeans, and sneakers, Coyote didn't project the image of any physician I'd trust. But this was L. A. Maybe he looked like the typical Hollywood quack pill pusher.
The security guard glanced at the name tags clipped to the lapels of our coats. He nodded and motioned down the hall.
The guard hadn't examined our name tags or he would've noticed that Coyote didn't look like a Dr. Annabelle Cunningham.
We passed hospital staff in scrubs. I searched for Mordecai Niphe, listening for his name and letting my gaze flit across the ID badges. I had no idea what he looked like, as I couldn't find his picture on the Internet or anywhere else.
Coyote and I stopped in the hall at a table scattered with the leftovers of a continental breakfast. A poster for the SoCal Cosmetic Surgery Conference rested on an easel beside the table. A sign on the double doors said: QUIET. MEETING IN PROGRESS. CELL PHONES AND PAGERS OFF.
I didn't know if Dr. Niphe was in there but I had to look. Carefully, I opened one of the doors. The room was three-quarters full with around a hundred people, doctors, I presumed, sitting and facing a stage. Large, flat-screen video monitors flanked the audience.
A tall, handsome man in a lab coat stood on the stage, next to a gynecologist's examination table with chrome foot stirrups. The business end of the table was turned toward the room. Music played, a cheesy corporate tune that I had heard before at a pitch for timeshare condos.
A breathless infotainment voice on the soundtrack introduced the man in the lab coat as the cosmetic surgeon to the stars and the presenter for today's lecture on new developments in aesthetic cosmetic enhancements and opportunities for revenue growth. Unfortunately he wasn't who I was looking for, Dr. Niphe.
I was about to turn away when a statuesque blonde, wearing nothing but a white robe and high-heeled pumps, stepped onto the stage. She paused beside the examination table.
The surgeon welcomed her. She smiled, disrobed, and removed her shoes. Completely nonchalant, she sat on the table, lifted her legs, placed her feet into the stirrups, and scooted her naked butt to the edge of the table. Every eye in the room was pulled to her vulva. The men in the audience leaned forward. The women crossed their arms and legs and sat rigid.
Coyote worked his way around me and pushed his head under my arm to gape. "Vato," he whispered, "I don't know whether to take notes or play with myself."
"Take notes."
A tiny camera on a telescoping boom rose in front of the stage. While the doctor fit on latex gloves, he recited the lecture bullets superimposed over a giant image of the woman's open crotch filling the monitor screens. In the morning presentation he would cover the newest trends in cosmetic surgery: vaginal tightening and labial aesthetic reconstruction.
A couple of female doctors sat close to us. One leaned to her colleague. "Geez, men are always bragging about the size of their dicks. So why is a loose pussy the woman's problem?"
Her friend replied, "And since when are labia ugly? Obviously the doc up there hasn't taken a good look at his own scrotum."
I doubted Dr. Niphe was here. As the head surgeon of the hospital, Niphe had more important matters than this peep show. Unless he suddenly jumped up and said, "Here I am," Coyote and I had to go find him.
I pushed Coyote back and closed the door. We went down the hall away from the hospital entrance. This wing of the hospital was conference rooms or records storage. At the hub of the building complex, a sign by the elevators said: SURGICAL STAFF, 3RD FLOOR.
No mention of Dr. Niphe, but there was a good chance he'd be there.
A security guard greeted us when we got off on the third floor. He gave a polite yet wary smile. "May I help you?"
Coyote stepped close and scratched his armpit. "Where is H.R.? I'm looking for a job, ese."
While Coyote distracted the guard, I removed my contacts.
"Actually," I said, "I need to find Dr. Mordecai Niphe."
The guard's gaze swiveled to lock with mine. His eyes opened and his aura sizzled like a sparkler.
Coyote found a storage room. I pushed the guard inside and joined him.
I kept my focus deep into the guard's pupils. "Where is Dr. Niphe's office?"
"Room three-forty-six."
"Is Niphe here today?"
"Yes."
"Where can I find him?"
"I… I… don't know."
An interrogation using vampire hypnosis can cause distress if the victim can't find an answer. Okay. I had enough info to start. To further confuse the guard when he came to, I unbuckled his belt and dropped his pants. Who would he complain to when he found himself like that?
I closed the door and joined Coyote in the hall.
The chattering of men's voices echoed toward us.
I fumbled to get my contacts out of my pocket. I didn't have time. I put on my sunglasses.
A group of seven men in green scrubs approached the elevators. They wore hair covers. A couple carried clipboards. They mobbed around us and conversed jovially. The cloth necklaces holding ID badges were tucked into the front of their scrubs. Was one of them Dr. Niphe?
An elevator pinged. The doors opened.
They crowded into the elevator. Just as the doors closed, one of them said, "So, Morty, you still got money on the Cardinals?"
A short man, with a rosy complexion and a thick shadow already on his cheeks and chin, flashed a smile in response. The skin crinkled at the corners of his eyes. His slate blue eyes beamed confidence through the lenses of circular wire-rim glasses. He stood in the center of the group, obviously the man in charge.
Morty.
Where had I seen that name? In the moment that I paused to reflect on where I'd seen that name, the doors started to close. My mind raced back to my visit to Cragnow's office. He had offered bagels, and in the bottom of the basket was a card with the inscription:
To Crag. Thanks for everything.
Morty
Short for Mordecai?
Dr. Mordecai Niphe. The head surgeon. Roxy Bronze's former boss and the man who had destroyed her medical career. Why was Dr. Mordecai Niphe thanking porn king Cragnow?
This Morty? Damn good odds.
I raised my sunglasses to zap Niphe and the others, but none made eye contact. Their red auras simmered like a bed of warm, inviting coals. I should've yelled to get their attention. But I hesitated, and my hands slapped the doors after they had shut.
The elevator climbed to the fourth floor and halted.
My kundalini noir writhed in frustration. I clenched my fists to maintain composure. I looked in vain for the stairs. Mordecai Niphe had been standing right beside me and I didn't get him.