Friday pulled into the clinic parking lot a little before nine. In the dark, she waited, listening to an oldies station. “Gallows Pole.” Randy Newman’s “Short People.” Dylan. Paul Simon.
The shift changed. People came. People left.
Friday got out of the car and headed across the lawn. Circling the building, she came to the kitchen door, which was open. Two cooks were standing a few feet away, smoking cigarettes and taking nips from a pint of Wild Irish Rose.
Cautiously, Friday started toward the open door. But one of the cooks, a guy in his late twenties with acne-scarred cheeks, spotted her and called out, “Hey!”
Friday glanced at the guy’s plastic ID, which hung from a beaded metal chain around his neck—Fred Barrett—and went into a role.
“Melody Jarrell,” she said, taking Fred’s hand and holding it seductively between her two hands. “Platinum Escorts. I’m here to visit one of the patients.”
She winked.
“A lonely gentleman,” she said. “I’ve never worked a hospital before. Tell me … they’re not deadbeats, are they? The patients? I mean, I came all the way from Winchester Square. I’m already in for twenty dollars, taxi ride…”
As she talked, Friday sidled toward the open door.
“Look, miss—” Fred started.
“I won’t be but a half-hour,” Friday said. “That’s what the call was for.” She smiled at Fred. “You going to be here when I get out?”
Fred glanced at his companion, an older man, all sinew, with bristling gray hair. His ID said: Allard Breck.
“Some poor dope on the wards wants a little fun,” Fred said.
Allard shrugged. Couldn’t care less.
“Keeping her out,” Fred said. “It’s not our job.”
Allard lit a new cigarette.
“Half an hour?” Fred said to Friday.
Friday nodded.
“These guys are quick off the mark,” she said.
“And then you come back here?” Fred asked.
Friday fluttered her eyelids.
“I’ll be looking for you,” she said and took a step through the door.
“You get caught,” Fred said, “I don’t know anything about it.”
“You’re so romantic,” Friday cooed.
She entered the building.