One of the first men in the Barataria to sign the settlement, Trench’s neighbor George, told Grimes the news: Trench had suffered a heart attack while trawling and was now in stable condition at Mercy General. Grimes drove straightaway to the hospital and at the reception desk signed under the name “Peter Lorre” in the visitors’ ledger.
Trench’s room was half dark, the curtains open but a sheer window-hanging drawn against the overcast day. Half propped in bed, Trench was in a sea-foam-green crepe gown, plastic tubes snaking out of his nose and arms. The bed next to Trench’s was empty. A small television mounted in the corner of the ceiling played soundlessly. One of those angry-judge shows.
Grimes was standing in the doorway when Trench’s eyes settled on him. They reminded Grimes of a wounded animal’s. Bleary and ill-omened, the defiance snuffed out.
Grimes unshouldered his satchel and held it by the handle, stepped into the room. When he drew closer to Trench he noticed the waxy color of his face, his hair as white as the pillow of the hospital bed.
“Came as soon as I heard, Mr. Trench,” Grimes said.
In the hall a young black nurse wearing scrubs passed and Grimes smiled at her. She smiled back and then was gone.
“Got insurance, I hope?” Grimes asked Trench.
Trench blinked at the ceiling.
“No insurance? That’s terrible.”
Silence. A murmuring television from one or two rooms down the hall. From another room someone sneezing. Someone else, a young-sounding woman, saying, “Bless you, Mr. Lafourche.”
Grimes studied one of the blipping monitors and pointed. “What’s that thing?” he asked. “This jumpy line? Your heart?”
Trench’s rasping breath.
“I hope you had insurance.”
Finally Trench looked at Grimes. “Just give me the papers,” he said.
Grimes widened his eyes theatrically. “You sure?”
After a pause Grimes took the papers from his case and lay them on Trench’s chest. Then he handed Trench the orange Mont Blanc pen. Trench signed the paper quickly, a squiggled slash.
Grimes took the paper and studied it at arm’s length. Six, he thought. Six signatures so far today. Then he tucked the contract in his satchel and took his pen.
“You tough?” Grimes asked Trench.
Silence.
“You tough?”
Trench kept tight-mouthed.
“Fuck you, Trench,” said Grimes. He turned and sauntered out of the hospital room.