“All you got to do is tell anybody official that Mr. Ragen isn’t ready to receive visitors yet. That he’s not up to the strain.”
“How long would you like me to maintain that posture?”
“Till I say otherwise. Or Ragen himself, of course. He’s the boss.”
Siskin nodded. Then he said, “I’m impressed, Mr. Heller. You seem to know your job. And I can assure you we know ours, as well.”
“I’m sure you do. And don’t be so impressed with me. I’m the schmuck who was bodyguarding him when the shit hit the fan, remember.”
He had to put some things in motion here, so I walked myself back to the main building, where I found Ellen Ragen and two of her sons waiting outside the double doors of the surgery, the two Drury-picked cops still on watch.
Mrs. Ragen was a small, pudgy woman with a lot of dark curly hair-undoubtedly dyed. I didn’t know who she’d been before she married Jim-just some simple Back-o’-the-Yards gal, or a chorus girl or what; but it was clear she’d been a looker once, before age and weight made her face puffy. Now she wore too much bright red lipstick and too much make-up in general, giving her the clown effect of the older woman who was once pretty and keeps trying to get pretty again by applying more and more pancake and rouge. A losing battle. So was the one she was having with her mascara, which was running down those heavily made-up cheeks like narrow black ribbons. Her dress was black, too-premature mourning weeds-with a small gray hat perched amidst the mound of hair and a sort of gray and black speckled vest with a big sparkly brooch.
Her son Jim was a younger (37 or 38, I’d guess) version of his father, minus the glasses and plus hair; he wore a dark suit and kept an arm around his mother. Younger son Daniel, in his early twenties, wore a blue sportshirt and slacks and looked like a college kid, which he was, at DePaul. Facially he resembled his mother, though he was taller. But then so was a fireplug. Daniel-or Danny, as the family called him-looked concerned enough but was fidgeting, hands in pockets.
“Mr. Heller,” Mrs. Ragen said, garish red lips trembling, “what am I going to do if I lose my dear husband?”
The formality of that sounded silly, or it would have if she hadn’t meant it so deeply.
“You’re not going to lose him,” I said.
Jim, Jr., released her and she came toward me, wanting to be hugged, so I hugged her. She smelled like face powder. Her cosmetic-counter efforts to forestall getting older were as ill-advised as her husband’s attempt to beat the Outfit, and just as futile. They had a lot of money, these people, and they were old enough to retire, and young enough to enjoy it. Why didn’t they? As I patted her in a “there, there” manner, she seemed very small, despite her bulk. Like a child.
It embarrassed me, holding this pudgy little woman who I barely knew; but I felt a strange affection for her at that moment. I don’t know how guys feel about their mothers, because I never knew mine. But maybe this was something like that.
Only you couldn’t tell it from Danny.
“Mom,” he said, turning it into a whining two-syllable word, “can I just check in with you and Pop later? The doctor said he was going to pull through okay. Margie’s waiting downstairs. We were supposed to meet some friends tonight, at Riccardo’s-”
If he were my kid, I’d have decked him. But she just eased out of my grasp, a graceful woman despite her heft, and patted him on the cheek and said, “You were a good boy to come by here, Danny. Don’t you worry. Your pop’s going to be all right.”
Danny grasped one of her hands with both of his and put some warmth into his words: “I know he is, Mom. He’s a tough old guy. They aren’t going to get him.”
She beamed at him and he smiled and waved and headed down the hall. Jim, Jr., seemed faintly disgusted by all this. So was I. Even the two coppers guarding the double doors rolled their eyes at each other.
“He’s a good student,” she said to me, smiling, proud, face streaked black by mascara. “He’ll make a wonderful lawyer someday, Mr. Heller.”
“I’m sure he will, Mrs. Ragen.”
“I hope his father lives to see it.”
“Me, too, Mrs. Ragen. I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job today for him. I’m sorry I let this happen.”
She smiled at me sympathetically and patted my cheek like she had her son. Neither of us deserved the treatment.
I showed her and Jim, Jr., to Ragen’s private room in the Meyer House wing. Settled Mrs. Ragen in the lounge chair and her son at the writing desk, and explained the security measures I’d already taken and intended to take, including that they use their own family physicians to attend Jim.
“I’m sure Dr. Graaf will be glad to help out,” Jim, Jr., said.
“And Dr. Snaden is in town,” Mrs. Ragen said, looking at her son eagerly, as he nodded back with a small smile. “He’s been our doctor in Miami for years.” She looked at me and needlessly added, “We have a place down there.”
“Is Snaden going to be in town long?”
“He’s moving his practice out to California someplace,” the son said, nodding. “His practice in Miami has fallen off some, and some of his patients have moved to the West Coast. He was from here originally-still has a place here, in fact-and told me he was going to be on hand for several months, settling various matters.”
“Good. Lucky break. If he and your other doctor will cooperate, it’ll help us keep close tabs on Mr. Ragen’s recovery. I want only a few trusted parties able to get into this room-including medics.”
Mrs. Ragen smiled up at me like I was somebody really special; it was a nice smile, even streaked black like that.
“Mr. Heller,” she said, “I can understand why my niece is in love with you.”
That damn near made me blush; first time this decade.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” I said.
“Neither do I,” a hard-edged yet melodic voice said.
I turned and looked at Peggy Hogan, who was standing in the doorway of the room, her violet eyes red from crying, her jaw tight but trembling. She was wearing a dark blue dress with a white floral pattern; her hands, at her sides, were fists.
She whisked past me and went to her aunt and said a few words of comfort to her, putting a hand on her shoulder; she smiled and nodded at Jim, Jr., and then she turned to me and said, “Let’s talk in the hall.”
I followed her out there; we walked down to a lounge area between corridors. There were several chairs and couches, but we didn’t sit.
“I should be very angry with you,” she said, lower lip trembling.
“You’re doing a damn good job of faking it, if you aren’t.”
“You promised me you wouldn’t take any dangerous jobs. You promised me that was behind you.”
“Something came up…I had to fill in…”
“People shooting at you in the street! You shooting at them!”
“You used to like life not to be dull.”
“I was a kid, then. I was attracted to danger.”
“Here I thought it was my boyish charm.”
Then she clutched me, held me to her, hugging for dear life.
“Nate, Nate,” she said. She was sobbing. Christ, she was sobbing! What was this about?
She moved back to look at me, keeping her arms around me. Freckles on her nose made her look like a kid. “I was so worried when I heard.”
“How did you hear, anyway?”