"Of a medical college? No thanks. I wouldn't want to walk in on a cadaver getting cut up or anything."
"Who knows, Mike? Maybe you provided it."
I grinned, shrugged, and pointed to the framed items. "What's with the wall hangings?"
He traded his white smock for a suit coat and joined me at the wall, snugging his tie.
"A hobby of mine," he said. "Famous quotations and slogans, all pertinent to some phase of my life or some belief or even phobia of mine." He indicated the one at the far left. "My father gave me the first of these when I was ten."
I moved down and had a look at the faded yellow sheepskin with its flowery script: "The man who says it can't be done is interrupted by the man who did it."
"Anonymous," I said. "My favorite poet."
"And a sentiment apropos to practically any situation," he said, tapping the glass with a forefinger. "Remembering that simple phrase helped me earn my way through college and medical school. Whenever I think something is impossible, I just repeat that line to myself, and keep on."
"There are worse philosophies of life," I said. "So where does Marie Antoinette fit in?"
He moved to that framed phrase and stared at it wistfully before saying, "During the Second World War, three of us were sprawled in a trench. I was a medic and my patient had just died. I was griping about having to eat K rations. The other survivor looked at the mangled body beside me and said, 'Oh yeah? Like that French broad said, "Let 'em eat cake."' Rather put things into perspective. From then on, I often brought to mind those words, and that time. Somebody is always worse off than you are."
"True," I said, "though sometimes I wonder. But to me, Doc, that phrase has another meaning."
"Really? And what is that?"
He was expecting a wisecrack, but this is what he got: "Something can happen that wakes a sleeping giant. Sometimes it's an event, the Alamo, Pearl Harbor. Sometimes it's one individual, Churchill talking about blood, sweat, and tears, or your French broad saying, 'Let 'em eat cake.' But right after, the shit hits the fan."
He studied me with a thoughtful smile, then walked back to the desk and picked up a corrugated wrapper and slid out another framed slogan, holding it up for me to see.
"Here's my latest acquisition, Mike—'Caveat emptor.'"
"Let the buyer beware." Even my Latin covered that. "What consumer advocate magazine are you subscribing to?"
"Actually, this is a gift from my colleague and friend Dr. Sprague. He considers me something of an impulse shopper—he's trying to cure me of my bad habits through my own psychological devices."
"Will he succeed?"
"That," he said cheerfully, "is about as likely as me convincing Dr. Sprague to mind his own business.... Come on, Mr. Hammer ... Mike. Let's go see Billy."
***
His right eye was black, the side of his boyish face skinned up, one arm wrapped in bandages from wrist to shoulder, and his swollen ankle taped and propped on a pillow.
Dr. Harrin gave him a warm smile, and said, "You look lousy, Billy," and when the dark-haired kid chuckled through his sore mouth, the doc checked the damaged areas and nodded approvingly.
"This is no worse," he told the kid, "than something you might get playing football."
"Yeah," Billy said, "on pavement maybe."
That made Harrin smile again. "Who's ever seen grass in the city, except perhaps apartment-house patios?" He gestured to me and I stepped forward, my hat in hand. "Billy, this is Mr. Hammer. He's the one who stopped those characters from jumping you."
I said, "Hiya, Billy."
"Hello, Mr. Hammer." He tried to straighten or sit up a little and the bed squeaked. "I'm just sorry it got so ... so out of hand."
He was giving me a strange look, his bright blue eyes trying to classify me for his uneasy mind, which couldn't find the right category.
Sharp, these kids. They live in this city, too, and can pick up on things—I knew what he was thinking because I had seen that same expression on other faces dozens of times before.
Who is this guy? Cop? Hood? Citizen?
The marks of each category had left their scars on me, but Billy couldn't locate the fence that divided them into their own specific compartments and it scared him because at his age, after what he'd just been through, he couldn't afford to make mistakes anymore.
Dr. Harrin said, "Mr. Hammer is a private investigator, Billy. He was a little concerned about you."
A small light of relief showed in the kid's eyes. "Hammer. Mike Hammer?"
"That's right."
"I heard of you. You're famous."
"Infamous, maybe."
Then his eyes clouded again. I got the message before he realized he'd sent it, and assured him, "I wasn't part of this, son. I wasn't tailing those druggies or anything. I just happened to be coming out of a building where I had a client, when it went down."
"I see." He was still holding back.
I shook my head. "A rough go, son. Who were those creeps?"
His eyes tightened, his forehead, too. "Mr. Hammer..."
Like the good-looking redheaded nurse had known, these kids don't talk about each other—it's worse than prison, the inmates not wanting to rat the other cons out.
And I didn't want to have to trip him up in a lie in front of the doctor, either, so I went right on: "Felton punk have it in for you, after that argument?"
Harrin's eyes tilted toward me curiously, then shot back to the boy in the bed. "Billy, I didn't realize you knew them...."
"Well..." The kid licked his lips and swallowed. "Herm Felton and Norm Brix ... they used to go to my school. They dropped out a long time ago. I hardly knew them at all."
I said, "They knew you though, didn't they?"
After a few seconds of strained hesitation, Billy nodded. "Yeah, I ... I guess so."
I pressed: "What did they want from you, Billy?"
He squirmed, not caring to look at either of us, his savior or his mentor.
Harrin said, calmly, coolly, "You can tell us, son. There's nothing to be afraid of. We're both on your side."
A sudden denial leaped into his eyes, then he saw my face and knew no bullshit would get by that puss, and it subsided quickly. Speaking to the doctor was easier than dealing with me, so he rolled his head over and looked at Harrin. "You won't get pissed, Doc?"
"Do I have reason to, Billy?"
"Maybe. That I ... didn't tell you before, I mean."
"No, I won't get angry with you, Billy."
The kid locked his lips and nodded, his face resigned. "Felton ... he knew I worked for you. Somebody told him I could go any place I wanted to, at the college." He stopped and waited, as if that explanation were more than enough.
It wasn't for the doc, who urged, "Go on, Billy."
"They wanted me to get them ... stuff. Cocaine and other drugs. From the medical supply cabinets? They said they'd pay me more snitching stuff for them in a day than I made working for you, Doc, in a month."
When neither Harrin nor I said anything, Billy added, "I told them to go ... sorry, Doctor, but I told them to go fuck themselves."
I smiled a little.
"But Felton ... he said he'd make me change my mind, and have a good time doing it."
I heard Harrin say under his breath, "Unregenerate bastards..."
I asked the boy, "Could you have done that for them, Billy? Were the drugs that accessible?"
The kid shook his head. "Not really. They didn't know what they were talking about. That didn't stop them from putting the squeeze on me, though."
Harrin turned his cadaverous gaze my way and said, "Mike, there are two keys to the lock on the medical supply room. Authorized personnel can check one out, the supervisor on duty has the other and accompanies everyone in. Inventory control is tight and security is first-rate. There was no way Billy could have gotten in there without getting caught pilfering. Dorchester, as a medical college, is not run like the usual public hospital."